#my back HURTS from carrying my own department this week

[soft-girl-musings]

mm yeah that deep tissue massage i scheduled for tomorrow couldn't come at a better or worse time

[loveerran]

Deliverance for the Captives

I recently attended a ward that was different than any other ward I have ever attended before. It was located near a prison and comprised mostly of men who were either currently incarcerated or previously released. They met in a warehouse conference room. Folding chairs were set up in a fan shape, pointed toward a podium. On the week I attended, they were having a testimony meeting. I arrived a bit late and took a chair a friend was saving for me just as the testimonies were beginning.

An LDS testimony meeting can be a real cultural experience. Everyone is welcome. A typical testimony meeting involves members taking turns standing up and delivering whatever words are in their heart to the entire congregation. Testimonies may be a minute long or considerably more. The entire program is completely free form and open to all the unexpected moments such a format suggests. Sometimes testimonies are brief and focused on a witness of Jesus Christ. Other times, they delve into personal experiences or provide the congregation with an impromptu lesson from the speaker. And there are, occasionally, some that are quite memorable and depart from the typical formulas entirely. It’s a uniquely Mormon event, and you really should consider attending one just for the experience (you can sit in back and not participate, and they are typically held on the first Sunday of each month).

In this particular meeting, a man who had spent decades behind bars spoke encouragingly to the others. We also heard the story of a homeless man living in a park and dealing with police issues. The US incarcerates a lot of individuals, and most have significant difficulty finding work and putting their lives together after release. Almost all the speakers were men, though two were women.

The testimony that stood out to me the most came from a wonderful sister who was married to someone who had spent time in prison. She followed up with more wonderful thoughts a bit later as we sat in a lesson together. The two messages touched my heart and have been coming back to me ever since. This is how I have been remembering them:

1. During the testimony meeting, she spoke to the men about living with ‘the jail that is in your head’. She talked about how they carry with them the burden of their own negative self-perceptions and how this holds them back from believing they can heal and re-integrate, holds them back from realizing who they are as children of loving Heavenly Parents and from becoming who they and their families want them to become. She also spoke of how the negative beliefs and judgments of others hurt us and bind us down. Christ came to set the prisoners free. Part of becoming free is realizing that the past does not dictate all that is possible in the future for us. Christ wants to free us from the chains of negative self-perception and the shame and fear we inherit from the world around us when they see us as something other than children of God.

2. In a later class she spoke again. This time she talked about her own situation. How hard it was to have a husband who was in prison. She spoke of a box of expectations, and how she placed in this box all the things that had been part of how her life was supposed to go, and all the accomplishments and milestones she had expected to experience along the way: college, marrying a returned missionary, living happily ever after, and so on. Instead, her box had blown up, just fallen apart in tatters. As she lived through that, she learned that the love of God exists outside of boxes. God works powerfully, even in lives that don’t seem to fit the mold of conventional expectations.

Some people who read this may be offended by the idea of these men attending church. They may want to focus on the fact that these men are criminals who have done bad things and hurt others. They may want to continue ostracizing and isolating them or avoid interacting with and seeing them at all. Those are natural feelings, and I do not expect and am not calling for the victims of these men to forgive or embrace them. However, they are still human beings. They are still children of God. They are still in need of redemption. Christ called on us to minister to those in need, including those in prison – physically or otherwise. Our prophet has encouraged “each of us to reach out to ‘the one’ in our lives who may be feeling lost or alone”. Mercy and the enduring love of Jesus Christ can be difficult topics.

After that meeting, I found myself feeling glad these men had this place to gather, a place to seek healing and fellowship, a place to express their desire to do good and become better, a place to work on their hope for putting off the sins of the past and becoming reborn and redeemed through the atonement of Jesus Christ. I was glad that their families, and those who still love them and want them to heal, could join them there. And I thought about how Jesus might embrace and welcome them if they ever attended His ward, regardless of where it was.

[ginnsbaker]

In Losing Grip On Sinking Ships (6/?)

Chapter summary: The relationship between you and Wanda reaches a critical juncture.

Chapter word count: 10,500 words

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader (heavy on this chapter), Yelena Belova x Fem!Reader

Trigger Warnings: mildly dubious consent, alcohol abuse, smut, toxic relationships

Author's note: Yup.

AO3 | Masterlist

Next chapter: Seven

Taglist: @blackluthxr | @esposadejoyhuerta | @secretbackrooms | @justgotlizzied , @casquinhaa | @marvelwomen-simp | @sunsol-22 | @wandanatlov3r | @kyaraderuwez

-

Part VI

Wanda hasn’t heard from you in exactly a week. 

After you dropped off Sparky at her apartment, she attempted to invite you in for a chance to explain herself, but you firmly declined and hastily departed without uttering a single word or even casting a glance in her direction. Somehow, the situation has deteriorated further than where it’s been months ago.

As before, Wanda made numerous attempts to call you and sent lengthy messages, earnestly explaining that she never intended to offend you and expressing profuse apologies. Over time, her messages grew increasingly desperate, pleading with you to at least inform her if you no longer wished to see her again. However, you remained silent, leaving her messages unanswered. Eventually, her calls ceased to connect, and a warning symbol appeared next to her texts, indicating delivery failure.

The implications were clear.

You’ve finally blocked her.

She couldn’t understand why the topic of children affected you to the point that you’re hell-bent on writing her off this time. Your discussions about having them never went beyond who’s carrying (Wanda) and how many (two); it was more of wishful thinking that didn’t make the priority list in the five years you’ve been married. 

It’s why she didn’t think twice to open up about her regrets of not having them, contemplating whether things would have turned out differently–if she would have turned out differently. Maybe, she would have been someone who didn't prioritize her own needs above all else. 

In a roundabout manner, it was her attempt to convey that she felt flawed and tainted.

There’s no excuse for her cheating. But she wanted you to understand anyway, that if she could have prevented it somehow, she’d give everything she has to seize that opportunity.

But as it turned out, it was foolish of her to think like you were still partners in the old days; where she didn’t need to filter out her thoughts because they were safest with you. You were her best friend, after all.  It became challenging for her to strike a balance between being true to herself and expressing her thoughts with unwavering honesty. Ironically, her sincerity and openness only served to push you further away. Clearly, her efforts to do the right thing have only resulted in diminishing her chances of reconciliation.

Over the last few days, Wanda’s thought a lot about showing up at your door, but seeing how unpredictable you’ve become to her, the prospect of being turned away like a beggar frightens her more than anything. And worse, it might just prompt you to move out of Natasha’s apartment and consequently, out of her life for good. 

Wanda couldn’t take that risk. She’s lost you for the third time now; and each of them has hurt more than the previous one. How many more times does she have to lose you in order for her to learn how to keep you? 

-

“This isn’t what I ordered.” 

Wanda blinks at the customer with a vacant expression. He took one sip and arbitrarily dismissed the drink before turning his attention back to the tablet in front of him.

“You ordered an Iced Americano with oat milk, two pumps of sugar free vanilla and one pump of hazelnut syrup.” Wanda recites his order from memory. 

“No water.” he replies in a monotone, rigidly unbothered in his pristine suit.

Wanda swallows dryly; that detail she forgot about.

“My apologies. I’ll be back with your drink in a few.”

Wanda hurries to the coffee bar to make another. In autopilot, she redoes it from scratch, putting together the ingredients with preciseness that could only be perfected by hours of preparing complex orders alike. She mixes them all together, before filling the cup with ice to the brim. However, right before she can serve it, another customer comes up to the counter, with a mild complaint about their paninis. 

It takes less than a minute for Wanda to deal with the problem, and then she returns to the businessman with the replacement drink. Wanda quietly places the cup in front of him. His dull eyes flicker to her as he tentatively takes a small sip. Grimacing, he sets his cup down and then flashes Wanda an impatient look as he says, “How many times do I have to spell it out for you? I said no water.”

Wanda’s nostrils flared. “The hot espresso would melt the ice somehow,” she snaps with a tight smile, and then she openly leers at a specific area below his waist. “Or is your brain too small to understand that’s just basic science?” 

Her voice is loud and sharp enough for two other customers to hear, and for Agatha to come rushing to her side to help with the situation.

The man rises abruptly in a fury, and stretches his spine to look taller than his height.

“You’ll be hearing from me in your Yelp reviews later.” With that, he leaves, making sure to slam the door on his way out. Everyone cringes in chorus at the clashing sound of metal chimes. 

Wanda tacitly apologizes to the customers bothered by the commotion, before cleaning up the table of the one who just left.

When she returns to the kitchen, Agatha studies her in concern.

“You alright, dear?” she whispers to Wanda, depositing a tray of dirty plates and utensils on the sink. Wanda works her jaw as she starts putting those in the dishwasher. 

“Wanda, dear?” Agatha tries again. “Wanda.” she repeats in a hushed tone. That’s when she notices Wanda’s hands gripping the edge of the sink hard, her knuckles turn white. The brunette is shaking, breaths becoming shallower and shallower until she’s gasping uncontrollably. Agatha grabs Wanda by the shoulders and starts to lead her outside from some fresh air.

“N-No,” Wanda protests in between pants. “J-Just wait it out.” Then she falls to the floor and hugs her knees, willing for her panic attack to pass. In the background, she hears the remaining customers leave, murmuring to themselves about the “unpleasant vibe” the cafe is giving off. 

Agatha is on the phone, calling Pietro.

Make it stop. Wanda thinks to herself, trying to gain control of her breathing. Please, make it stop.

An image of you appears in her head. With her eyes closed, she can see every crease, every pore, every detail of your beautiful face. 

“Y/N…” she utters your name like a prayer. 

Gradually, the tremors subside. Her heart rate returns to normal. Wanda feels herself reconnect to her body. The episode is over just in time for Agatha to return with tears in her eyes.

“Oh, thank God, you’re alright!” she cries, before dropping to her knees and enveloping Wanda into a stiff hug. “You scared me! I thought you were having a seizure.”

“Panic attack.” Wanda corrects her evenly. “I get them sometimes. Sorry, I should’ve told you.”

“It’s okay,” Agatha rubs her shoulder soothingly. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

The warm feeling of comfort is what finally breaks Wanda. She covers her face with both of her hands and sobs into them. 

“Oh, Wanda…” Agatha takes her back into her arms and rocks her back and forth. “What’s happening to you?”

When her crying subsides, Wanda tells Agatha everything; from the night she found you again at the club, to the short-lived friendship that ended in a misunderstanding about imaginary kids.

“Honey, don’t you think it’s unhealthy to be in-touch with your ex-wife in the first place?” Agatha says in the best way she wouldn’t sound too critical of Wanda’s predicament. 

Wanda hastily brushes away the lingering tears that continue to trickle down her cheeks.

“I never wanted to be divorced from her. I never wanted us to end.” Wanda swallows back a whimper, feeling another dam within her threatening to burst at any second.

Agatha tries to sympathetically put some sense into her. “But you agreed. You signed those papers–”

“It’s what she wanted. And after what I did, I was in no position to deny her anything.”

“And what were you expecting to happen after you gave her what she wanted?

“I…” Wanda trails off, feeling like the biggest idiot now that she’s realizing how naive she’d really been for the past several weeks. So deluded into thinking that she’ll eventually worm her way back into your heart. “I don’t know.”

Divorcing didn’t feel so permanent when she agreed to it. To her, marriage was a legal binding that came with spousal benefits. Even without it, she already knew she was spending the rest of her life with you. When you divorced her, it didn’t change the fact that she was yours for good. 

Agatha sighs and puts her hand on top of Wanda’s, squeezing it lightly. “You know, we’ve never really talked about our personal lives. Most probably because I was your boss.” she says with a light chuckle. “But have I told you that I never married?”

Wanda shakes her head. “Someone from the gallery mentioned it in passing. I forgot who.” 

“I bet it’s Dottie. That bitch,” Agatha mumbles, glaring at the empty space in front of her. “Anyway… What was I saying?”

“You never married.”

“Ah, yes,” Agatha’s face twists into something wistful and sullen. “But it’s not because it wasn’t for me. To be honest, I love the idea of it. I guess you could say I missed the opportunity to be married.”

Dottie never delved into the reasons why Agatha stayed single all this time; likely because no one had gotten close enough to uncover the complete story.

“What do you mean?” Wanda asks, recognizing that Agatha is sharing this narrative as a diversion, and she feels a sense of gratitude for it. 

“The love of my life wanted to marry me before I was ready. I was, oh god, eighteen? A country girl, fresh out of highschool and ready to show the world what she’s made of.”

Wanda smiles softly as she imagines a young, vivacious Agatha Harkness. 

“He’s a junior police officer in our town and three years my senior,” Agatha tilts her head, the back of her head pressing against the kitchen cabinet. Wanda observes how engrossed she is in her own trip down memory lane. 

“I remember it like it was yesterday. I hadn’t known he’d been planning a proposal at the festival that was going to be held the night of my graduation day,” Agatha recalls. “So, when he got down on one knee with a ring in front of everyone we knew–our friends, our family, and practically the whole town–I had wanted to be struck by lightning and just…fall dead on the spot. That would’ve been the best thing to happen that night.”

Wanda’s brows are knitted together as she asks, “What did you do?”

Agatha starts laughing–a cackling humorless sound–nothing short of unhinged if Wanda hadn’t heard it before. “I ran. I literally ran for my life.” she tells Wanda.

“He was so humiliated by my reaction, he wouldn’t see me at all. I didn’t reach out either. I don’t think we ever broke up. We just stopped talking to each other. And then my career took off and I landed in New York.”

“Did you ever find out what happened to him after?”

Agatha smiles sadly at that, and says, “Oh, yes. I kept tabs on him for years. He got married to someone else the following year, just before I could muster up the courage to fix things.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago. And I’ve moved past it.” Agatha’s eyes are wet when they meet Wanda’s.

"So... you never got married because you've been in love with him all this time?" Wanda asks, curiosity and surprise lingering in her words.

The question sends Agatha into a fit of giggles. “Don’t be silly, Wanda. I’m not a martyr. I fell in love so many times after him.”

Wanda laughs along though self-deprecatingly. “Yeah, I guess that was a stupid take.”

As the silence settles between them, Agatha proceeds, her voice softening. "There was a time when I truly believed I would never move on. I was fixated on him for years. It may sound petty, but I even started curating my social media profiles to project an image of living my best life—well, in a way—just in case he ever stumbled upon them."

She takes a breath before continuing. "But then, one day, I woke up and he didn't consume my thoughts anymore. As my heart let go of him, it also released the notion of marriage."

“Oh,” Wanda looks down at her lap, not really knowing what to make sense of it all. “Those men that came after your ex, you never saw yourself marrying any of them?”

“I already had my one, great love, Wanda. He’s the only boy I was sure I could love forever. Yes, I can fall in love with other people again and again, but I’ve come to realize that it will never measure up to what I felt for him. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

"I do, actually," Wanda responds with unwavering determination. She isn't entirely certain of Agatha's intentions in sharing her story, but it only solidifies Wanda's resolve to win you back. "If I have to go to great lengths to prove myself to Y/N, then I'm prepared to do so. I won't give up without a fight."

"No, no," Agatha shakes her head, a little dismayed that her true message didn't come across as intended. "You're supposed to do the opposite. Let. Him. Go. One day, you're going to wake up, and it will all be nothing but a precious chapter in your life."

“I’m sorry, but I think you’re lying when you say it’s “nothing” to you. The fact that this memory has stayed with you all these years means something.”

“Excuse me?”

“I think you regret that you acted a little too late. Don’t worry, I’m not going to make the same mistake.” Wanda says, getting to her feet. 

"I have no regrets," Agatha asserts, looking up at Wanda with staunch confidence. "And you have no right to judge me for choosing to prioritize myself over catering to his wounded ego."

"I wasn't judging you," Wanda soothes softly. "And I apologize if I'm not hearing what you want me to hear, but Y/N was open to maintaining a connection with me. And as far as I can tell, she isn't involved with anyone else yet, which means I-"

"How certain are you?" Agatha interrupts, a hint of challenge in her voice. "How certain are you that she isn't currently planning her future with someone new?"

"I just am," Wanda responds with full conviction.

“That’s not good enough, Wanda.”

“Well, unless I see her say ‘I fucking do’ to someone else at the altar, then the only option for me is her.”

Agatha drops her chin in defeat. She takes a long, deep breath before pulling herself off the ground so that she can address Wanda on eye-level. 

“I can’t tell you what to do because clearly, your mind’s made up. It seems made up long before you and Y/N got yourselves into this mess.”

Wanda is quiet as she stares at the floor, not denying nor confirming anything.

Agatha's expression softens as she reaches out to lift Wanda's chin gently, making her meet her eyes. "I'm here to support you, my dear. And I genuinely wish you the best."

Wanda struggles to swallow the lump in her throat. "Agatha, I... I apologize for what I said earlier about-"

“I’m not hurt,” Agatha says, but it doesn’t make Wanda feel any less guilty. “Believe me, I’ve said and done worse things when I was in your position.”

Wanda nods solemnly. “Can I ask you a favor though?”

“Sure, honey. What is it?”

“Please don’t tell Pietro. He’s doing well, I think. I don’t want him to worry about me. He’s been here long enough already.”

“You have my word.”

-

Later, after Wanda closes up shop for the day, she goes straight to your place. She loafs around a corner across your building, deliberating if she should come up to your unit and hash it out. The lights are open where your living room would be on the third floor, indicating that you’re home. But just as she makes the decision to see you, a figure of a woman approaches your window to draw the curtains. 

Wanda narrows her eyes, and as she looks closely, instantly recognizing that she’s the same woman from the club. The woman you danced with, seemingly without a care in the world.

Wanda’s step falters, almost losing her balance. She lingers for a bit, gazing up helplessly at your window. As people pass by her motionless figure on the streets, their expressions turn to suspicion, their eyes drawn to the direction that has captured her attention so completely.

She pays them no attention, but when it becomes apparent that this woman wasn’t going to leave anytime soon, she decides to go home.

As Wanda catches the last train to her borough, she tries not to think about what it means. 

Wanda’s never been one to reel in her jealousy; no matter the fact that she no longer has any business of feeling that way in the first place.

-

“Y/N?”

“Maybe it would have stopped me.”

Your mind keeps rewinding the same scene from a week ago. Over and over again, you see green eyes, large and imploring. 

“Y/N.”

Maybe it would have stopped me.

You see Wanda standing by the doorway, terrified and confused. It’s haunting in a way that you kind of wished you didn’t agree to this friendship thing in the first place. 

“Y/N!”

Yelena's voice calling your name startles you, snapping you back to the present moment. You blink and refocus your attention on her. "Sorry, what's up?"

