#what a nice thread of blueberries

[huramuna]

banshee's lament - chapter 2.

aemond targaryen x stark ofc minor jacaerys velaryon x stark ofc masterlist prev | next

a former ward of alicent hightower and aemond's childhood companion, shera stark, returns to king's landing after ten years. ten years after the incident at driftmark that left her and aemond permanently disfigured. after so many years apart, shera and aemond are almost strangers. almost.

shera's voice sounds like blue diamond in this clip. a soft, dreamy whisper.

wordcount: 4.2k

@huramuna-fics - follow & turn on notifications for just my fic postings! no taglists right now, sorry.

content: smut, angst, fluff, disabled ofc, aemond being delulu & obsessive, major canon divergence, ofc has a service direwolf, i'm taking canon rules and putting them in a blender and taking a shot, arranged marriage, graphic depictions of violence

story playlist

She’d never ventured south before and her nose wrinkled at the thought. What does the south have that the north doesn’t? Warmth, mayhaps– but you can easily make that with a fire! Pretty silks and lots of fruit, she was told. Shera wasn’t entirely sure what use she would have for pretty silks, as they'd dirty right away if she ventured in the snow– and fruit. Surely there wasn’t anything better than freshly picked blackberries and blueberries.

The little girl couldn’t sit still in the wheelhouse as she poked her head to the sliding wood window, brown eyes trying to gauge the landscape. It was certainly green! They had been on the road for a moon and a half and Shera was about to pull out her hair from boredom. The stewardess, Warra, that her father had stowed away with her for the journey, irritated Shera to no end.

‘Sit down!’

‘Stitch inward, not outward.’

‘You’re fraying the thread, be gentle.’

If looks could kill, the poor stewardess would be dead within the first week of the journey. Warra glared back at the impudent child, thinking the exact same thought.  

“You must be Shera Stark,” a young woman cooed, who had greeted the little girl at her arrival to the keep. Her hair was the same shade as Shera’s. She was dressed in a green dress, and it reminded the little girl of the pine forests beyond Winterfell. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” 

“Nice to meet… you,” Shera returned, curtsying with a small wobble. “M’lady.” 

Shera felt an odd connection to the woman almost instantaneously, her arms held out for a hug. At the age of five, she was still very much a baby, and craved the warm touch of another person. “Are you my mumma now?” she whispered.

“Oh,” the woman murmured. “You may call me Alicent,” she added, looking slightly confused at the little girl’s request for an embrace. Alicent stared at the child for a moment, seeing herself reflected in her huge brown eyes. She scooped her up and held Shera to her hip. “It’s scary being here all alone, isn’t it?” 

–

The south was no place for a wolf, she feared. Not only her own wolf, but herself as well. She heard their whispers as she arrived in the city, the stares of prying eyes, wishing to catch a glimpse of the infamous Banshee of Winterfell. 

‘Twas an ugly name, Shera thought. Banshees were decrepit creatures with haunting yowls and spindling claws like cracked branches– was she truly so ugly? She hardly spoke, no less screamed, lest she awaken the still tender pain against her neck. Sometimes she would hum a broken tune from her girlhood days, but she would hardly call that a song.

The journey had taken over half a moon and was as agonizingly long as she remembered from her girlhood, even more so now. Cregan opted to leave her alone in the wheelhouse while he rode outside on his horse. She’d much rather be upon horseback than in the sweltering carriage— the movements made her ill, and she spent much of the time with her face firmly supplanted into Moongeist’s fur. 

Jacaerys had offered to take Shera to King’s Landing by dragonback before they left. 

“It would be a much faster and easier journey, my lady. It is even easier than riding horseback.” he exclaimed, his dragon just now grown enough to saddle two. Vermax loomed in the background on the snow laden grass, sniffing the air and making soft trilling noises. He reminded Shera of a whippoorwill. 

“I… I would very much love to, my prince— but I would be blind without Moongeist with me upon arrival and I do not think Vermax would take kindly to another passenger who weighs more than you and I — and is a wolf.” she said softly. Shera wished to keep both feet supplanted on the ground— she would never acclimate to flying upon a dragon or being ferried by ship. She was prone to seasickness, and imagined dragonback no different. 

Moongeist pressed to her hip, guiding her and keeping