Yelena had arrived unexpectedly an hour ago, holding a bag of Shake Shack takeout and mentioning something about being in the area for an event. It hadn't occurred to you that you hadn't been in contact since the night you shared a kiss at her doorstep. In fairness, she hadn't reached out to you either.

She had set up the food spread of burgers and fries on the table in front of the TV while you searched for a horror movie that neither of you had seen. However, in the midst of dinner, she had to take an important work call, and your thoughts immediately drifted back to the events of the previous week, those green eyes that were dark pools of fear and rejection. 

Yelena bites her lip, finally noticing the disconnect and distance you've been exhibiting.

“Are we ever going to talk about it?” she asks. 

You tilt your head at her curiously. “Talk about what?”

Yelena rubs her temples as her mouth twists in a wry smile. “Oh my god, you can be such an asshole sometimes.” 

As you grab Yelena's hand, a surge of determination courses through you, preventing her from fully retreating. "Lena," you say, using her childhood nickname, a name that holds a special significance between the two of you. 

It's a subtle way of easing the tension that has filled the room. With a mix of relief and vulnerability, Yelena allows herself to be pulled back towards the couch, and she plops back down beside you.

“Look, I know I didn’t call you either after we… after that night. But I’m here now, and I’m ready to figure things out with you.” she says.

You sigh, letting go of her hand. “Frankly, I don’t know where to begin.”

“How about this,” Yelena proposes. “I’ll start with a question and we’ll see where it goes from there.”

“You’ve thought this through.” you say.

“I have.”

“Alright.”

Yelena nods. “Here it goes,” she blows out her cheeks. “Why did you kiss me?”

“I–”

“I don’t need a quick answer,” Yelena interrupts. “I need an honest one.”

The truth is, from the moment it happened until Wanda showed up the following day, it consumed your thoughts entirely. You recall lying awake in bed, unable to shake the desire to experience it again—the softness of Yelena's lips, the subtle differences in her kisses compared to those you had shared before.

You kissed her simply because it was unthinkable to do anything otherwise in that moment.

You give her this answer, and Yelena’s expression remains eerily neutral. Not that you were expecting some kind of reaction, but still–

“So if it had gone beyond a kiss, you’re saying you just wanted to hook up?”

You shake your head at her incredulously. “Not at all!”

“Oh, so you didn’t want to have sex with me at all…”

“I do! I mean–of course I’m attracted to you. But I didn’t kiss you just because I wanted to sleep with someone,” you say, feeling a pressure at the back of your neck. “I kissed you because I just… wanted to kiss you.” you wince at hearing yourself repeat the same thing like a broken record.

Yelena studies you for a moment, before she says, “Does that mean anything?”

“It means being close to you like that brought a decade-old feeling to the surface.” you reply, the volume of your voice considerably fading towards the end of your sentence. 

Yelena plays with the necklace around her neck. “Yeah? What sort of feelings?”

You prop your chin on one hand. All things considered, what you once had with Yelena had every potential to be one of your greatest loves. But you don’t want to mistake love with feelings of nostalgia. 

“You don’t have to answer that one,” Yelena says after a long, heavy moment. “Actually, I’d prefer it if you don’t. I’ve been thinking a lot this past week. About the possibility of us. About you, as a person… about me, as a person. And we’ve… changed. I just didn’t realize it before because you feel like home to me. I think no matter how long or far we’re apart, I’ll always feel that way about you.”

“Me too,” you say with a soft smile. “Your presence in my life has been nothing but comforting. Safe. Like I can always be me, even at my worst.”

“But it’s not enough for me, Y/N. I never thought the window would open again when Nat told me you got married. So, I’ll be damned if I miss my chance again.”

"What are you suggesting?"

"I'm suggesting that we give this a real chance," she says.

"I... I don't think I'm ready," you hesitate.

Yelena can't help but let a smirk creep onto her lips. "Says the girl who kissed me."

You blush at that, wishing you carried the same courage you had that night at this very moment.

When you fail to respond, Yelena prods you with a question. 

“You’re not ready or you’re scared you’d hurt me?” she asks.

With love, you have always been ready. It has always been a natural and instinctive part of your being. You embraced love in all its complexities; with its joys and sorrows, without fear or reservation. But now, you cower in the shadow of betrayal–as if it was love itself that betrayed you, rather than Wanda.

“I’m scared I’d hurt you,” you choke out, barely able to contain the tremor in your voice. “... And I’m scared to be hurt again.”

Yelena’s heart breaks at your words. “Come here.” she whispers.  

She doesn’t really wait for you to act. Before you know it, Yelena has closed the distance to encircle her arms around your waist and pull you into a tight embrace. You hug her back and bury your face into her neck. It’s only when you feel Yelena’s soaked shirt against your cheek, that you realize you’ve been crying.

You remain intertwined in each other's arms for a while, finding solace in the connection you share, until Yelena’s phone rings and it’s Kate urgently asking her to work with her on a story that’s about to erupt. Understanding the importance of her work, you reluctantly send her off, promising to continue the conversation at a later time.

Just as Yelena is about to leave, she suddenly pauses and grabs the back of your neck, pulling you into a brief yet intense kiss. The passion and longing in that moment leave you breathless. Before parting, she whispers, "Something more for you to think about. Now, we're even."

With those words lingering in the air, she releases your bottom lip with a wet sound and leaves you with a swirl of emotions and thoughts to ponder.

-

That same night, on the rooftop of her apartment building, Wanda sits alone, surrounded by the night sky and the faint smell of tobacco after doubling her dosage of tranquilizers again.

The half-empty pack of cigarettes lies beside her, a testament to her struggle to cope with the turmoil in her heart. She takes a long drag from her cigarette, feeling the burn in her lungs, and exhales a cloud of smoke into the air. Beside the pack of cigarettes, a bottle of tequila rosé stands, its contents diminishing with every sip Wanda takes. 

Wanda's mind drifts back to her college days, remembering how smoking was once a non-negotiable deal-breaker for you. She had forced herself to quit back then, eager to align herself with your preferences and expectations. But now, in this moment of heartache and confusion, she finds herself returning to this old habit, seeking comfort and familiarity in the act of lighting a cigarette.

She recalls the day you moved out of your home in Westview, the day her world began to unravel. It was then that she picked up smoking again, a way to cope with the pain of your absence. And even when she found you again, she attempted to quit for the second time, hoping to present a version of herself again that you would approve of. 

But tonight, with her heart heavy and her emotions overwhelming, Wanda allows herself to surrender to the temptation of smoking. Each inhale brings a momentary respite from her thoughts, even if it comes at the cost of her health and well-being. She remembers how you used to despise the smell of tobacco on her breath, how you would express your concern about the impact it had on her life expectancy.

“As much as eleven minutes per stick.” You had told her so many times, back when you were just friends.

Yet in this moment, Wanda finds solace in the cigarettes, even if it's just for those fleeting minutes that they shorten her life. It's a small act of rebellion, a way to reclaim a fragment of control in the uncertainty of it all. 

“Ever wonder who will die first in our old age?” Wanda asks you one night after a particularly intense make-up sex. Lying in bed, you’re exhausted and seconds away from sleep, while Wanda’s energy hasn’t dissipated at all–rather, it increased even more after two orgasms.

You’ve been married for two years, and fought over a random encounter with Carol; a fellow NYU who was crazy about you for the entirety of your sophomore year. The aforementioned encounter was an annual work meeting with your company’s outside partners, and it led to Carol asking you to catch up over coffee after work.

“I hope it’s me.” you say, snuggling close to Wanda’s side. Tenderly, you place an arm over her exposed abdomen and affectionately squeeze a small fold on her belly.

“Can’t be you. I used to smoke three to four cigarettes a day for years before you made me quit.” Wanda says, laughing a little when you accidentally pinch a ticklish spot. 

“For the record, I didn’t make you quit.” 

“Fine,” Wanda rolls her eyes. “But going back to the topic: I think it’s going to be me.”

You’re quiet for a long period with Wanda thinking you’ve already fallen asleep, when you say, “I just did the math. As far as I know, you were a smoker for seven years, so that would amount to… about 10,200 cigarettes. Or 2.5 months lost.” 

Wanda looks down at you in confusion. “What are you on about?”

Your smile is mysterious as you close your eyes using Wanda’s breast as your pillow. 

“Don’t you dare start smoking now.” Wanda threatens softly, but you hear the fear in her voice anyway.

She feels your smile widen against her damp skin as you repeat, “I hope it’s me.” 

Wanda takes a satisfying puff from her last stick and wonders what’s one more thing for you to hate about her. 

Love is watching someone die. She heard that from a song that seems like a lifetime ago. Yet, she never truly understood its implications, given the typically grim connotations associated with death.

It was not until she revisited that casual conversation with you that she grasped the profound reality: by choosing to spend the rest of her life with you, she had essentially volunteered to bear witness to your eventual passing. Death, an inescapable and inevitable anguish, is a burden one willingly embraces solely out of genuine love for another.

Wanda shuts her eyes, recognizing the pressing need to halt her mind's meandering towards these thoughts, or she’ll never stop grieving. 

The cigarette's smoldering remnants fall from her lips as Wanda crushes it beneath her heel. She turns her attention to the bottle of rosé, swiftly uncapping it and taking a lengthy swig. No, she is not harboring suicidal thoughts. However, she remains unfazed by the potential perils arising from the harmful combination of her vices.

-

It’s almost midnight and you have only just been half-unconscious in your bed, when your phone rings for what feels like forever.

An unknown, overseas number appears on your vibrating screen and you stare at it for while before answering.

“Hello?”

“It’s me,” Natasha’s raspy voice comes through. The line is murky, and you can hear a foreign language being spoken in the background. “Sorry for calling you so late.”

You sit up on your bed, waking up quickly from your shallow sleep. “Where are you calling from?”

“Somewhere in Asia.” 

“Oh, I thought you’re in–”

“No. The mission took me here a day ago. Listen, I only have about five minutes.” Natasha says, not bothering to hide the impatience in her tone. 

You sit up straight on the bed, the last vestiges of sleep leaving your senses. “I’m listening.”

“Yelena and I talked some five minutes ago,” Natasha starts and your heart starts pounding in your ears. You hear a deep sigh coming from the other end–can feel Natasha’s apparent hesitation. But then–

“She didn’t exactly say that she’s still in love with you, but… But that’s how it sounded to me. And then she basically told me to fuck off and not act like an ‘overprotective asshole’–her words not mine.”

“We kissed.” The confession frees itself before you can stop it. 

“She did not disclose that detail.” Natasha says through gritted teeth from what you can hear.

“I should’ve told you but I don’t really know how to reach you, so–”

“I get it. I’m not mad,” Natasha says. “Not saying I’m okay with it either. Actually, I’m being ridiculous because you’re both adults.”

Growing up as an only child, you think it’s endearing how zealous she can be when it comes to looking out for Yelena. It’s something you’ll never dismiss as absurd in any way, especially since both were adopted and shortly abandoned by their parents before Natasha turned thirteen. Apart from you, Yelena is Natasha’s only family. And you hate being the cause of conflict between the two.  

“I just need to know one thing. Do you still love her?” Natasha asks. 

It’s instantly obvious that there’s a right and wrong answer to this. At the same time, you hear someone frantically knock on your door.

“Wait, Nat,” you mutter distractedly, putting on a pair of shorts. “There’s someone at the door.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Natasha mumbles. “Are you avoiding the question?”

“Wait a sec,” you say. The knocking remains persistent and demanding. You yell out, “Who is it?” as you pad towards the door. 

You don’t concern yourself with waiting for an answer. You hurriedly work the locks of the apartment and a certain brunette comes tumbling forwards the moment the door swings open. 

“Wanda?”

She’s wearing a mustard cardigan with liquid stains on the chest. And beneath the cardigan, a pair of pajamas that doesn’t match. From the looks of her, this visit was planned on a whim. 

For a while, you forget that your best friend is still on the call, until you hear Natasha say, “Yes, Wanda. Who else?”

“I… I’ll have to call you back.” you say to Natasha and simultaneously end the call before she can even protest. 

“Is she still here?” Wanda slurs and then lets out a small hiccup that you’d normally find adorable, except that you’re not supposed to feel that way towards her in light of being no longer married. 

And also the fact that there’s nothing adorable about seeing her so plastered to the point of being unable to focus her eyes on anything for longer than a second. 

“Who?” you feign ignorance, clueless as to how Wanda knew Yelena was at your apartment. 

As Wanda tries to approach you, her intoxicated state causes her to stumble, requiring you to swiftly grasp her by the waist to prevent her from falling. She lets out a laugh, but it rings hollow.

“You smell like baby powder.” Wanda comments quietly, her nose bumping the side of your neck. The contact sends a shiver cascading down your spine, awakening sensations you'd prefer to suppress, especially when it concerns Wanda. Feeling how dangerous having Wanda this close is, you gently push at her shoulders. Wanda relents with little resistance and when she looks at you through heavy-lidded eyes, asks the same question, “Is she still here?”

You decide to answer her truthfully this time. “She went home.” 

Wanda nods in understanding and you watch her eyes fall shut, a solitary tear escaping her closed lids.

“Okay,” she whispers solemnly, leaning heavily against the doorframe. “Thank you, that’s… All I… yeah.”

You rub your hands over your face in a feeble attempt to wake yourself up in case you’re dreaming, but before you can reckon what to do next, Wanda’s already turning on her wobbly legs towards the elevator. 

“Wanda, wait–” You reach out to tug at her wrist, and the slight force from it whirls her back around. She faces you with her eyes still closed, but her quivering lashes are brimming with more tears that are so close to spill.

When Wanda does open her eyes, they do spill. And it takes everything in you not to pull her into a hug and just make it all go away.

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” Wanda sniffs, brushing at her face but it’s no use–it’s like a dam has burst and it’s apparent that the steady stream flowing through her cheeks isn't letting up soon. “I don’t know why–I just wanted to see you. I’m sorry… I’m so sorry. For everything.”

Drunk Wanda never cried, particularly not on account of you. She was, at best, silly and clumsy–tripping over things and waking up to minor injuries she doesn’t remember getting.

Instead of replying, you lead her inside and Wanda dutifully allows herself to be led. She curls into herself on the couch, feet tucked under her. 

“I’ll go get you some water.” you say, padding towards the kitchen. It’s only when you’re sure Wanda can’t hear you that you release the breath you’ve been holding since her arrival.

A clean slate is what you yearn for, what seems rational in your current circumstances. The logical part of your mind insists on starting anew, devoid of bitterness, guilt, and the weight of unanswered questions. Free from the presence of Wanda Maximoff, who acts as the catalyst for all those emotions.

But wanting to want something and actually wanting something are two entirely different things. 

The question lingers.

Do you still love her? At first it’s Natasha’s face you imagine while the question is being asked. And then she morphs into Yelena, looking absolutely beautiful in the moonlight just right before you had kissed her. 

And then, it’s you. Do I still love her?

Would you have kept her at arm’s length if you knew the answer to this?

Just as you find yourself confronting the inevitability of needing an answer, you feel lithe arms wrap around you from behind, pulling you tightly against a body that would never not be familiar to you.

You tense automatically, but can’t find the will to step out of her embrace. It’s an understatement to say that Wanda Maximoff is your weakness. Without the raw and immediate feelings of anger and betrayal, without the sickening rush of having blood on your hands, and without the concrete reminders of how she threw away a decade worth of love and trust for a fling she claimed wasn’t even that important to her, is just–

It’s the kind of weakness that could annihilate all sense and reason; that could forgive the unforgivable, forget the unforgettable, even learn what has been unlearned. 

It’s a weakness that scares you if Wanda wields it to her favor. You’ve appreciated how she was very conscious of giving you as much space as you need for the past few weeks. You noticed how much she held back every time you were together. But right now, at her current state, you don’t know what Wanda would do. And she probably doesn’t know as well how much power she has in her hands despite her susceptibility to seeing you with another woman. 

“Remember when we talked about who’s probably going to die first when we’re old and don't have many years left in us?” you feel more than hear Wanda murmur against your shoulder, hating the way you slacken in her hold. 

In that moment, memories flood your mind, and although you recall vividly, you opt to remain still and silent.

“I hope it’s me,” Wanda whispers, echoing the exact words you had said to her that night. “I don’t ever want to go through the pain of watching you slip away again.”

Your heart crashes to the floor, breaking into a million tiny pieces that would never be a hundred percent whole again. 

“Wands,” you say breathlessly, then as you turn to face her, a cold hand softly cups your cheek and before you know it, she’s kissing you.

A fresh wave of tears sting at Wanda’s eyes because she can’t remember the last time she felt this happy. She’s hot all over and feeling the onset of a migraine from the alcohol and the pills, but they don’t diminish the pleasure of being surrounded by your smell and the feel of your unmoving lips.

As for you, all you could taste was the combination of bad choices she made just a while ago.

Regrettably, the fleeting moment ends sooner than Wanda desired, as you firmly grasp her shoulders with both hands and apply enough force to cause her to stagger momentarily before regaining her balance.

You barely managed to hang on to what’s left of your control. 

“Please, stop,” you don’t mean for it to come out as vulnerable as it sounds, but it’s hard to keep the firmness in your voice when Wanda’s looking at you like that.

“I love you,” Wanda insists so brokenly, she almost delivers it with a whine. 

“I love you, Y/N.” she repeats, as if there’s a threshold for the number of times she has to say it until you believe her–which, still, you don’t.

“It’s just the alcohol and maybe nostalgia talking.” you say. 

“You’re wrong. I love you. I want you.”

It’s pointless and childish to argue with a drunk person, but you can’t help but seethe in Wanda’s unwavering belief in her own lies. 

You take a couple of calculated steps towards her until you’ve effectively backed her against the fridge. 

“You know what I think?” you say menacingly, and it appeases you to see how she slightly trembles beneath your gaze. “I think you just want to fuck me. And it’s driving you crazy because you don’t own me anymore.”

You say it because it’s something you’ve been wondering about for a while now. It’s difficult for you to tell what she’s after–what she gets out of coming after you and wrecking herself like this in the process. You’re aware of Wanda’s tunnel vision when it comes to getting what she wants–specifically ones that don’t come easy–and you’ve seen it firsthand numerous times over the years. She never backs down from a challenge. 

You can’t help but think–is that what this is? A challenge to win back what she had so carelessly tossed aside?

Wanda, on the other hand, is far incapable of digesting your words properly. And yet, it just becomes clear to her how deep your resentment really goes. 

“That’s perhaps the ugliest thing you’ve ever said to me.” she whispers. 

You shake your head, backing away. It’s not quite as biting as you intend it to be when you say, “Oh? Well, it doesn’t compare to the ugliest thing you’ve ever done to me.”

Tense silence stretches out between the two of you, with only the sound of your breaths and your pounding hearts filling the void. By this time, Wanda’s eyes are dry. All that’s left are tear tracks that run through the edges of her jaw. She looks diminished and soulless, and somehow, it’s a worse sight. 

Wanda promptly hisses at the sharp pain that pulses on one side of her head, her fingers coming up to her temples to massage them.

Your shoulders slump, feeling exhausted–physically and mentally–all of a sudden. 

“Wanda–” you start, her well-being taking priority over your pique. “Please just lie down on the couch. I’ll get you some blankets.”

“I think I’m gonna go.” she says, even as she struggles to walk in a straight line.

“You’re drunk and you’re staying here. This is not a negotiation.”

A beat of silence, and then managing a scoff, she says, “Fine.”

Proceeding into Natasha's bedroom, you retrieve a pillow and a thin comforter, uncertain of where she keeps the actual spare bedding for guests. Returning to the living room, you find Wanda lying on her stomach, already in a deep slumber on the couch. Her face is turned away, mouth slightly open, accompanied by gentle snores. Glancing at the kitchen, you notice the untouched glass of water you had prepared for her. There’s no doubt the headache that awaits her when she wakes up. With utmost care, you drape the comforter over her body, ensuring her bare feet are covered, and place the pillow beneath her outstretched arm.

Creating an ambiance of dimness, you switch off all the lights, allowing only the moon's gentle glow and the radiant lights of the ever-awake city to seep through the window. Your gaze lingers on the shadowed outline of your ex-wife's peaceful form for a few fleeting moments before you withdraw to your own bedroom.

With the reassurance of Wanda being safe and sound in such close proximity, you swiftly succumb to a deep, dreamless slumber.

It’s still dark outside when you stir awake, with the sun peeking just outside the horizon. Last night’s sequence of events return to you in deliberate fragments, and you immediately get up and walk over the living room.

No sign of Wanda. 

The blanket you gave her is neatly folded on the armrest together with Natasha’s pillow. Circling the couch, you spot her cardigan discarded on the floor. She must have ridden herself of it, somewhere during the night. 

Bending down to pick up the article of clothing, and you’re unprepared for the smell of Wanda that wafts to your nose.

You’ve said some things. Appaling things. Reflecting on what was said, you're overcome with remorse, realizing the depth of the vilification you subjected her to.

You wouldn’t have loved her for so long if she was horrible enough to harbor such ill intentions.

Maybe the least you could do is put her cardigan in the laundry. Returning it to her in a fresh and clean state would be a small gesture of consideration and apology.

-

A throbbing pain is what woke Wanda about an hour before sunrise. Dread overcame her right when she opened her eyes to the familiar gray of your flat. She can’t recall much of what happened last night; only an inkling that she fucked up every step of the way following the moment she showed up at your door. Deeply ashamed of barging in and probably forcing you to shelter her for a night, Wanda left your building in a hurry. On top of the humiliation, she’s also already late for her cafe’s pre-opening ceremonies. 

It’s an unusually busy Tuesday, and she failed to get Pietro to come over and lend a helping hand. People are growing agitated by the slow service, ignoring the obvious reason that their server is wearing all the hats today–cashier, barista, waitress and maintenance. She’s tending to the cafe alone, except for Sparky–and she can’t really ask a dog to serve food and drinks… or can she?

Though if there’s one thing Wanda Maximoff is, it’s that she’s a professional multitasker.

“Can I follow up on that upside down mocha latte, miss?” 

“Yeah, yeah, of course. I’ll be right with you.”

“This needs more sugar.”

“We have packets of sugar, sugar-replacement, creamer, cinnamon and so much more over that corner.”

“Excuse me, how much for two dozens of matcha peanut butter cookies? And do you take advance orders?”

“That’s, uh, you know what let me check. And yes we do take advance orders and provide catering services.”

“Your dog is licking the spilled coffee on the floor, in case you didn’t know.”

“Oh, shit–Sparky, get away from that!” Wanda temporarily sets her tray down on the table of one of her customers to get a mop.

“Miss, I think you swapped my order with–”

She’s not going to freak out. There’s no way she’s going to freak out. 

Wanda’s on her way to cleaning up the spill when someone jerks the mop out of her grip. 

“I’ll take care of it,” Vision mumbles without looking directly at Wanda. “You should attend to that asshole by the window. I think he’s about to lose it.”

Wanda’s at a loss for words, conflicted between carrying on with her duties and thinking whether or not she should confront her former student about why he’s here. In the end, she really has no choice but to charge through the pending orders and appease the snappy customers or else she risks losing this business. 

Little by little, the demands die down. And then finally, Wanda’s left to deal with Vision who’s seated near the back room, hunched over Sparky while her dog laps at his bony fingers.

“You shouldn’t have come here.” Wanda says as she approaches his table.

Vision jolts upright and she uses the opportunity to take a proper look at him. He looks a great deal better than the last time they saw each other. Wanda’s sincerely happy for him. Still, he cannot be here.

“Thank you for helping earlier, but I believe it’s best if you leave now.” Wanda asserts, her irritation palpable.

“I wasn’t stalking you or anything,” Vision says, unfazed by Wanda’s animosity. “I didn’t know you work here.”

Wanda snorts in amusement. “I don’t simply work here. I own this place.”

Vision looks embarrassed for making the wrong assumption. “Sorry, I… Congratulations, Wanda. This is truly remarkable..”

“Thanks,” she says, and then gestures at the door. “Now could you please…?”

“Can’t I at least order a coffee to-go?” Vision interjects.

“Fair enough,” Wanda concedes. 

“What would you recommend?” he asks, studying the menu with rapt concentration.

“Our bestseller is the Spanish latte.”

“Got anything Keto?”

Wanda casts him a dumbfounded look. But Vision seems serious with his request. The pieces of their affair now seem like a perplexing puzzle; and now she’s exploring the possibility that their affair could have been her having a mental break. Not for the first time she wonders, what the fuck was I thinking?

“Fine. Would you like it hot or cold? Medium or large?” Wanda asks.

“Uh, iced. Large.” he says.

Wanda works the register. “Large iced americano with two shots of heavy cream and a Splenda, coming right up.” 

Vision pays for his drink and thanks her. He waits by the counter as Wanda prepares his coffee.

The bells-like sound of the door chime rings, and Wanda mechanically welcomes the newcomer without looking up.

“Hi,” you say, not noticing Vision at all. It’s Sparky who greets you, excitedly wagging his tail as he sniffs you all over. 

Wanda flinches at the sound of your voice. Her eyes widen in panic, and they dart erratically from you to Vision, and then you again. It’s only when you absorb the horrified look on Wanda’s face that you catch sight of a taller figure from the corner of your eyes.

"You..." The word escapes your lips, unintentionally carrying a tinge of disdain. It's the first time you witness Wanda and Vision in the same room, and a rush of emotions floods over you, resurfacing all the pain you have been attempting to overcome during the past several months.

A flurry of questions swirls within your mind, leaving you feeling overwhelmed. Didn’t Natasha say he doesn’t remember? Or has he been aware of everything all along? And what about Wanda? Was she seeing Vision behind your back throughout this entire time? The uncertainty and confusion gnaw at your thoughts, leaving you grappling for answers.

Your first realization is this: no–you have not forgiven them. And if they’re fucking or trying a relationship with each other, you won’t find it in yourself to be genuinely happy for them.

The second thing is that you’ve been fooled once again; she had you believing that she regretted ever throwing away what you two had to fuck this kid. 

All this time, they were continuing where they left off. You don’t care why it bothers you so much–it just does and it makes you livid.

Vision cowers at the sight of you. It confirms your suspicions–he does remember. You watch him carefully as he mumbles a shaky goodbye to Wanda before rushing towards the exit, not caring at all about the drink he had ordered and already paid for. You don’t try to step out of his way, holding your ground as an act of intimidation. 

Neither you nor Wanda move an inch as Vision takes his leave.

"Y/N," she breathes, desperately attempting to convey that things are not as they may appear. “It’s not what you think.”

You scrunch up Wanda’s cardigan tightly in your hand before tossing it to the floor. “Doesn’t seem that way to me.” you say in a low whisper. 

A few nosy customers observe you with intrigue, murmuring to themselves and pretending to be busy with their phones. It makes your mouth twist in a nearly lunatic grin.

Just before you leave the cafe, you make sure that Wanda’s looking you right in the eye as you say, “I never want to see your lying face ever again.”

The finality of your words, coupled with the piercing intensity of your gaze, knocks the wind out of her.

“Y/N!” Wanda screams out your name desperately, throwing caution to the wind. She quickly unties her apron and dashes outside to run after you. 

Frantically scouring the nearby alleyways, her search proves fruitless as you have already disappeared, leaving her to confront the empty streets alone.

-

Wanda tries several ways to reach you. First, she tries calling you from her number, but she discovers you still have her blocked. Next, she asks Agatha to call you, but you refuse to pick up, until your phone becomes unreachable altogether. Whether it’s the reception or your phone being turned off, it’s clear that any effort to get a hold of you through a call is moot.

Pietro eventually accedes to Wanda’s begging and covers the final two hours of her shift. She has to lie to him with a fake emergency, which was very upsetting for her to do considering how passionately you called her a liar just earlier. She goes straight to your place when she’s free of her responsibilities. Her frustration fuels her actions as she pounds on your door with an intensity, demanding that you give her the opportunity to explain herself.

She keeps at it for some time, until the security comes up to your floor to inform her that you haven’t returned all day.

Out of options, Wanda goes home, defeated. More than her yearning to give you an explanation, she worries about where you could have gone to. She’s not a religious person, but when it comes to your safety, she prays to every god there is for you to be okay. 

It’s half past midnight when Wanda’s awoken by a loud, angry knock at her door. 

Her sleep riddled brain fails to notice how unusual it is for Sparky not to emerge from his dog house and start barking at the unexpected visitor. Her gut tells her it’s you, but just to be safe, she takes Sparky to the guest room, knowing how wary he is of strangers. 

“Who’s there?” Wanda’s voice echoes through the empty hall, voice hoarse from sleep and from yelling your name all over Queens.

There’s no response, and yet, each thud against the door reverberates through the room, filling it with a sense of urgency and unease.

Startled and growing increasingly concerned, Wanda opens the door and–

It’s the smell of beer that welcomes her first. 

Less than twenty-four hours ago, you were both entangled in a similar situation, albeit in reversed roles. The irony of the circumstances isn't lost on Wanda as she observes the unwavering and intense gaze you fix upon her. It's unclear to her how much you've had to drink to be able to find your way to her, but the determination in your eyes speaks volumes.

“Y/N, thank god you’re here. I was so worried–” Wanda tries to say, but the rest of her sentence dies on your lips. With one hand on the slope where her neck meets her shoulder, you push her roughly back inside her apartment, slamming and locking the door behind you with the other. 

You harshly nip at her lower lip before releasing it and growling, “This is what you want right? This is what you’ve been chasing me for all along?” 

Pinning her with a disdainful look, Wanda feels powerless to refute your allegations. Is that how you perceived this to be all along? How lowly your opinion of her has become? When she finds the courage to put the tiniest bit of space between you and her, you pull her flushed against your body to capture her swollen lips into another bruising kiss. The moan that escapes you both this time is irrefutable. Something tells Wanda that whatever she says between now and what’s going to happen next, will just be sucked into the abyss of retribution. And so, she gives in to the storm that is your feverish kisses and your hatred punctuating your every touch.

If she were being honest, she just wants to feel you. Logic and reason be damned. 

“Y/N!” Wanda mewls when you clumsily rub her through the fabric of her nightwear, pinching her clit as soon as you find it.

There’s no trace of tenderness in the way you maneuver Wanda and deposit her to the carpeted floor of her living room. 

There’s nothing gentle in the way you pull down her shorts to her ankles, and lift her shirt just enough to expose her tits. 

There’s only lust, and instinct, and vengeance in the painful entrapment of her hard nipple between your bared teeth. 

And Wanda loves it. 

It’s the punishment she didn’t know she had been craving for since the moment she invited Vision to her bed. If you needed to ruin her, Wanda would let you. She’d gladly take the beating if it means she gets to have even just a tiny fraction of you back–no matter how cruel this fraction of you might be. 

The throbbing in her clit matches the rhythm of her heartbeat, as you continue to tongue her nipple in broad laps. It’s visually lewd enough for her to avert her eyes in embarrassment, but suddenly, you grip her jaw and force her to look at what you’re doing to her, pausing just long enough to say, “Don’t you fucking look away.” before turning your attention to her other nipple and giving it the same treatment. Wanda feels her wetness soak the rug below her ass, and all the blood rushes to her core, already begging for release. 

Wanda gasps when you slide back up abruptly, the rough friction of your shirt rubbing against her tender peaks. She smells the alcohol on your breath before she tastes it, as you pull her in for a dizzying kiss. You’re uncommonly disoriented in your movements, as if you keep deciding and then changing your mind on how you want her. 

Wanda's fingers tentatively approach the button of your jeans, but you swiftly swat them aside. Instead, you seize her hands, lifting them above her head and securing her wrists together.

You rarely make love to her when you’re drunk. You never liked the idea of being unfocused and uncoordinated when you touch her, and you were always afraid you’d accidentally do something that might make her uncomfortable or even hurt her. And now, as your fingers skim through her wetness, not caring if your nails scrape against her sensitive skin, Wanda understands. She understands what you’re capable of when you give up control and let pure instinct take over.

She understands how perfectly capable you are of hurting her–in all aspects. 

Wanda feels she’s wet enough, but it’s still painful when you enter her unceremoniously with two fingers. 

“Y/N, wait–” Wanda gasps as you start to quicken your thrusts before she’s fully adjusted. “S-Slow down.”

But it’s like you can't hear her, seemingly entranced by your own fingers going in and out of your ex-wife’s cunt. The pleasure eventually overtakes the pain, and Wanda doesn’t have anything to hold onto as the heel of your palm grinds against her nub in a slow, circling motion. 

Wanda’s mouth falls open, warm puffs of air brushing so intimately against your chin. “Fuck, yes, right there–”

You pant against Wanda’s sternum, bitterly thinking that she will always be beautiful whether you’re seeing her through the lens of affection or loathing. 

Feeling how close she is, you add another finger into her. The fullness does nothing to abate the tightening in Wanda’s stomach. She writhes uncontrollably beneath you, overwhelmed by the intensity of pleasure, attempting to halt the motion of your fingers by pressing her knees against your lower body. But you keep her where she is, with her legs wide apart. You angle your hand a certain way, so you’re pummeling the spongy area inside of her every time you push inside.

“Kiss me, please,” Wanda whispers shakily against your sweaty forehead. Ignoring her plea, you lick into her ear instead, and then curl your fingers the only way you know how, propelling her over the edge.

“Fuck, fuck! I’m coming!” Wanda cries, her hips bucking uncontrollably. Her trembling arms wrap around your neck as you continue to fuck her through her orgasm. You silently observe Wanda as she regains her breath, her eyes closed and her chest rising and falling in a rhythmic pattern. Her brown hair cascades over the floor, resembling a fallen angel consumed by the depths of the earth.

Wanda's face is stained with tears. However, it is only when she becomes conscious of a droplet landing on her nose that she realizes she is not the one shedding them. Cautiously, as if she’s afraid of what she might see, she opens her eyes and looks up at you.

It’s the only picture of vulnerability in you that she’ll see for the rest of the night, and her own eyes well up, struck by the realization that you can never hurt her the way she’s hurt you. You interpret the look on her face as pity and angrily wipe your eyes with the back of your hand.

“This doesn’t mean anything to me.” you mutter scathingly, even as your lips quiver from the struggle of detaching yourself from your emotions. 

Wanda’s hands reach out to cradle your face. “I know.” she whispers.

“Then why are you agreeing to this?”

“I never stopped being yours,” Wanda whispers with a voice filled with fractures, and it's only your warm and solid presence that keeps her from falling apart. “It’s just how it is.”

You taste the bitterness in your tears, mixed with the metallic tang of blood from your lip from how harshly you’ve been biting down on it. How could she utter those words to you, knowing that someone else had gotten to know her so intimately in this manner? 

Whatever Wanda thought she did, no matter how many times she claimed it didn’t mean anything, however briefly it was–she gave bits of herself to Vision; her body, her mind, her words, her time. Those are the things that you can’t get back. Things you can’t replace. Things you can’t account for. 

Lies after lies, you think bitterly. 

And yet, it only intensifies your desire to claim her one more time. To remind her what she had traded away for illicit pleasure. To ruin her for everyone else.

“Again.” you demand, the mask of indifference returning to replace the face that Wanda loves the most. 

And that seals it–whatever this is. Wanda knows that this can’t end well.

But she couldn’t find it in her heart to care.

"Okay," she mumbles, her voice carrying weariness and resignation.

You wrap her shaking legs around your waist while your arms provide a secure embrace around her back. And then, with her clinging to you like a mindless puppet, you push yourself off the ground and onto your feet, Wanda along with a strength that astonishes both of you.

Wanda buries her head into the crook of your neck, hot tears slipping from her eyes as you carry her to the bedroom.

[lunarw0rks]

Through The Ashes | Final Part

Summary: You've been given an offer to join the 141 Task Force. Upon taking it, you find yourself ensnared with the mysterious masked man who won't take his eyes off you.

Warning(s): PTSD themes, mourning/grief, blood/gore mention, childhood trauma, hints of Ghost's disordered eating and self-harm

A/N: a lil epilogue for those who wanted it--I hope this will suffice. It's less about story-moving and more of a wrap-up for my first fic! Thanks for all the support on the parts. Requests are open if you want more Ghost content or any of the characters I write for ;)

| Word Count: 1k

꒦꒷ MAIN MASTERLIST ꒷꒦ GHOST MASTERLIST ⋆ ⚘ 🕊 ˚✧ ₊˚ʚ prev. chapter | alternate ending // requests | ao3 | playlist

Epilogue

“There are wounds that never show on the body that are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds…” —LK Hamilton

—

The dried blood that had stained his nail beds and the wrinkles of his calloused hands seemed like it was never going to wash away, even when he was scrubbing the skin raw.

He barely uttered a word to anyone and wasn’t planning to. This was his burden to carry, and he wasn’t going to rub off on his teammates—damning them to the same torture of the gruesome image of your body.

He remained strong when he was holding your head up, when he placed his hand on your head as you bled onto the marble. He stayed strong when Soap had to force him to leave your body behind, he stayed strong during evac, and even the frantic questioning Price put him through.

When Ghost stepped out of the bathroom, he felt like his knees were going to buckle underneath him.

He laid his eyes on the outfit he’d laid out for himself, neatly pressed and folded, and he couldn’t take it. The outfit he was going to wear, the night he was going to take you out for drinks—just the two of you.

The night before you were supposed to go on stress leave and possibly never see him or anyone here again—mere hours before you were supposed to depart from the team—and you’re being zipped into a bag and flown home.

He tore his eyes away from the outfit and forced himself to leave his dorm. He needed to do something, anything that would distract his thoughts.

He was only greeted with more reminders—the expression written on every one of his coworkers’ faces, like they were the ones that nursed you in their arms, watching as the life drained out of you.

Simon heard Price’s solemn tone, the one he’d used the entire night as he answered seemingly never ending phone calls about what happened.

“I’ve coordinated with the family, the service is set this week.”

He shook his head as he passed the office and continued down the understimulating hallways. The blank walls and bland colors were like his own purgatory, but a purgatory Simon felt he deserved to be trapped in forever.

—

Ghost finds himself in the bar that night, the same bar he was going to take you to. Somewhere he now thought was nicer than he deserved. He was there for you, as if you were the one sitting in the empty seat next to him.

Each time he’d look over, his delusions were squashed once again, seeing the empty seat next to him, as those around him lived in the moment—laughing with their loved ones, sharing their first drink with a significant other—it made him nauseous.

He stumbled back to the base in silence, and was greeted by more of it when he stepped inside. Everyone had retired for the evening at the base, most likely out of respect. It felt wrong to enjoy a dinner, or play card games in light of a tragedy.

He slumbered down the hallways, keeping his blank gaze ahead. That was until he reached your room, the only dorm with the door still open.

He peered inside, seeing the sheets that still had the imprint of your body in them. The clutter still left on your bedside table, as if you’d just left for errands and would be back any minute.

Ghost looked in each direction of the hall to make sure no one would disturb him. He closed the door behind him, and pulled the string of the lamp you kept by the bed. It dimly lit the barrack, filling the room with a warmth your absence had since taken from it.

He didn’t dare disturb the messy sheets, or the water bottle you’d left there. Nor did he disturb the book you left on your desk, where you’d placed a pencil inside to mark your place.

He noticed the luggage you’d packed sitting on the futon, and next to it a few pieces of paperwork.

He examined the paper, seeing the plane ticket you’d purchased. You’d picked somewhere beautiful, somewhere peaceful—a place he could imagine you relaxing in, distracting yourself from the horrors you’d seen here. He rubbed his thumb over the ticket, feeling his gaze soften.

One day sooner, and you’d be gone somewhere much nicer, and hopefully moved on to someone much better than him.

Although the emotions suffocated him every day since your death, he’d grown used to being numb on the outside.

Keeping conversations sharp and quick, only eating to survive, punching the dummy in the training room until his knuckles cracked open and bled.

He showed up at your funeral for appearances, merely spacing out the entire time. As soon as the sermon ended, he was out of there faster than anyone noticed. He wasn’t able to stare at that framed photo of you surrounded by flowers any longer.

—

When the sorrow passed, so did his patience. His eyes were glued on the boxes being hauled out of your barrack, most of it donated or thrown. Your room was to be filled by another disposable soldier any day now—as if you’d never existed.

He no longer cringed at the thought of you, but instead seared in anticipation for making that bastard bleed. There wasn’t a rulebook, or bullet in the world that was going to stop him. There were no limits to how far he’d go to make sure that Commander Graves would suffer under his own two hands. No bullets, no bombs, no backup.

As it was not Ghost’s first time drowned by grief, he greeted the desire for vengeance with a handshake. Whether a day, a year, or ten years, he was going to find Graves and make him pay for what he did.

He’d done it once when he finally stood up to his father, when he pounded his face unrecognizable.

Only then, he was a furious teen filled with angst. But now, Simon was a soldier well-acquainted with his own brutality—as well as his wrath.

TAGLIST: @neoarchipelago @ghostlythots @gothgirl6-6-6 @cloudyyjanee @ladyelissarose @almightywdm @glitterypirateduck @brokenghostgirl1 @a-jupiter-n-mars-blog @liliumbosniacum (I can't tag these two for some reason)

[cherry-poppins]

Sweet Tooth - Fell!Sans x Reader

Roses are red 

My feelings be true 

I don't do poetry...

Screw you <3

Digging through the Underground's garbage dump was one of your favourite pass times. You usually went once a  week as by that time there was usually new stuff. New books, clothes, a bike with a missing wheel, tinned food if you were lucky and.... oh, what's this?

"Omg no way!!" you squeal in excitement, quickly giving it a sniff test to see if it was still good. BINGO!! Shoving it and a few other items in your bag you were quick to depart the garbage dump.

 You run through the waterfall, passing monsters, having to give a rushed apologies as you nearly run into a few. "Sorry!!" 

Unfortunately you do end up bumping into a monster, one who was comically tall and smelled particularly fishy. "Oof... Oh hey Undyne!" You grinned up at her only to be gently shoved back.

"Nice to see ya to kid but next time watch where ya going next time, will ya?" She sassed as she crossed her arms. 

"Heh, sorry about that. Guess i kinda got carried away... Speaking off i'd love to talk but I'm kinda in a hurry"

"Ha ya think? Welp i'll let you get back to whatever, go get'em kid" Undyne quipped as she threw you a toothy grin. 

"Will do, Cya Undyne!!" You yelled as you past her, picking up you pace but with more awareness or your surroundings. 

Shivering as the sudden change of temperature as you enter the forever winter of Snowdin. You slow down your pace, putting on your thick jacket that was tied around your waist. Your first thought was that he was at Grillby's. Only to be left disappointed as soon as you open the door, the jingle of the bell mocking you. 

"Damn, i swore that he's be here... The one time he's not." You whine, only to spot Papyrus in the far corner. Surely he's know. 

"Hey Papyrus!!" You call out as you made your way to him, giving him a quick wave. 

"HUMAN, WHAT BRINGS YOUR PRESENCE HERE? HERE TO SEE THE MAGNIFICENT PAPYRUS MWAH HAW HAW HAW!" 

"Unfortunately not today. I was actually looking for Sans, have you seen him?" You asked 

"I HAVE ACTUALLY, HE'S AT OUT HOUSE. YET I UNDERSTAND WHY YOU'D THINK HE'D BE HERE, HE COMES HERE SO OFTEN YOU'D THINK HE'S LIVE HERE MWAH HAW HAW HAW!" Papyrus laughed at his own joke, followed by your own chuckle of encouragement. 

"Heh, nice one. Thanks for the help, cya around" You waved goodbye as you left the establishment. 

You run towards the skeletons (plus yours) house, barging down the door. "SANSSS!!!" You yelled out, knowing this was the fastest way to get to him rather than looking through the whole house. 

The poor, unknowing skeleton quickly teleports to your side looking around anxiously. "Yo where's the fire?! Are you hurt, what's going o-" Before he could continue, or for you to give an explanation your excitement gets the better of you and you tackle him to the ground with a hug.

"Oi get off ya crazy human" He shoved you off, only to give you a soft punch to the shoulder. "Don't scare me like that, thought you were dyin' or somethin'"  Sans huffed, not bothering to get up off of the floor. 

"Sorry Sans, didn't mean to frighten ya. totally could've handled that better. Anyways you're never gonna believe what I found at the garbage dump of us." You beamed as you pulled yourself up to sit your back up against the couch, sans soon to follow. 

He raised an eyebrow at first before giving a grin, ruffling the top of your head. "Us?....Damn a gift? All is forgiven sweetheart, now whatcha' find" Sans asked as you dug through your bag. 

You pull out the slight smooshed but totally edible box of chocolates. "Look!! This is such a good find, and they're still good, must've been thrown down recently. Eeee i haven't had chocolate in so long and as far as i aware you haven't even tried it" You grinned as you held the box out in front of you. 

San's look completely shifted, snatching the box out from your hands analysing it and giving it a quick sniff. "Holy shit, how the- Yeah i've chocolate, when i was a lil baby bones but man that was... fucking years ago. This is like- and don't tell anyone this cause it's cringy af, but like my absolute favourite." He gushed excitedly. 

"Really me too and there's different flavours too, see" You flip the box in his hands and show him the varieties. "See there's you average milk chocolate, can't go wrong with that, then you got the stuff that has caramel. Hazelnut, mind flavour which people will dbeta whether or not it taste good. Dark chocolate, mocha, strawberry. Ooo and white chocolate, which fun fact arguable isn't chocolate as it isn't made with cocoa solids, only cocoa butter. Nice right" You chuckled, only to see the look on his face faltered. 

"Huh I didn't know chocolate had flavours, I've only had the regular shit ya know." he gave a nervous laugh before changing the topic. Huh what's a valentines chocolate, does it make it special from the other chocolate?" He asked, pointing to the front of the box. 

"Valentines box of chocolates- Oh No, no. It's just marketing, once every year, i believe mid February theres a day called valentines day. Which basically people would give chocolate and roses to another as a token of their affection, it's a custom usually done by lovers yet it can be done in a platonic sense." You clarified. Guess they didn't have valentines day here, nor books about it. 

"Oh, a day dedicated to love? Ew that's disgusting, at least they have chocolate on this day haha" Sans joked, giving you a little nudge.

 Knowing he was shy about that kinda stuff made you giggle to yourself. Especially since he didn't know that you knew. "Actually the price of chocolate and roses usually goes up on that day, which is kinda inconvenient but that's the economy i guess."

"What?! That's an absolute outrage, fucking valentines day making over priced chocolate." Sans barked, flipping off the concept of Valentines day. 

You laughed as San's antics. "Well I guess it still tastes good, tell ya what i'll let'cha have the first piece" 

"Damn no way.. for real life?" He questioned. 

" Knock ya self out big guy" after that he wasted no time opening up the box. Yet the decision of actually picking a flavour stumped him. 

He had to look which flavours was which about five times before he made a decision. "Milk chocolate, it's a safe option since i already know that i like it" He reasoned. 

"Huh good logic. Can't go wrong with classics" you shrugged, waiting for him to try it. 

Before he took he piece and ate it he turns to you. "What's your favourite"

"mine? hmm, i don't think i really have one. but going with your logic i'd say white chocolate as i know that i really like it." You answered. 

"well then here you go" He holds out the box out for you to take your piece. 

You give him a smile and a thanks as you take it. Which Sans then takes his piece soon after holding it out to you.  "Happy valentines day" 

You couldn't help but burst into laughter soon regretting it after." Ahahah, What?"

Sans instantly freaks outs, and is quick to defend and explain. "Nah it's not like that, think about it, if these have been dumped recently then its only safe to assume that the valentine's day is today... give or take a few days i dunno. Besides you said that shit could be platonic.... well we're friends are we not.." He looked away, his anxieties filling his soul. 

You let out a soft little "oh" as it began to click for you. "I love you too Sans" You nudge your piece of chocolate with his, leaving smudges on eachothers "Cheers" You grin at the shy skeleton before you popped the chocolate in your mouth, letting it melt in your mouth

Sans is quick to look at you. Observe the look on your face and demeanour. Only to let out the breath he didn't know he was holding. "Heh yeah whatever sweetheart, cheers" He chuckled before, eating his own chocolate, licking the tips of his phalanges which was covered in melted chocolate. 

love ya too

Authors Notes: Happy Valentine's Day, everyone! Givin' a special shout out to the Aces, Aros, Aplatonics, and anyone who is a mix of these! And if you are loveless this year, so am i , so let's cheers to that! Love comes in all different forms, so tell your friends how much you appreciate them or call your mother, I dunno. And keep in mind that even if you don't experience attraction or love, you still matter and are valued. <3

When chocolates and roses go on sale, don't forget to enjoy!! (And if you can't eat chocolate and don't like roses then please accept these 🍫🍬💐🌼)

[bbutterflies]

Adrino week day 7 - Sleepover

Something to dream about - read it on ao3 or below!

It was impulse, really. Chat Noir hadn’t thought. He’d seen Nino on the sidewalks, talking with some other boy – flirting, if Chat knows anything, and he definitely does – and Chat couldn’t have that.

So what if he’d been mid patrol with Ladybug?

All he knows is now he’s wrapping an arm around Nino’s waist and carrying him back up to the Paris skyline.

Nino shouts in surprise, clinging desperately to Chat’s shoulders as he’s swept off the ground. “What’re you doing?” he shouts.

“Saving you,” Chat answers.

Nino clings a little tighter as they soar higher. “I wasn’t in danger.”

“You definitely were.” Chat sets Nino down on a rooftop, though he’s sad when Nino’s hands are planted firmly on his own hips. “You were in danger of an awful conversation.”

“What? No. I was enjoying myself.”

Chat rolls his eyes. “C’mon. That guy was lame, I can tell.”

“Says the guy in a leather catsuit,” Nino says with a snort.

“Oh, you like it?” Chat asks, posing dramatically. He doesn’t mind showing off. “It's sweet of you to notice.”

Nino shakes his head.  “It doesn’t leave much to the imagination.”

Chat picks a new pose. “So you’ve been paying attention? How sweet.”

“Okay, man, you’ve made your point. Stop embarrassing yourself.”

Chat doesn’t stop, though. He just smiles at Nino. “Admit it. You’d rather hang with me tonight.”

Nino tries to keep a straight face, but a smirk breaks through. “I was actually trying to ask him out.”

“Well, now I’m asking you out.” Chat drops his pose to extend a hand instead. “Trust me. You’ll have a way better time with me.”

Nino chews on it. He studies Chat’s hand and then meets his eyes. “Yeah?” he asks. “You promise?”

“Absolutely. Besides, what could be better than a date with a superhero?” Chat doesn’t consider the implications of what he’s saying, or that Nino is his alter ego’s best friend. Right now, all he cares about is the smile on Nino’s face as he takes his hand.

And now Chat needs a plan for an incredible date. Fortunately, he’s something of an expert in that department, and being a superhero means he’ll have access to whatever he needs to make it happen.

Maybe with a little help from his partner so he doesn’t have to leave Nino’s side.

An SOS text to Ladybug for help and just a few minutes later (with a sly, all-knowing smile and a wink from Ladybug), Chat and Nino are set up on a rooftop with a blanket, a projector, flowers, candles, and more food than they could possibly eat.

“Alright,” Nino says as they settle down next to each other. “I have to admit it. You were right.”

“Oh?” Chat prods for more.

Nino gives in. “This is way better than anything I could’ve done with that guy tonight. You were right.”

Chat nudges Nino playfully with his elbow. “Told you so.”

“Plus I’m always swayed by free food.” Nino reaches for the first takeout bag. “And, I mean, what a night. A date with a superhero? My friends are gonna freak.”

Chat ducks his face before Nino can see. Yeah, Adrien was definitely going to have to fake a good surprised reaction to this news.

Right now, though? Chat Noir just wants to enjoy himself and get Nino to laugh.

Chat Noir wakes up with someone in his arms. His back hurts, and he realizes it’s because he’s on a rooftop. He’s not in a bed.

And he’s holding Nino, who’s snoring on his chest.

All things considered, he was calling the night a success.

But they both need to get home. It was late, the sun long gone, and Nino deserved to sleep in his own bed. “Nino?” Chat says gently, nudging his shoulder.

Nino doesn’t even flinch, undisturbed in his sleep.

Oh, man. “Nino,” Chat says louder, prodding a little harder. Still nothing. “Nino, wake up.”

Nino mumbles something unintelligible and wraps his arms around Chat.

Okay. Not ideal, but Chat is still calling this a win. He can make this work. Nino’s cute in his sleep, anyway, and this will be hilarious to tease him about later.

The objective still stands – get Nino home. He doesn’t need to be awake for that. Carefully, Chat sits up. Nino holds onto him still, pressed against his chest.

At least Chat won’t drop him while carrying him home. Not to mention he’s enjoying this, too, but that’s not the priority.

Carefully, Chat maneuvers Nino in his arms until he can hold him securely with one arm. He’s actually impressed at Nino’s ability to sleep through it all. Nino’s still snoring, and the sound is adorable. Chat hopes he gets to hear it again.

Priorities. Chat starts towards Nino’s apartment, holding onto him tight with one arm to make sure he stays safe. Though Nino, honestly, is doing an impressive job of holding on in his sleep.

Chat’s starting to worry about getting him to let go. Like, ever. He didn’t know Nino was this heavy of a sleeper, or he’d have probably made sure they didn’t fall asleep on a random rooftop.

Or, well… no, he might’ve still done it, because Nino was clinging to him so tightly right now and Chat was pretty sure there was no other way he could’ve made that happen. Was that selfish? Maybe. But Nino’s content murmurs in his sleep and the smile on his face were more than enough to satisfy Chat Noir.

He manages to carry Nino back to his apartment, and by some stroke of luck the bedroom window is even unlocked. Carefully, Chat maneuvers them both inside. Almost there.

He sets Nino down in bed – or at least tries to. Nino is still clinging to him with no signs of letting go. He tries pulling Nino’s arms off from where they’re strung around his neck with no luck. He doesn’t want to be too forceful or aggressive – Nino’s somehow still asleep, after all – but he really needs Nino to let go.

“Nino?” Chat says, and he’s not surprised when Nino doesn’t respond at all. He tries gently poking him, and gets the slightest wriggle out of poking him in his side. It feels a little cruel, but he’s desperate. “Nino, let go,” Chat says, poking again.

Nino grumbles in his sleep, adjusting his grip, and Chat seizes the opportunity. He manages to get Nino’s arms loose and swiftly sets him down in bed. Carefully, Chat takes off Nino’s glasses and pulls the blankets up over him. Nino sinks deeper into the bed with a content sigh.

Yeah. This night is a success.

Chat tries to leave. He does, actually. He really tries. He makes it almost back to the window, too, before he’s held back by his belt.

Strange.

A glance backwards shows Nino has Chat’s belt in hand. And Nino’s eyes are open (barely, but still).

“Chat?” Nino mumbles.

Of course he’s awake now. Chat smiles at him. “Go back to sleep.”

“Stay?” Nino asks.

Chat shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. But… “Okay,” he says. He walks back over to the bed and sits on the edge, intending to not get much closer than that, but Nino tugs on his arm.

So Chat lays down next to him.

(Look, he’s not going to argue about it. He would really like to stay with Nino some more and a guy can only have so much willpower in one day.)

“Yay,” Nino says, and it turns into a yawn. He wraps his arms around Chat Noir and pulls him even closer. Seconds later, he’s snoring again.

Chat settles into Nino, limbs a tangled mess. This will probably be hard to explain in the morning – and even worse if someone walks into Nino’s room – but he’s quite content to drift off here in a quiet mix of snores and purrs and pure bliss.

[finn-m-corvex]

Sounding Sea

Annabel Lee - Edgar Allan Poe

Words: 1.8k

TWs: depression, heavy angst, self-punishment, suicidal thoughts, Jay is not in a good place in this everybody

Summary: uhhhh basically Jay angst paired with one of my favorite Poe poems and I'm really proud of it.

Gonna go ahead and tag @giftofjay because you said you would really enjoy reading something like this so this is for you! Consider it a gift for being awesome! Sorry it's not happier lol

It was many and many a year ago,

   In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden there lived whom you may know

   By the name of Annabel Lee;

It hadn't really been that long, and Jay knew it. Yet with every day that passed it felt like he aged by ten years. He had only been at the lighthouse for a week, and yet his bones ached as if he had run a marathon nonstop, creaking and cracking with every swell of the insufferable tide outside. Every day he would force himself to walk up and down the wooden stairs in an endless chain of filling a bucket with saltwater, only to dump it back out over the lip of the opening. Self-loathing would fill him whenever the bucket was topped by the waves; he tried in vain to pretend that it went away once he was finished pouring it back out. His body begged him for a break, a reprieve in its arduous task, but Jay never gave in.

No punishment would ever be enough for the weight of his sin: letting her go.

And this maiden she lived with no other thought

   Than to love and be loved by me.

How could he have been so foolish? So selfish? Of course Nya would want something more for herself than to be a hapless trophy wife on display. He had acted so childishly, and for what? Because she wanted to be her own person? What kind of thing was that to throw a temper tantrum over? That's all that he was, a loud and annoying child, and he had been too arrogant to accept it.

Nadakhan had called him a child.

The bucket was almost tossed over the side as Jay aggressively shook the water out. The bitterness never went away, no matter how many times he emptied the stupid, slimy pail.

I was a child and she was a child,

   In this kingdom by the sea,

But we loved with a love that was more than love—

That love burned in his chest so brightly that it would've scorched even Kai's fire. Jay knew that if he could carry it in his hands they would burn instantly, and still he would hold onto it for the rest of his life. Even then, the Departed Realm would be hard-pressed to try and take it from him as he moved into the afterlife. He knew that Nya wouldn't be there to greet him.

Love was never enough, was it?

   I and my Annabel Lee—

With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven

   Coveted her and me.

And humanity despised what they knew they couldn't have. Jealousy was a disease; one that had gotten her killed the first time, and it was all his fault.

The bucket tipped over again.

And this was the reason that, long ago,

   In this kingdom by the sea,

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling

   My beautiful Annabel Lee;

He remembered what it was like falling through the portal, reaching up to grab her hand in a fruitless attempt to pull her through. She smiled at him, for what he thought might be one last time, deliberately putting herself out of his reach.

The wind had whooshed past his ears, whistling its song of sorrow and blame as he tumbled farther and farther down. Jay knew that Nya wouldn't last long against all of those pirates, and he knew that the despair would hurt more than any broken bones from the fall he would have when he finally came out on the other side.

Why was it always him?

So that her highborn kinsmen came

   And bore her away from me,

To shut her up in a sepulchre

   In this kingdom by the sea.

Operation: Land Ho had somehow been the most successful and disastrous thing he had ever pulled off in his life. As a rescue mission for Nya it had gone terribly awry before they had even left the ground, but at least he had managed to get his brothers and master back in one piece.

They weren't enough. He wasn't enough.

Everywhere he had looked things were falling, hurtling towards his home. The one he was supposed to protect with his life. And yet all he could think of was her, shielding her fragile body from the debris as it rained down around them, and Jay was sure that they would crash and burn in a fiery comet. The church where the djinn and Nya had been wed lay in ruins only a few hundred yards behind him, and yet the shadow of its remains loomed over Jay, almost as if reminded him that its parts may very well build their tomb when the island finally hit the ground.

The seawater was cold as it sloshed around his bare ankles, and yet he was too numb to start shivering. He bent over for the umpteenth time that day, tilting the bucket and letting it completely fill before beginning the large trek up the stairs. His back twinged in protest, but Jay ignored it like he had ignored most things since he had arrived here.

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,

   Went envying her and me—

Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,

   In this kingdom by the sea)

It was the only explanation he could think of for why destiny still had it out for him, for them, even after they had done the impossible. The wish was supposed to fix it, fix everything, fix him.

And it had, until everything fell apart.

That the wind came out of the cloud by night,

   Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

None of them could've prepared for Wojira and Kalmaar. They had been blindsided every step of the way, fumbled every advantage they had gained, and Jay could only watch helplessly as Nya floundered for some semblance of control in the situation.

He had worked his hardest to be there for her, to take some of the burden off of her shoulders. And it wasn't enough.

Why wasn't he ever enough?

Another bucket of water poured down the side. It splashed against the gray brick of the walls, turning it to a dark Marengo from its original slate. Jay couldn't stop himself from smashing the bucket against the wall with a scream, throwing it out into the open sea when it did nothing more than crack.

It floated to the surface but started to fill with water, the fluid rushing in through the crack he had given it, and Jay watched as the bucket sank beneath the waves.

Jay wanted to sink with it.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love

   Of those who were older than we—

   Of many far wiser than we—

There was a reason he kept spare buckets lined up against the other wall, already reaching for another to continue his penance. The stone was fractured from where Jay had slammed the metal, next to three other small gaps formed by the same action. Stepping down the stairs, ignoring the jolts his heavy footfalls sent up his legs, Jay finally let his mind wander away from his never-ending torment. He had heard a story once from Misako about a man forever doomed to push a boulder up a hill, only for it to fall back down every time.

Was his punishment any better than the man's because he wasn't bound to it? Or was he worse off because he never chose to stop?

Even love couldn't overcome every obstacle, it seemed.

And neither the angels in Heaven above

   Nor the demons down under the sea

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

Nya's face stared at him from the canvas as he made his final journey for the day, dumping the last load of seawater onto the rocks below. The sun had sunk behind the horizon hours ago, Jay navigating the way through the moonlight alone, as if he hadn't already memorized the route like the back of his hand.

Or hers.

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams

   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

He put his bucket down next to the still-made bed. He hadn't spent a single night in it. The moonlight washed over him as he lifted his face to the sky, taking a deep breath of the salty air before descending down the trapdoor. All of the light disappeared, and Jay made his way in near-complete darkness. His ninja sense told him just how close the edge was, how close he was to slipping and falling.

A small part of him whispered about what it might feel like, to slip and fall and crack his head open on the stone floor below; a large texture difference from the splintering wood under his bare feet. Maybe then he wouldn't dream of her anymore.

But Jay knew he would never let her go, no matter how many pieces he was in.

And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes

   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

Sometimes he swore that the ocean stared back at him whenever he was out here. Perhaps it was Nya watching him from afar, curious about the ragged man who insisted on staying outside and sleeping on the shore when he had a perfectly good and warm bed inside.

Jay laid down on the beach, feeling the sand make its way into his hair and every crevice of his clothing. It wasn't long before he felt the water wash over him, chilling him to the bone, and yet he couldn't bring himself to move.

Part of him wanted to go out farther, far enough to where he would be gasping for air with every wave that passed over his head.

Reaching out with a shaking hand, he scooped up some of the wet sand, bringing it closer to himself in a small pile. The water he had tried to hold on his first day of being here had fallen through his fingers, bringing tears to his eyes, but the sand had enough integrity to stay together long enough for the liquid to soak his hands.

And Jay cried as the waves washed away the pile, his sobs shaking his body as he gathered more of the material in a futile attempt to keep Nya close to him. No one was around to hear him scream in anguish every time the tide would surge forward and tear her away from him, and no matter how much Jay curled his body around the sand to protect it-

The ocean washed it away every time.

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side

   Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,

   In her sepulchre there by the sea—

   In her tomb by the sounding sea.

[woodblxssomcrowned]

cont from here

@kagami--uchiha

Kagami huffed a small laugh, eyes closed slightly as she gave that wound a quick once over. Of course it was nothing that particularly hurt, the Uchiha was used to worse wounds from fights and missions, oftentimes carrying himself home on the brink of consciousness. Still, he was positively surprised that Kaname did hit him so good. Kaname's footwork had improved since the last time they sparred, whcih was a handful of months ago since he had been sent on back to back missions, barely spanding two nights in the village before he departed again and now that he was in the village for at least 3 weeks, he would use all the time to socialize with the people he cherished. "If we are lucky?", Kagami flashed her a toothy grin, wich was both cheeky and challenging. "Now what will I do if I were to become bedridden from such an injury?" "I think the next time you would be ready for me to activate the Sharingan, eh?"

“Thanks for the head’s up, not that I needed it,” she smirks in response to his grin, as she reaches for her tool pouch and begins searching through its contents. They were seated in the grass, having taken cover in the shade of the tree line from the midday sun that started blazing down over the open area where they had sparred. “Don’t worry though-" she continues, ripping up a piece linen gauze she turned back to face him, carefully brushing away his unruly hair and folded it around the shell of his ear over the gash. "I would come visit you every day and make sure you’re being properly nursed back to health. I wouldn't dream of letting one of my favourite sparring partners fall ill if I can help it." Soaking the other piece of cloth in water from her canteen she started wiping her own blood from her face. Her nose didn’t hurt in any significant way, and it did not bleed anymore, but what she hadn't already rubbed off on her sleeve she could now feel drying up on her skin. She liked that he didn't hold back. She had asked him not to, and as far as she could tell he honored that request; if he landed a hit, he landed a hit, even if it meant leaving a nasty bruise or a splatter of blood. She was Senju. She could take it and much worse. However, anyone else might have been much more apprehensive at the idea of visibly harming her. Against anyone else, though, she would likely have won. Kaname was good, better than many, she knew that she was. But an Uchiha wasn't just anyone else, and Kagami wasn't just anyone else.

She leans back on one arm, sighing, letting adrenaline and pulse settle a bit. "Although, maybe it wouldn't be so bad for you to rest and recuperate when you finally have no missions for a bit, instead of sparring with me?"

[t0bywashere]

Remus Lupin understood from a very early age that love was conditional, while the other kids could rush crying to their parents for comfort he had to earn even a fraction of attention from his father. Love was not something that was easily given, not when it comes to Lyall Lupin.

Their house had never truly felt like home, it was more of a cold distant place where connections were never shown, feelings were never expressed, and love was never present. It only got worse when his mother, Hope, passed away. Lyall was struck with grief and locked himself away in his study, leaving a young Remus with only his muggle books for a companion.

Now more than ever, love had to be earned.

The sunlight bursted into the shack’s busted window, rudely awaking the young boy as he blinked away the sleep from his eyes. Very slowly Remus became aware of where he was, and then it all crashed down on him, the excruciating pain in his bones was very quickly making itself known. He barely had any time to take in his surroundings before he felt his consciousness slowly slipping away, the pain took its toll on his body and before Remus even realized it everything went dark.

“This isn’t fair,” that's all he could think, why out of all the people in the world was he chosen to carry such a heavy burden, all of his dreams and ambitions going down the drain because of his own father’s actions. Another moon, another day waking up in an empty shack after his friends departed as to not be discovered by the teachers. Another week of lying in the infirmary recovering from what the beast had done to his body, and yet Remus couldn’t even bring himself to blame his wolf when he knew this was his own doing. His own hatred led him to carve his claws into his face, tear into his skin, hoping that maybe he wouldn't wake up in the morning alone again.

But he does, as always no matter what he does it will all lead back to here. The empty cold shack. It's funny how much it reminds him of his house, his empty room, his fathers study.

When Remus feels sleep slip away from him for the second time he makes no effort to open his eyes, why bother when his body is still too weak to put up a fight against what the wolf, more like what he, did.

Then, he feels the touch of gentle yet calloused hands, slowly but meticulously touching his arm with the certainty of an expert. It feels so nice, so warm compared to the cold hard wooden floor, Remus lets himself melt into the touch, slowly feeling all tension fall from his limbs. That's when he hears the humming, a soft voice humming a little tune oh so quietly as the hands keep their steady work focused on his left arm. Remus knows that voice he's sure, yet his head hurts too much for him to try and remember who owns it.

“My boy.. Oh my sweet boy,” the voice whispers shakinly, as if it hurts to even say such a thing. Yet it feels so right to Remus, as if this is the way things are meant to be. The pain isn’t there anymore, only the itch from ace bandages against his skin and a spinning feeling in his head, but that didn’t bother him anymore, all his focus was on the soft hands as they moved across his body building him back up from scraps.

Slowly he dares to open his eyes only to be met with a familiar silhouette, long robes covering most of her skin and hair tied up in a tight bun, when their eyes met he notices her eyes filled with tears which are threatening to spill.

“..Poppy?” he mutters, voice almost gone from all the screaming he had done just the night before, the woman’s eyes softened as soon as she heard her name. “Hush now darling, you’re okay,” she sniffles, clearly trying to push back the tears in the presence of the young man.

Remus believed that, if Poppy said so then he really must be okay. With that last bit of hesitation left in his body was gone, he was like wax in her hands. Closing his eyes and focusing on the caring touch that had now moved to his legs Remus wondered if this is what love could feel like, warm and comforting with all his defenses dropped.

They both understood each other, Poppy never had children and Remus knew deep down he was her own version of a son. He can’t lie and pretend like she isn’t his mum, it would be a silly thing to even try and deny that as he lays here thriving under her gentle care. It was a very strange realization, to suddenly understand and experience the loving touch of a parent that has been missing his whole life. It didn’t hurt, he didn’t have to beg for it or earn it, she simply gave it.

Love had always been conditional to Remus Lupin, that is, until Poppy.

[keldae]

Fluff sentence starters :D “You have something in your hair - let me get it for you.”

There were fringe benefits to being friends with people in the theatre program, Xaja mused – like being invited along on field trips to see plays, and easily filling her volunteer hour requirements during production week. But there was a definite downside as well – and that was the day the main production's set came down after the last performance.

It was fine, she decided inwardly. It wasn't like she had two research papers and a personal reflection paper due in the next couple of days and didn't have time to be taking apart a set, right? She grunted as she crawled behind one of the main set walls, power drill in hand, and desperately hoping there were no spiders back here.

"Having fun yet?" The cast hadn't been spared the set strike chores either – but Arcann was entirely too cheerful a mood for someone who'd gotten bonked upside the head by a wardrobe rack fifteen minutes ago. He appeared to be on the same task as Xaja in taking apart the walls of the set.

"Oh, tons," Xaja responded, looking around for another screw in the bracket holding the set together. "How's the concussion?"

"Bah, I'm fine. Don't stand up." Arcann reached over, and Xaja heard the whirring of his own drill over her head. She sneezed as sawdust started to drift down in front of her eyes.

"Sorry," Arcann apologized. The drill stopped, and he fumbled with his prosthetic left hand with the screw before pocketing it. "Any more on that bracket down by you?"

"Yeah, two that I see." Xaja grunted as she shifted her weight, working to take apart the bracket. "Someone's on the other side of this, yeah?"

In response, Arcann peeked through the window built into the wall. "Hey, you might want to catch these walls," he called out, then waited a moment before nodding in satisfaction. "Yes, we're good. I think Professor Vowrawn recruited some help from outside the theatre department."

"Wonderful," Xaja grunted, inwardly wondering what the flamboyant theatre professor had done to lure in some more poor, unsuspecting souls. "Hopefully he brought 'em in from the sports teams."

Without looking up, she didn't see Arcann's mischievous grin. "They're warm bodies with muscles, they'll be fine," he said, then gave the wall a slight push. "Incoming!"

With a creak, the wall fell forward, caught by several pairs of hands. "Got it!" crowed a voice that immediately made Xaja's head jerk up. It was bad enough having a crush on the cute guy who lived across the dormitory hall from her, but if he saw her like this, in a grubby t-shirt and jeans, with dust all over her makeup-less face…

Dammit. That was Theron Shan, helping to carry the wall section away with Jonas and Koth's help. Maybe he hadn't seen Xaja in the chaos? But why did that prospect make her heart hurt just a little bit?

"You are about as subtle as an elephant," Arcann muttered, under the sound of Professor Vowrawn guiding the guys as to where he wanted the set wall placed; when Xaja glanced over, she could see him smirking, the gesture pulling at the scars over the left side of his face. "Liking checking him out?"

"I – what?" Xaja flushed as red as her hair. "I'm not checking Theron out!"

Arcann's grin widened. "I didn't say Theron…" he pointed out.

"... Fuck." Xaja groaned. "We're just friends, and I don't wanna wreck that." She glanced back over at Theron for a moment. "... Not my fault he's got a cute backside."

Arcann snorted a laugh, one that turned into a cough when Xaja glared at him. "Sorry, sorry… it's just hilarious to watch. I can put in a good word for you with him, if you want…"

"... I don't have a crush on him! And I don't need a wingman!" Xaja hissed. She firmly squashed the little voice in her head that wondered if Arcann's help might not be a bad idea. "He's not interested in me. If he was, he would have said something before now."

"... You two are perfect for each other," Arcann muttered under his breath.

"What was that?" Xaja demanded, suspiciously glaring at him.

"Nothing!" Arcann coughed again, then looked over. "Next wall will be easy, should only take two of you to catch."

"I like easy!" Jonas' cheerful voice piped up. When Xaja looked over, she saw him, Theron, and Koth all standing close by, Professor Vowrawn tittering over another piece of the set being taken down.

"Yeah, we know that," Theron dryly commented – Jonas promptly glared at him as Koth and Arcann burst into laughter. The taller student then looked back at Xaja, and winked at her. "Made friends with any spiders back there yet?"

Trying to not feel self-conscious about how she looked, Xaja shook her head and grinned. "If I had, you would have heard the screaming from the dean's office."

Theron chuckled, then paused. "Hang on, you have something in your hair," he said, as the set wall to Xaja's right came down, carried off by Jonas and Koth. "Lemme get it for you." He reached forward; Xaja froze as she felt his fingers brush through her long red hair, knocking more sawdust free of the tangled strands. "There – I think that's the worst of it."

"... Thanks," Xaja murmured, feeling her cheeks go warm again at Theron's gentle touch. What she wouldn't give to feel his hand in her hair again, combing his fingers through the red locks, gripping her head and pulling it back for a kiss, like what she enjoyed reading in the Tumblr smut that Kira teased her about…

Theron grinned, then dropped his hand, looking unsure as to what to do with his arm. "Yeah, don't mention it. Figured you wouldn't wanna go around with sawdust in your hair and–"

"Aww, well wasn't that a sweet gesture!" Professor Vowrawn swooped in, beaming like a proud parent. "You two make such a lovely couple!"

"I–!" Xaja stammered, looking at Theron for a second (who appeared to be wide-eyed with panic), then back at Vowrawn. "We're not–!"

"She's not–!" Theron exclaimed in the same breath. "We're just friends!"

Vowrawn didn't seem convinced. "Oh? A pity. I shall still expect you both to audition for the leading man and lady for our next production – the chemistry you two have is what every production strives for! Now, you'll need to practice before that audition, make sure you're set in your–"

"Professor!" Theron squawked. "I'm not an actor! Xaja and I are just friends!"

Vowrawn grinned. "Nonsense, Mister Shan! You two are very good friends, I take it? Very… close to each other–?"

"Not like that!" Xaja yelped, wishing she could melt into the stage floor – or glare holes into the professor's head. She could feel the rest of the strike crew staring at her and Theron. "We're just… that would be weird!" But a good weird, she silently thought to herself.

"What she said!" Theron emphatically agreed. "Why mess up a perfectly good friendship like that?"

Tsking, Vowrawn shook his head. "Well, if you two are certain, then your next task is to clean out the green room. Chop chop!" He briskly clapped his hands, dismissing the two victims of his torment – Xaja willingly took the chance to escape with Theron. And if it meant time spent with him, without anyone teasing her about her crush on him, so much the better.

Neither she nor Theron saw Vowrawn sashay over to Arcann and tap his shoulder. "I have a bit of an extra task for you, Mister Tirall."

"Yes, Professor?" Arcann asked, looking over at the Pureblood professor curiously.

"An extra ten percent added to your overall grade for my class this semester if you can set those two idiots up somehow."

Arcann grinned. Academic credit for fulfilling what he (and the rest of the dorm) considered to be a necessity? "Done."

[katblu42]

Bandit - FishTank week reblog

Another Wee Tracys fic. This time it's completely fluff inspired by (a prompt generated with the Wheel of Whump which gave me) the concept of "help eating" with a location of a "vent." It does fit today's FishTank Week theme though!

Note: I have no experience with these creatures, and no knowledge of housing construction (and a tendency to get very frustrated with researching stuff very quickly), so I apologise for any inaccuracies in those departments.

Bandit

At first he thought he was imagining it, but over the course of the last hour the little scratching noises had increased.  It was distracting him from his homework.  Something was inside his bedroom wall, he was sure of it.  Gordon wondered whether he should tell one of his brothers.  More specifically one of his older brothers.  Telling Alan would only get the kid excited and make rescuing whatever animal was stuck in the wall more difficult.

Scratch.  Scuffle, scratch, scrabble, scratch.

As quietly as he could, he slid the chair back from his desk, tip-toed to the wall and pressed his ear against it.  Nothing. He almost gave up, thinking perhaps whatever it was had gone somewhere else, or fallen asleep, then he heard a quiet swooshy movement – the kind his hand might make if he brushed it against the wall.  Scratch, scratch.  It was close now.  Low down, near the floor.  His eyes swept along the skirting board until he spotted the vent on the other side of his desk.

Hmm.  If he could get the vent open maybe he could spot the animal stuck in the wall and maybe even get it out.  On close inspection of the 8” by 6” vent cover he could see it was attached to the wall with 4 small screws.  He’d need tools.  And maybe snacks to encourage the animal to come out.  And maybe a box or something to put the creature in until he could relocate it outside.  Yep, he had a plan.  He darted out of the room to collect the items he needed.

Wham!  He darted straight into Virgil.

“Whoa!  Where’s the fire?”  Virgil caught hold of him by the shoulders, steadying him and making sure he was not about to hurt himself after bouncing off his bigger brother’s chest.

“Ooof!  Sorry, Virg.”  Gordon spoke almost at the same time, made sure his feet were solidly planted again and shrugged away from Virgil’s grip.  Curiosity and concern burned down at him from beneath raised eyebrows. He felt his own eyes betray him as he glanced back towards his room and back up to meet his brother’s gaze.

“What are you hiding in there?”

“Nothing, I swear!” Gordon put his hand over his heart. “It’s just … there’s a … I was just going to …”  He sighed – a physical thing involving his whole body – and his gaze fixed firmly on the floor for a moment.  When he finally looked back up at Virgil the familiar expression of patient calm he found there gave him the encouragement he needed.  “I think there’s an animal stuck in my wall and I need to get some stuff so I can see if I can rescue it.”

Virgil quirked an eyebrow. That was all it took.  Gordon knew he had an ally.  He showed Virgil the vent he wanted to open, described the noises he’d heard and waited impatiently with his bigger brother until they both heard the noises again.  Virgil agreed to help him open the vent, suggesting a box to catch the animal in was a must, but perhaps they should hold off on the snacks until they discovered what type of animal it was and therefore what it might eat, and whether it needed coaxing out of the wall space.

While Virgil went to collect the right type of screwdriver and a couple of other tools (just in case), Gordon prepared a makeshift animal carry box.  He dumped the dirty laundry out of the plastic laundry bin from the corner of his room.  Its sides were a kind of latticework that would ensure the animal could still breath when he placed the lid on top.  He lined the bottom of the bin with a few towels so the creature would be comfy.

Virgil returned with the tools and a flashlight.  Together they moved Gordon’s desk so they had more room to work around the vent. Virgil made short work of the removal of the first 2 screws.

“Get ready with that nest of yours, Gordon,” he said as he lined up the screwdriver on the third screw. “Hold it close to the wall, below the vent, just in case the cover swings loose and the animal makes a run for it.”

It was at that moment Gordon remembered Virgil had a fairly strong dislike of rats and mice.  The expression of grim determination on his brother’s face suggesting he was forcing himself to continue his task despite the fear made Gordon feel kind of proud of him.

The third screw was removed, but the vent cover stayed firmly in place.  Virgil moved on to the last screw and Gordon kept the re-purposed laundry bin in place. This last one proved difficult to remove, rusted in place. With a grunt from Virgil and a slight cracking sound the screw finally began to move, and within a few turns of the screwdriver was moving more freely.  Once all the screws were out Virgil had to use a flat bladed driver to prise the top of the vent cover free from the wall.  Before removing it all the way he glanced at his younger brother, who nodded in confirmation that he was ready.  The cover came off the vent and … nothing happened.

Gordon let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, and put the laundry basket nest down. The sudden release of tension in Virgil’s shoulders indicated his brother probably felt much the same way as he put the vent cover down, resting it against the wall.

“Let’s take a look,” Virgil suggested as he reached for the flashlight.  “See if we can see who’s in here, or something to show us what we might be dealing with.”

Gordon inched himself closer so he could see inside the vent as Virgil clicked on the flashlight and aimed it into the darkness.  The beam of light illuminated a small section of flexible ducting before it curved upward. Both brothers felt a little deflated at this result until they heard the scuffling noise close by.  Remaining silent and keeping the flashlight beam steady, they waited and were rewarded by the sudden appearance of a pair of eyes glowing back at them from a black, white and grey banded furry face.

“It’s a raccoon,” Virgil stated with an audible sigh of relief.  “It must have made a hole in the ducting there near the bend, look.”

As the little furry head disappeared again Gordon could just make out the ragged edges of the hole Virgil was trying to catch in the flashlight beam.  A frown creased his forehead as his attention turned to how they were going to get the little guy out.

“What are you thinking, Gordon?”

“Do you think Alan’s small enough to crawl in there and rescue Bandit?”

The look of horrified surprise on his big brother’s face, which quickly flickered through a glare in response to Gordon’s mischievous smile, before settling on mild confusion greatly amused the younger boy.

“You named the racoon Bandit?”

“Yep.”

“And you know Alan wouldn’t fit in there, and even if he did we would not be sending him in there after a wild animal.”  Virgil’s eye roll and head shake just amused Gordon more.

“I know, but it’s fun to see the faces you make when you think I’m being serious.”

“Ha ha.”  Virgil turned off the flashlight and shifted to a slightly more comfortable position, sitting back on his heels.  “We’re gonna need to figure out how to get this little guy – Bandit – out of there, and we’re gonna need to tell Dad about this.”

“We do?  Why?”

“Because Bandit is only a kit and that means his mom and the rest of his family could be in the house somewhere, probably in the attic.”

“Awww.”  Gordon’s features scrunched into his that’s-so-cute face.  “Mumma raccoon’s missing one of her babies.  We gotta get Bandit back to his family.”

“We have to get him out here first, Squid.”

“Snack time!”  Gordon stood up and was two steps towards the door faster than Virgil could react, then he suddenly stopped and turned back. “What do baby raccoons eat?”

Neither brother knew the answer to that question, so a quick internet search was carried out.  A trip to the kitchen was made and Gordon returned with two pairs of rubber gloves – because raccoons can carry rabies and it’s best to be as safe as possible – an old baby bottle with a little milk in it and a few different fruits and nuts.  They didn’t know whether Bandit had teeth yet or not, so the kit might not be ready for solid foods, but they also weren’t sure if cow’s milk would be suitable for a baby raccoon.

The first attempt at coaxing Bandit out of the vent involved placing a few berries and nuts as far into the ducting as Virgil could reach with the aim of attracting the little raccoon and then luring it out with a trail of food.  After a few minutes of waiting the scratching, scuffling noises were heard, a little black nose appeared through the hole in the ducting … then disappeared again.

Ten more minutes of waiting and no further activity passed before Gordon decided they should try some banana. He took prime position kneeling on the floor in front of the vent. Virgil moved over beside him aiming the flashlight, and holding the laundry bin nest at the ready.  Gordon held a few pieces of smooshy banana in his gloved fingertips and slowly stretched his arm as far into the vent as he could reach.  With his arm and the flashlight taking up most of the available opening he had to press his face up near the vent and look through one eye in order to see inside.

The two boys waited silently, listening for the tell-tale noises of movement within the wall cavity. It wasn’t long before Bandit made another appearance, the little black nose twitching as the kit cautiously emerged through the hole and tentatively advanced toward Gordon’s hand.  Gordon spoke words of encouragement to Bandit and tried to make coaxing “raccoon noises”.

“Come on, that’s it.” He made a few squeaky sucking noises through his teeth.  “Come get some yummy banana.”

The coaxing noises gave way to sounds Virgil recognised as Gordon’s too-excited-by-the-cute-animal-for-real-words vocalisations as Bandit began licking at Gordon’s gloved fingertips and making vocalisations of its own.  Each time the kit stopped licking Gordon inched his hand a little nearer to the exit of the vent and Bandit followed, drawn by the tantalising promise of more of the tasty fruit.  Bandit’s little paws tried to grab onto Gordon’s fingers, perhaps to stop them moving away, but the gradual progress towards the vent continued.

When Gordon had withdrawn his arm far enough for them to be able to see without the flashlight Virgil turned his attention to the prospect of containing the little critter.  He broke off a little more of the banana and placed it on the towels inside the laundry bin to encourage the kit inside.  Gordon was talking to Bandit again, softly, soothing, encouraging the kit to keep edging closer to the edge.  His hand was all the way out now, held just in front of the opening and Bandit’s head was tentatively peeking out into the room. The little nose still twitched, the tiny paws kept reaching out to hold fingers or bits of mushy banana.  Ever so slowly Gordon moved his other hand into position above the vent and while Bandit was busily focusing on the banana smeared hand he gently took hold of the kit and lifted him out.  Moving both hands in tandem, and with Virgil bringing the laundry bin close, Bandit was quickly transferred into the little nest. Gordon kept the hand with the food close to Bandit, moving it towards the banana pieces Virgil had placed in there. Soon Bandit was holding a piece of fruit in tiny paws and Gordon withdrew his hand altogether.

Making sure Bandit was as comfortable as possible the boys placed the lid firmly on the laundry bin, and shared a high five.  Now they just had to remove the fruit and nuts from the ducting, replace the vent cover, clean up the mess they’d made in Gordon’s room, tell their Dad about Bandit and the potential family of raccoons somewhere in the house, reunite Bandit with the rest of the family and safely re-home all the raccoons.  Should be easy, right?

[imightgetbetter]

i need some friendship advice….so my best friend is a bad texter (like really bad) she won’t reply for weeks and only responds when she’s at work (we work at the same place but different departments). I’ve talked to her about it and how it makes me feel like she doesn’t care about me or our friendship, it’s started to feel one sided. I’ve tried to not reach out as much and not answer her right away but i don’t know what to do anymore. I know she’s had bad days and can’t get out of bed but she prioritizes other things such as smoking weed and responding to a group chat we’re in. I just feel like i’m giving all of me and getting nothing in return. I don’t want to stop being her friend but I don’t know how much more I can give. I’ve tried to lower my expectations and tell myself to not rely on her for anything but I don’t have anyone else

hi friend. here are our thoughts:

bestie: Okay, this is going to come from someone who has 589 unopened text messages on their phone right now. So first off lemme start off with the simple fact that I HATE texting. The number one reason why being that I'd rather talk to someone and be able to actually fully focus on them and the conversation we're having vs texting them while I'm in the middle of my day having to focus on other tasks at hand. Examples being of running errands or dealing with craziness at work. I want the person I'm talking conversing to know that they have my attention, instead of me giving a lazy half-assed response because I'm pulling my phone out to message someone back while I'm in the middle of trying to make dinner or trying to problem solve at work. NOW, there is a second portion as to why I don't like texting and am so terrible at opening and responding. I am interacting with people and talking to people and around other people, about 14-18 hours a day give or take, and I am considered the extrovert out of our friends, but truly sometimes I just can't even try and force myself to socialize with people via a phone screen. I'll be honest and vulnerable on here and admit that I have been through some shit that has resulted in terrible episodes of depression and during these episodes, it is extremely hard to not only put on a fake smile and socialize with people at work because I literally have to in order to make money and pay bills, but to also do so during MY time with others. It doesn't matter if it's my best friend or a family member, somedays I really truly just can not respond to. I'm sorry you feel like the friendship is one-sided because I've also been in situations similar to yourself, and it hurts but sometimes you just have to stop and let them take care of themselves before you can mutually work on the friendship. Someone said something to me a long time ago and I've tried to carry it with me 'I can't care for or take care of others until I've taken care of myself.'. It almost sounds like that may be what your friend needs to do, take care of themselves and then work on the friendship with you. At the end of the day sadly you may lose a friend or become distant for a while, but I can guarantee that something good will come out of it. Whether that be that this friendship flourishes later down the road, or a new friendship happens with something else. The other thing to keep in mind is that sometimes we grow out of relationships and it can be difficult for one to express their thoughts or emotions to the other. My advice is to just have grace with this person, if you feel like a confrontation needs to happen for you to gain closure, great. If you feel like you need to just slowly let it fizzle out and end on its own, great. At the end of the day you are the only person who knows what it is that you need to do.

me: honestly, i am a really big communicator. i want to talk to my friends all the time, and the reason bestie and i talk so much is mainly because we live together, but before that, we had to make facetimes work and whatnot because she hates texting. i have a lot of friends that don't text, and it took me a very long time to figure out how to come to terms with the fact that everyone is a different communicator. but that's really what it comes down to. everyone communicates differently and you may need more communication. there have been people where i've said, this hurts me! i wish we talked more! and they express that they can't speak or they don't have the energy or whatever the case may be, and that doesn't mean they don't care (not playing devil's advocate but, this is my experience), they just can't right now. i think what you really need to do is take a step back and think about what you want in your friendships and what you can give! you can't give all of you, baby. you deserve to have that effort given back to you, and you will find people that do that. i have so many different friends now! friends i talk to every day, friends i talk to once a month. they're still your friend if they invest in you, but some people just can't invest every single day. i genuinely want the best for you and i think you are so sweet and you deserve to have all the best things with your friendships. i think maybe taking a step back and sitting with yourself and understanding what you can and cannot take is important here. self-reflection and understanding is the best thing you can give yourself at this time.

[reservoirreputation]

Dimples, Chapter Four

Freddy

“I’m a cop.”

“I know, we met several months ago.”

Marvin Nash is unhurt, in one piece. They’re both in uniform, Freddy on the ramp, Marvin in his chair. Blonde lingers in the background, munching on his burger.

“My name is Freddy Newandyke.”

“Rat.” Blonde says around a mouthful of food.

“Marvin Nash.” the guy looks younger than Freddy. He’s been on the force for less than a year.

“Why aren’t they coming in?” Freddy asks.

“They’re waiting for Joe Cabot.” Marvin replies.

Freddy screams out, “What’s their problem?! I’M DYING HERE!”

“Rat’s nothing compared to a fat cat.” Blonde takes a sip from his cup.

“My name is Freddy Newandyke.”

“I know, I recognized you.”

“I’m sorry. Larry. I’m a cop.”

Marvin just stares at him.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Where is backup?” Marvin asks.

“They’re waiting for Joe Cabot.” Freddy sobs. He just wants it to be over.

“They’re close, and won’t stop this?”

“Didn’t seem to care about protocol back at the store.” Blonde finishes his burger.

“Larry, I’m a cop. I’m sorry.”

“Looks like we’ll be put away for a while, kid.” Marvin says, as gasoline is splashed on his body, Blonde leading the trail to some feet away.

Freddy Newandyke opens his eyes. Slowly, blinding lights receding. A hospital room. A dry-erase board tacked up on the wall. Scribbles in marker. A small TV mounted in the corner of the room. A daytime soap is on.

He looks down. He’s the one in the bed. Wires, needles sticking out of his arms. He realizes he’s sore. At a snail’s pace, he manages to lift his arm. He has to know if the dream carried over. A minute later, he’s gripped the hospital sheet, then starts the same process with his gown. After a few frustrating moments, he gets the edge of the gown out from under his back. Two ugly wounds greet him; they’re freshly sewn, the skin angry and red. The surrounding flesh is a mottled fusion of purple and green. He drops the fabric.

A nurse comes in. She sees he’s awake, and turns right back around. A doctor soon takes her place.

“Mr. Newandyke?” he asks, “Please blink if you can hear me.”

Freddy realizes he has a tube down his throat. He blinks.

“Good.” the doc smiles, “I know you’re tired, but I have to tell you some things.”

He describes with surgeon’s pride about how Freddy’s patch-up went. The blood transfusion was a top priority. Some internal bleeding in two places, successfully stopped. Inactivity for a few weeks, then physical therapy, was the best course. He’s especially excited about the face.

“Your department called in one of the best plastic surgeons in the country. Hid the points of impact really well.”

Freddy wants to cry. His eyes feel too dry. He’s too tired. His heart’s breaking. He’s been reduced to contradictions.

“Some follow up with a dentist is needed, but the teeth shards have been removed.”

Freddy feels the cold steel against his cheek, a phantom touch.

“All the work, and this has really healed the best, so far, is concealed behind two dimples. They don’t match, of course, but most people will never know.”

Freddy’s Mom visits him next. She’s all weepy, and he feels uncomfortable. She never wanted him to be a cop. Said it was too dangerous. Now, her worst fears are confirmed. Well, not the worst.

Mom talks, Freddy doesn’t really listen. He can’t focus on anything for too long. When he does look at her face, however, he can tell she’s not looking him in the eyes. She’s staring at his dimples, the ones she knows she didn’t give him.

‘-most people will never know.’

“You can quit your job if you want.” she says, “Don’t know how they can let you back out there, at this point.” she says, “Not even a desk job. Don’t give them a reason to call on you.” she says, “I’m glad your father’s not here to see this.” she says, “Maybe you can get back in touch with Wendy? From college, you know? Someone your own age could be good for you.” she says, “Between you and me, she was real sweet on you.”

When Mom leaves for the day, Freddy finally relaxes. His head hurts, and a nurse comes in with a dose of the good stuff. He sleeps.

He thinks it’s the next day. Freddy squints at the board, but can’t read the date. After his tube’s taken out, he’s allowed some liquids. Soon after, Holdaway shows up.

“Hey kid.” he smiles. Holdaway’s a good coach, but a bad student. Like Mom, he can’t meet Freddy’s eyes. “They did real good work on you, I hear.”

Freddy’s congratulated on simultaneously doing, fucking up, and surviving the job. Great job hanging in there, really great poker-face, thanks for not dying too soon. Marvin’s not your fault, don’t beat yourself up about it.

Holdaway stays as his and Freddy’s superiors file in. Freddy can’t talk yet, and it’s time for the interview. Basic hellos, intros, thank yous, we’re proud of yous. Someone hands him a dry-erase board, like you’d get in school, and a marker. “We need your statement as soon as possible.”

Freddy stares out at the sea of faces, of people he’s known for years. The names on his annual review forms, his paychecks, don’t come to mind. All he can think is ‘Larry’.

“What happened at the jewelry store?”

Freddy glances at the small board, the marker that feels foreign in his hand.

“Guess we’ll keep it strictly to ‘yes’ or ‘no’ questions, for now.”

Freddy thinks, ‘You fucked up. My backup fucked up.’ He writes ‘Blonde’. The penmanship is crude, bringing him back to kindergarten, where the first order of business was to learn to write your name.

“Who killed the jewelry customers? The employees?”

Freddy points to ‘Blonde’.

“We have five dead uniforms. Who killed them?”

Freddy points, yet again, to Blonde. That raises a few eyebrows.

Freddy’s writing in the space below, ‘Who’s alive?’

“Yourself, Larry, and Pink.” Photos are shown. Freddy doesn’t even register Pink’s real name, and he doesn’t think he ever will. Pink fits too well. But, there’s something nice about knowing that Larry told him the truth. It’s now that it dawns on Freddy, whose mind is like that of a computer, slowly catching up, that he thinks, ‘Larry’s alive’. He’s both relieved, damn near happy, and also deeply regretful. His stomach hurts, and not from his wounds.

“How many did Pink kill?”

Freddy recalls White and Pink talking about killing real people or cops. He thinks Pink said a couple. Freddy writes a nice, big zero.

More eyebrows go up.

If Larry’s to get out of this, Pink needs to get out of this. If Freddy only works on saving one, the other will surely get pissed. If he covers for both, and the others keep their mouths shut, it might not be so bad.

“How many did Larry kill?”

The image of White’s twin pistols is crystal clear in Freddy’s mind. He doesn’t move. The answer’s already there.

“Larry tried to kill you.”

And there’s the hole in the plan. Well, shit. Freddy could write a sad account about how he’d actually deserved it, or he could wait.

“Who killed Marvin Nash?”

Freddy scribbles Eddie’s name. It takes everything not to lead off with ‘Nice Guy’.

“Who killed the driver?”

Oh, this. This one. That entire ordeal was muscle memory. Freddy would take it back, if he could. Thought his dying was the fair trade-off.

He points to himself. Then he points to his stomach. Everyone in the room tenses up.

“It was just an accident, right kid?” Holdaway’s asking before anyone can stop him.

“Who shot first?”

He writes, ‘She.’

“Self defense, muscle memory, years of training.” Holdaway sounds like he’s trying to convince himself of it just as much as he is everyone else. “Heat of the moment, in character-”

“Detective, please.” One of the nameless suits collects himself, “We know you’re covering for them. You’ve been on the job too long, formed a connection. Who killed the driver?”

Freddy gestures to himself. It’ll take him ages, but he’ll make a written confession if he has to.

“Larry and Pink killed people, our people, and that civilian.”

Freddy hears the click of the lightbulb going off in his head. He would grin if he could. He picks up the marker, shakily making his point, or more accurately, his terms, clear. ‘If Pink/White killed, I killed.’

It’s a gamble, to say the least. Outside this hospital, a PR nightmare is unfolding, and Freddy knows it. Multiple police and civilians killed, wounded, one of the few survivors is his baby face. He’s being lined up for awards and accolades, at this very moment. It’d be a shame if this story of justice triumphing over organized crime were ruined by an overworked cop, in over his head, sent into the lion’s den, killing someone.

He’s got these fuckers by the balls, and they know it.

“And Larry shooting you? Or are you going to say the officers on the scene need their eyes checked?”

Freddy writes, being intentionally vague, ‘My fault.’

“You shot him first?”

Oh, he knows this will annoy them. Better yet, it was the truth. Freddy shakes his head, resolutely pointing at his answer.

The amount of visitors he gets dramatically decreases after that. Between feeling sorry for himself, and then hating himself, Freddy has just enough ego leftover for pride. Things will never be the same, but he can pay Larry and Pink back. If not, he’ll be thrown in jail with them. Either way, Freddy will pay.

It’s early in the morning, LAPD headquarters transitioning between night and day shifts. Freddy is called first thing into his supervisor’s office with no details.

Left waiting in a chair facing an empty desk, Freddy wonders if he’s screwed up, somewhere. Why were they making him wait, and what for? It’s several more minutes before he gets an answer.

The police chief walks in, and doesn’t even look at Freddy until he’s sat down. Once he meets his eyes, the chief gives him a thin smile. “Officer Newandyke, what do you say to trying undercover work?”

Freddy thinks he should breathe a sigh of relief, but doesn’t; one sentence out of his superior’s mouth and it already sounds like a punishment. “I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it, before.”

The man launches into his pitch, making it seem like it never mattered what Freddy said, “You have a great record, a sharp mind, and look… youthful.” His smile is strained, “We have plenty of other experienced people, yes, but eventually, some faces become too familiar, recognizable. A fresh face,” he gestures, “like yours, could be a great addition to some of our most important work.”

Freddy knows better, “Who all said no?”

The chief’s face gives nothing away, “Not everyone is ready for the commitment of undercover work, but those who are are also drawn to its benefits;” he lists them off on his hand, “Less time in the office, no time patrolling, significant pay bump, and a temporary place of residence, paid for by the department.”

“And catching bad guys, right? Getting to know them, up close.”

The man practically takes it as a ‘yes’. “I knew you’d see the appeal.”

“Sir, I haven’t agreed to anything yet.” Freddy pauses, “Give me to the end of today?”

“Of course.”

“Can I tell my Mom? She’s all I got.” he shrugs, “I should probably give her a head’s up, if I’m gonna drop off the face of the earth.”

A moment of hesitation, “Say it’s a temporary transfer, you’ll be too busy.”

“If I take the job.”

For his lunchbreak, Freddy turns over his options, examining the facets of this D20 of a proposition. Less time in the office was the most appealing, because everybody in the department was a dick. The danger, well, he guesses he’s already signed up for that as a cop. That pay bump better damn-well be worth it.

“Could be nice, to be someone else.” he mutters out loud to his near-empty car.

Would allow a lot of freedom. An opportunity to explore a side of himself that has long been denied.

Freddy knew he wanted to be a cop since forever, and had conducted himself, accordingly; a straight-laced goody two shoes. He never got detention. Always kept his nose clean. When the other kids were doing fun and stupid teen shit, he was at home, doing schoolwork. Even in college, he waited until he was exactly the legal age to start drinking. That he couldn’t give any police department a reason to not hire him. Sadly, despite all these sacrifices to his middle school, high school and college reputation, Freddy found out the hard way that he was the only trainee in his class that gave a shit. One of the scant few that didn’t have a sketchy past, that clearly carried over to a sketchy present. His ideals of a fair judicial system were shattered, long ago. Freddy is just too stupid and/or stubborn to quit. He feels dissatisfied with his path in life and wasted time and wants for a rebellious phase that he withheld from himself. Undercover work looks like a goddamn vacation, at this point, or more accurately, a quarter-life crisis.

He rings up his Mom and tells her the news; he’ll be transferring to a different location, all temporary, and would be too busy to be in touch. She promptly chews his ear off at that, and he grants her one phone call every two weeks. If the chief doesn’t like it, he can take it up with Mrs. Newandyke.

Freddy’s first day back at work is as pitiful as he figured it would be. So many ‘get better soon’s, endless staring, asking to see his scars. And the officers that weren’t enamored were all exclusively senior personnel; they knew about Freddy’s terms. He gets the cold shoulder from them.

For the most part, however, Freddy’s working a desk job. His physical therapist recommended light activity, nothing strenuous. Essentially, Freddy was back to his goffer days. He would get people coffee, make them copies, act as messenger when someone’s tied up at their desk. After the first week, the requests get more ambitious. One day, he’s asked to drop some evidence off in storage.

The storage room is further than anywhere else, down in the basement. You sign in, describe what you’re dropping off, do the deed, sign back out. Simple, routine. Only one person works down here as guard. It’s a sleepy job, what with the lights kept low, just to save money, and the complete lack of interaction with others. The place is a little spooky, too; the gate’s shut and locked behind you; shelves upon shelves of the weirdest shit that gets wrapped up in a crime; you can easily get lost down here, which most people did. There was also getting ‘lost’.

As Freddy navigates his way through the cramped environment, he wonders how often other cops come down here. He wonders how many are sampling the narcotics left behind during big stings, or who samples the little baggies found during traffic stops. A lot of them do it, and it was always more than you thought.

Freddy thinks back to when he believed the police were the good guys. That they upheld the law, protected the innocent, like modern day knights. As he learned more and more about the bad, the corruption, the abuse of power, the assumptions made in the line of duty, the more Freddy desperately held onto the notion that that was a tiny portion of the force. But, you’d have to be a fool to look at the LAPD, ignore their well-documented issues, and say ‘there’s nothing wrong, here’. Freddy had spent so much time in training, wanting to do good, to make a difference, that he guesses he got stubborn. That he, all by his lonesome, could change a system even more stubborn than him.

Out of the corner of his eye, Freddy spots a plastic bag. There’s a shit ton of diamonds in it, the date of the failed heist printed on the outside. “Well I’ll be goddamned.”

He knows the security cameras there are for show. Anything recorded, people just look the other way. His mouth is dry. All that fuss, all that death, and the reason, the goal, is barely a foot away.

Freddy finishes his job.

He signs out.

They’re having a drink at a different bar. Orange can’t remember what it’s called, between the rum and coke in his hand, and how high he is on White. The guy is just so cool, both in that effortless way that can only come with age, and that cringe way when you’re desperately trying to impress somebody. It makes him giddy, knowing he’s so wanted that another person would make a fool of themselves. The logic and sense as to why he’s here are far off with his sober self, and Orange just lives.

Encroaching on this moment is a guy in the background. He’s talking to this woman, who’s getting more and more pissed with every second. It annoys him, because that’s Freddy who sees this stuff, Officer Newandyke who is situationally aware. She throws her drink into the guy’s face, storming off. Even White turns around to look, as does the rest of the place. The dude ignores them, ordering a fresh drink for himself, wiping his face off with his shirt.

“He’s gonna stay a problem.” White offhandedly remarks, turning his attention forward.

The bartender tries to deny the guy’s request, which makes him angrier. “Just give me another!” his voice raises. It’s still a no. He looks around, asks the nearest patron, “Can you believe this guy?” The patron doesn’t meet his eyes. He searches for someone to back him up, which quickly devolves into looking for someone to blame. Orange has the misfortune of meeting the guy’s gaze.

“What are you looking at, punk?” It’s only a few seconds, which for some people is too long for their fuses, “This your boy?” White’s suddenly up, creating a barrier between the two. “Tell him to keep his eyes to himself.”

“Meant nothin’ by it, man. We’re just here for a good time.” White says in that way that makes you tense, because it’s a mask of calm over someone who’s more than happy to indulge in violence.

“Oh, I bet you are.” Freddy recognizes the tone. He instantly sobers up.

“Everybody here wants to get wasted, stumble home, and nurse a hangover tomorrow morning.” White smiles, and it’s the scariest fucking thing Freddy’s ever seen.

“I don’t need to be sneered at by some fairy and his old man.”

White laughs, “I know I’m old, no need to rub it in.” He starts backing the guy up, “Hey, if you want a drink so badly, I might be able to convince the bartender, there.” White looks over and sees the bartender all but nod in agreement.

Freddy grasps an empty beer bottle from the start of their night, subtle to not tip the guy off.

“I don’t need favors from someone like you.” He’s staring at White, forgetting all about Freddy. “Never know what you might catch.” he sees him go for something in his pocket, and Freddy is closing the distance in seconds. A solid thunk to the guy’s skull, without the glass ever breaking, makes him stumble. “Fucking hell-” his mouth’s bloody.

Freddy sees red. Orange kicks the shit out of the guys ribs. Again, and again. White’s dragging him off, and Freddy tries to get on the ground, ruin this fucker’s face for life-

“We’re done! He’s done. Let’s go.”

They’re outside the building in the blink of an eye. Orange is still high on the fight, if you could call it that. White looks pissed. Orange doesn’t care. He kicks a stray beer can, sending it into the middle of the street. He storms off.

“What the fuck was that?” White trails behind.

“Like you weren’t ready to snap.” Orange spins around, pointing his finger at the other, “I was watching you. I saved your skin. That fucker was about to pull something on you, and I had your back.”

“We’re supposed to lay low. That bartender will have to call the cops to scrape that guy off the ground. Now they’ve got a description.”

“Right, I’ll just let you get stabbed next time.”

“Well, why the fuck were you eyeing the guy up?”

“Prick had just lost his girl for the night and wanted to blame anyone but himself. I was just there.”

“You were sure taking it personally.”

“No shit?” he laughs, “What gave you that impression? What tipped you off? When’d ya put two and two together?”

“Okay-”

“No!” he turns away, “It’s not.” he says a little quieter. He finds himself at the entrance to an alley, has slowed to a walk.

“It’s okay, kid.” he feels a hand on his shoulder, “I’ve been there before. I know you had my back.”

He hides his face, trying to conceal the tears that seep through his fingers. He’s pulled into a hug, a hug of all things, and just silently weeps.

“The name’s Larry.”

It takes him a second to register that. “Why?”

“My parents decided, I suppose.”

“Shut the fuck up.” He half-laughs, half-sobs, “I’m not supposed to know that.”

“Fair exchange. Just look at it like that.”

“It really isn’t-” Orange looks up, and Larry- he could get used to that- cradles his face. He practically melts under the touch.

“After the job, if you want.” It’s multi-layered, and he knows it. It’s also the moment Freddy knows that he’s gone on Larry, completely.

It’s another week later when Freddy’s unspoken grace period runs out. The cops are no longer cordial, hardly look at him when they bark orders, and the stares are no longer overt, and are now accompanied by whispers. The senior cops must be getting to the rookies, because soon Freddy feels iced out. The cherry on top is when his locker has a note slipped in it. It’s the end of his shift, he’s grabbing his shit to take home, and there’s this piece of paper that’s laying at the bottom. Freddy unfolds it, and reads, in crude, blue pen:

‘DYKE IS A FAG!!’

Freddy would give credit for the creativity, if he hadn’t already seen hundreds of these exact notes going back to middle school. It’s sad, but a sort of distant ache, which is how most of his problems feel, these days. Hard to compare to a gut wound that went untreated for hours. It certainly didn’t hold a candle to his duffel-sized emotional baggage.

He thinks back to the first meeting, all the crew together. About how Mr. Pink wanted to be Purple, and Joe put the guy in his place.

“Guess I should’ve been Mr. Pink.” Freddy crumples the paper, tosses it in the trash, where it shares the fate of every other bigoted note he’s ever gotten.

Freddy comes home, face burning. He has a note from his seventh grade teacher that he needs to give to his parents. His Dad’s at the table, reading the back-half of that day’s paper. Without Freddy having to say a word, he looks up, “What’s wrong?”

Freddy holds out the note. Inside is his teacher recounting another student bullying Freddy, calling him awful things. His dad opens it, reads carefully, “This kid pushed you to the ground?”

Freddy nods tearfully, showing the palms of his scraped hands.

“Did you fight back?”

Freddy’s eyes go wide. “No.”

“Only way stuff like this stops is when you show you’re not gonna take it.” Dad explains, “With things like this, words like these, they’re marking you for death. If not the kid themselves, then their bigot of a parent that doesn’t want you around them.”

His Mom disagrees, later on, but only about half, “You shouldn’t resort to fighting unless you have to.” She takes a rag and wipes the tears away from his face, gently holding his now-bandaged hands, “Try talking it out, first; words are more powerful than you think.”

The next day at school, Freddy tells this bully some lame joke. It’s something that’s dumb as an adult, but is peak comedy to a middle-schooler. The kid laughs, and Freddy’s left alone from that day on. Mom is so proud to hear about how he’s handled the situation, handled himself. His Dad begrudgingly agrees, and all is right with the world.

Less than a month later, his Dad dies on his way to work. Head-on collision with the other driver going the wrong way on the the highway. His mother is devastated, all but wants to cover Freddy in bubble wrap for the rest of his life, but will settle for his childhood. Freddy supposes he should be mad; the child psychologist said it was normal to be resentful of the other driver. Freddy couldn’t really see a point in it; the other driver, the one who for some reason took his Dad’s life, is dead. How can you be mad at a corpse?

On the weekend, Mom likes to visit. She travels down to LA, swings by his shitty apartment (even smaller than the one the force had been paying for), cooks him a homemade meal that doesn’t really hold up because of the tools at hand, and she continues in her ultimate quest:

To get Freddy to move back in with her.

“You’re not happy.” she’s decided, “You’re certainly not safe.”

“Police work was never meant to be safe.” he says, eating off of a paper plate.

“You should never have been in that much danger.”

He knows she’s just worried about him. She couldn’t get down there in-person for hours, but when she did, no one wanted to tell her anything. Those that did tried to soften the graphic nature of his injuries, but he knows Mom saw right through that. It probably made her even more afraid.

He’s not responded to her, so Mom naturally continues, “San Francisco’s real pretty this time of the year.”

Freddy continues to eat. He can’t tell her why he wants to stay here so badly. He’d sound insane. ‘Gotta make sure the violent criminals I was snitching on don’t face too many consequences.’

“I talked to Wendy.” she says, “She said to get better, soon.”

Freddy merely grunts in reply. Wendy, one of the few girls he thought he had a crush on. Who seemed so hurt when they both got wasted one night and tried fooling around. Mind you, Freddy was so drunk that someone who fit his preferences to a T couldn’t get him up, but poor Wendy never stood a chance. Blamed herself. Freddy thought about the cliche ‘it’s not you, it’s me’, but then he’d actually have to explain. They tried remaining friends throughout college, but the whole thing really hurt her self-esteem. But what else was he gonna do? Make her feel better with the truth, just to open himself up to hate crimes? Dorm walls were thin, roommates nosey. Last he heard, she’d gotten with a guy that treated her like she was the world, only to turn around and be a dick.

Freddy only registers Mom saying “… and she’s coming by next week.” Almost makes him choke.

“That’s nice.” he recovers, “It’ll be good to see her. Maybe I’ll have the time.”

After Mom leaves, Freddy picks up a business card from the small table next to the front door. He had to pull some strings, and it meant showing part of his hand, but he needed to get in touch with the lawyer as soon as he could. He dials, waits.

“Law office of Smith and Keats, how may I help you?”

Freddy knew Mom might do this; promise that it’ll be a dinner for three, and then bail last minute. Sudden change of plans, but she just happened to have time to make dinner, and leave it in the oven. Freddy didn’t say no, and only has himself to blame. He’s trying to make himself up, nice dress shirt, clean shave. He’d tried growing his beard out, to hopefully eventually hide the scars, but his facial hair was always too thin. The scar tissue also didn’t grow hair anymore, and the whole thing just brought too much attention. He grabs some gel, slicks back his hair, and starts to comb-

-and feels Larry’s hand cradling his face, brushing his hair away. Trying to make him smile-

A clatter of plastic on porcelain. Freddy turns away from the mirror. He strips off his shirt, dips his head under the shower’s stream. Nothing fancy with the hair, just towel-dry it.

Soon, his unofficial date arrives. Wendy gives a smile, “Hi.” she brightly says, showing off her pearly whites.

Freddy tries to return it, and is horrified that he forgot his caps. He gives a tight-lipped smile, “Excuse me.” and dips back into the bathroom. He wasted time on his hair earlier, and forgot about his molar caps. Eight of those fuckers total, minus wisdom teeth, ‘cause who needs ‘em?

Popped in, he checks out his smile; like nothing ever happened, the dentist said. No one would know.

He steps back out, and tries to summon the charm that once came so easily. “Mom couldn’t make it.”

“A shame.” she nods, on the same page.

“Want some roast beef?”

“Just that?”

“Well, there’s sides, too.” He gestures to the covered containers on the counter, “Instant potatoes, green beans, from a can.”

“Fancy.”

“And bread rolls, fresh-baked today in someone else’s oven.”

“And I’m guessing there’s just enough for two people?”

“Funny how that works out.” his smile is more natural. He’s reminded why he and Wendy became friends in the first place. “Help yourself.”

Dinner involves catching up, and Freddy encourages Wendy to take center stage; there’s been enough about him in the papers, what’s going on with her?

Wendy had studied in forensic science. She works the department up in San Fran. Lab techs and field cops were two different breeds; You didn’t hear about the white coats making the force look bad. Anything goes wrong with the science, usually means an officer screwed up, contaminated the evidence. Sometimes good forensics was what really put someone away, and that made the beat cops jealous from time-to-time.

Personally, she’d been in and out of shitty relationships. She would find someone that satisfied her, only for the greedy bastard to get his rocks off somewhere else. Wendy felt she was never enough. Hadn’t dated anyone in a good five years.

Freddy raises a beer, “Single looks good on you.”

Wendy holds up her own, “To being happy with yourself.”

He didn’t think it’d turn into that. He goes along with it, half-heartedly. The swallow that follows is strangely flavorless.

“And how’s it going for you? You were never much of a dating kind of guy.”

“I still don’t.” Well, that was tacky.

Wendy takes it in stride, “Hard to if we wanted to, with jobs like ours.”

Freddy’s trying to decipher that; she knows they can’t go out because of their jobs as officer and lab tech, or that dating’s hard for those in their profession? He doesn’t wanna lead her on, but doesn’t want to be rude. She could find a guy that’s good enough for her, one day. Throwing her off his scent shouldn’t involve being a total twat.

“Sheesh, didn’t mean to spook ya.” she gives a light chuckle, “I know that’s not… not for us.” she sighs, “The kicker is, you’re the best listener I’ve ever known. You actually let me talk.” she smiles sadly, “We can stick to friends.”

Freddy’s relieved, but not completely relaxed. He’s glad to know where Wendy’s expectations are, but feels like he’s wasting her time.

“How’s work been?”

He’s only been back at the office for about a week, “Slow.”

“A real let down, after that undercover gig?”

It’s the first she’s broached the subject. “A welcome change.”

“I could never do something like that.” she shakes her head. He knows what’s coming; she’ll say he’s stronger than most people, and that not everyone can be so good at deception, which is never the compliment people think it is. “I’d crumble under the pressure. To be someone I’m not?” she gives a small grin, “I’d be better off acting. Less likely to run into the wrong crowd.”

“It’s not that hard.” he says. Freddy doesn’t know where it comes from, “Your cover story should be a natural extension of yourself. And if it isn’t already, you make it that way.”

“Didn’t know Holdaway was joining us for drinks.” it’s jovial, a smidge annoyed. Everything had been casual, even between work-talk, and Freddy just spits out something from the handbook.

“You-” he pauses, “you look at it like it’s an AU of yourself.”

“An AU?”

“Alternate Universe, multiverse.” he blushes, “Comic book shit.”

“Oh.” she nods, “I don’t get it.”

“There’s our world.” He points to her beer bottle, “and then there’s a parallel world.” he tears the label off his own beer. “Same major elements, one minor difference. It sets off a domino effect of change.”

“Okay.”

“So, I just imagine I’m me, but in a different world. I had a different background, upbringing, interests. But some things remain the same.”

“Like what?”

Like being queer, “Enjoying comic books.” he lays back into the couch cushion, “Freddy and Orange got that in common.”

She wrinkles her nose at that. Going third-person made it too weird. “You really think you’d be a crook in another world?”

“I was, Wendy.”

“Not your cover. I mean you.” she reaches out, finds his hand. It isn’t romantic, it’s more out of concern, “You think there’s a you that’s a bad person?”

He tries defusing the situation, “At least it makes for good comic books.”

“You ever think of going to a therapist? To make all this a little easier?”

Freddy frowns, “I’ve kinda maxed out my health insurance for the year.” It’s honest, even supposed to be a bit funny, but it just brings tears to Wendy’s eyes.

“The force can’t cover that?” her voice raises. She sounds like she’s ready to wage war on LAPD headquarters, “It’s because of them that you’re even here.”

He’s such a fucking comedian. Freddy’s even beginning to think it’s a defense mechanism, “They paid for the last apartment, this one’s on my dime.”

She barks out a laugh, hiding her face with her hands, “Jesus Christ, do you hear yourself?” she wipes away tears, her face torn between being annoyed with him, and being annoyed with Freddy’s superiors. “Maybe you should get out of LA.”

He doesn’t say anything about that being Mom’s idea, how Wendy might have just come by tonight to further Mom’s agenda, or act catty in any kind of way. “Maybe that is the problem. A change of scenery could do me good.” Freddy’s saying it because he believes it. “I have some unfinished business here.” he starts, “It’d be best to stay local until it’s done.”

“The trial?” she sniffs, dabbing her eyes with a tissue.

“I-,” his mouth shuts. What’s the point? She’s bound to find out in the papers, soon. “I’m the star witness.”

{Next chapter}

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[azeez-unv]

EDUCATION DEPARTMENT ASKS SCHOOLS TO DISPLAY SAFETY PLEDGE

SCHOOL SAFETY PLEDGE

We the teachers, parents and students pledge to ensure that our school is a safe, secure and happy place for all

We pledge to support the Head of the school who shall:

1. Leave the school building at the end of the school day only after ensuring that no child is left behind inside or outside the school premises.

2. Ensure that students, teachers and staff stay back in school for various activities only with his/her permission.

3. Meet and interact with all students and teachers regularly and at least once a week.

4. Ensure that teachers are sensitive to the needs and concerns of students, especially those in the primary classes.

5. Create a healthy, clean and non-threatening environment and curb bullying.

6. Carry out evacuation drills regularly.

7. Maintain a suggestion/POCSO box and check the comments shared by students regularly.

➖➖➖➖➖➖➖

ELEMENTARY SCHOOL

I will help to make my school a safe place for everyone

I will tell a trusted adult if someone or something makes me or another person else feel unsafe.

I will tell a trusted adult if a person brings something to school that could hurt someone else.

I will treat others with kindness and respect.

I will not bully, tease, or hurt anyone with my words or actions.

I will tell a trusted adult if I see someone bullying, teasing, or hurting another person with their words or actions

Student Signature:

Parent/Guardian Signature:

Date:

(Parents/guardians help your student identify trusted adults that they can talk to)

➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖

PARENTS/GUARDIANS

Recognizing the important role that a parent or guardian plays in helping to maintain a safe learning environment at school, I hereby pledge that:

I will demonstrate respect for others and encourage discussion about the importance of tolerance towards those who have different beliefs from our own.

I will take positive action against violence directed at any person, or any physical or verbal abuse based upon race, creed, gender, or any other characteristic.

I will support violence prevention and safety promotion strategies in the schools and

communities in my area.

I will help the school develop programs to prevent and eliminate violence.

I will support the school's policies on guns and weapons and focus upon the responsibilities we all have when dealing with guns and weapons.

I will take seriously any reports of weapons or violence at school,

I will immediately contact the school if my child tells me about any bullying activity, including inappropriate use of technology

I will model and encourage positive conflict management skills.

I will discuss with my child the need for vigilance in the steps taken when reporting a

suspicious incident.

I will be a positive role model for my child and show respect and courtesy to all the students and staff at school.

Parent Guardian Signature:

Date:

Student Name:

Grade:

[nurfatinnadiah]

30/10/2023. 9.30pm

I need a place to let everything out of my system. I have one before. But I guess every time I start to express my feelings somewhere I'll definitely stop writing after a few posts. I don't really know why but I'll get bored easily. So, here's a new start.

Here's a start. I'm a hot temper kind of person. I just knew it. I was raised one. My husband was right. I'm just like my mother. I don't want to be like her but I ended up being one. I hit my kid every time things didn't go my way. I was not raised with love. Not enough. Even after marriage I thought being independent was gonna toughen me up. But I'm hurting more than I can ever imagine. I have no place to rely on except Allah. I know that I'm lacking in this department which is having a stronger faith in my religion. Which I should. Maybe I thought for once I can be dependent on my own husband. So with that I can be a lovable person. A lovable mom. A lovable daughter. A lovable wife. But no! I feel like I'm full of anger. Full of anger to everyone around me. What's wrong with me? Or are people really taking advantage of me being independent. I feel like the second one fits the situation. But I'm the eldest child. I should be independent. People do depend on me. But why does the burden feel heavier and heavier each second. Like at some point I can't take this anymore. Too much even for a strong person like me.

I'm out of tears. Even out energy to fight my own battle. I thought having my one 'soulmate' means I don't have to carry this burden all by myself. Boy I was wrong. So wrong. It's an additional situation that I volunteered myself 6 years ago to be in. Partially i did it out of love. But back then I barely knew my husband. I thought that after years of being in each other's skin, 2 babies later, we can tolerate each other's bullshit easily. But at some point I just can't take it anymore. I shouldn't compare our lives with others but who am I kidding? My own parents are in a broken family situation. How can I even have or create a perfect family if I don't have anyone to look up to. To seek help? To depend on? Physically, spiritually and mentally I have no one. Accept Allah.

I'm tired. I sleep too much to run away from my problem. Soon it will subside and be normal again, then a few weeks later I'm so sure then we'll eventually come back to the same situation. I need changes. I need forgiveness. I need love.

I need a hug

[eristic-kaleidoscope]

Carry On My Wayward Son | Akito Epilogue

Just because the experiment is finally over doesn’t mean Akito Mikage’s work is done, or that it will be entirely finished in the months and years to come.

With promises to call and text his partners and the few friends he made every day, Akito departs for London with Kristina and Noelle in tow. Even if the three masterminds behind this Project were neutralised and in custody, there was always the danger of someone picking up the slack and coming after them, or more specifically Kristi. As she sleeps, exhausted from learning just how close her mind was to being overwritten, Akito and Noelle send another message ahead.

Vernal and Midsommar, no, Raymond and Dahlia are there to pick them up, along with a group of armed men that the former explains he has hired for his own protection. Since the experiment had been prematurely compromised, it wasn’t safe to be around his dearly beloathed father or the group of visiting “dignitaries” from the Erika Foundation, so they’d gone to ground and had waited until it was clear the extraction had succeeded to emerge from their safehouse.

It was a reunion with few dry eyes. Whatever the enmity between him and Akito had once been, Raymond whispered his thanks to the blonde, holding onto his girlfriend with tight arms for the rest of the ride back. Having already explained what was going on in the days before everyone flew out from the facility, they would have to brace themselves for the media fallout in the next couple of weeks, and prepare themselves to explain just how a ragtag group of five upheaved an entire shadow foundation with just the right set of skills.

“But first, I’m going to need a really good therapist.”

Akito gets his wish, and can tell his partners with confidence that yes, he is making himself go to therapy and talk about everything. Not just the experiment, not just his accident, but everything from the unreleased anguish of his childhood and the loneliness that’s finally started to ease up. Kristina joins him a few days, both traumatised from the kidnapping and the stress placed on their shoulders for leaving their families alone.

But it’s time they have to heal. And the rest of the world continued to move as they did.

It was Kristi’s idea to try and celebrate Christmas with those who had to stay behind in the VR. She’d only gotten to know several of them through the robot’s actions, and felt like in some way, she wanted to thank those who had kept her best friend alive. The few months had cooled off his enmity with some others (as onesided as it could go with Eureka, at least), and he tried his best to fulfil last requests and assisting compensations from those who had them, so why not visit and try to make their continued stay a little more pleasant?

At least the party didn’t double as an intelligence gathering mission this time. The outcome may hurt him more than he’s willing to admit, but he accepts it for what it is this time. He gets it.

The days passed into weeks into months, as several people came and went throughout his life. Assisting MI6 would end up occupying the time he spent not back on the stage, but the people of His Majesty’s Theatre were sympathetic to his situation. His relationship with his partners took a little break as they focused on their individual needs, and he did in fact return to Japan for a few months just to spend time with his mother.

And also prank Kenshin with Kori’s help, but don’t tell him that. He’s not sure Byrne will ever take anything he does, no matter how harmless, without a lingering sense of anger. Some things were best left laid to rest.

Eventually, Adrik moved to Miami and settled in with Erik A. When he was ready to make it work one more time, Akito made the trip over to their house with a luxury box of raspberry chocolates and fresh bouquets of pollen-free flowers, and even some small clothes for the orange hellspawn- er, Sunny, although he was certain the cat would just rip them up since they were from him. Boo. Whatever the case, their love rekindled and remained strong, and when his contract in London eventually runs out, he makes his way over to Broadway to revive the Phantom of the Opera production in the heart of the American theatrical industry. It’s a lot closer to them, and he’ll always have a place to stay in London with Kristi, Raymond and their kids if Uncle Akito visits. 

He makes new friends and associates, and watches Rose’s streams while trying to guess which one of the donations is his partner being cheeky. He finds out who his father is when the man comes to apologise to him for never knowing, and forgives him all the same while giving Pierre his mother’s number, asking him to talk to her about it instead. He grows past his past mistakes, little by little, and assists whichever group needs him to testify against and bury the rest of the Erika Foundation, his head held high even as their nightmare continues to hang over his head. 

He defends Satoru Nagase with everything he has to get the man off on a technicality and his good name cleared, and sends An and Calluna a cake and a sincere apology for what happened. He even gets in contact with Erisu to talk and reminisce, to introduce her to Kristi and help them make peace between each other. Things won’t ever be the same there, but at least he has one of his friends back, even if they’re probably never going to let Jaemin know the full extent of things. Their kids also have him thinking… but not right now. Not until-

And then the day comes when it’s done. It’s finally over.

Five years have passed. He’s in his thirties now and his first grey hairs have appeared, but for the first time in many moons, he can walk out of the courthouse with a tired grin. His work is done, the people behind the Erika Foundation brought to justice and his involvement with cleaning up the last few stragglers honestly unneeded. The weight that rests on his shoulders disappears, leaving only the lingering pain from the memories of five years past.

He still wishes Cosette was here, just a little. So instead, he resolves to clean the shrine he set up in their memory, sitting prettily in a corner of the house he lived in, until it’s extra-bright tonight.

Many things have changed by now, even his appearance. Though still as bright yet gaunt as ever, the mask is now clipped to a belt buckle by his waist, and he wears his scars in public with pride. They are a part of him that no longer gives him grief, a reminder of who he used to be before. There are some things that haven’t changed at all, though, and when he gets home, he feeds both his three angelfish and their young juveniles, a tall glass of iced chocolate milk in his other hand.

When his usual routine is finished, he walks downstairs into the basement, converted into his private soundproof study where all of his instruments are stored.

And then he screams. Long, loud, reverbating in the empty room where it all echoes back at him. He screams for what feels like minutes, getting all of the emotions welling inside him out, all the stresses and sacrifices and farewells he had to make for the people he had known and still knew, still remembered. His yelling only stops when he’s finally gotten his catharsis out, and it takes several minutes before he can shakily push himself back up to his feet.

Akito is willing to admit that the mask will never truly go away. You don’t change habits grown over twenty-five long years of hardship, hellish mentalites and humourless hamartia overnight. Even now, it just feels so surreal that he’s made it this far, this long, without eventually collapsing into himself and losing his mind to the madness. 

He should be dead, so many times over. He considered the idea of fading away into the night when no one was looking, letting them find their happiness away from him.

But invisible hands and invisible voices pull him up from the abyss. A diver with a single hope of floating back up finds proof that he is still alive, and aiming for the bottom of the sea, finds the happiness to never drown again. This life isn’t easy, but it was something he put everything on the line to live for, and he won’t do those who want him here the disservice of leaving when he should be living. 

It’s his life, too. As he leaves the room, he pulls out his phone to make a long-overdue call.

Just because the nightmare is finally over doesn’t mean Akito Mikage isn’t scared of the future. But it’s not like he’ll be facing that alone, either. And for the two who meant so much to him…

“Hello, Greyson Jewellers…? Yes, order 5549. I would like to come pick up my engagement rings.”

The best will come, soon enough.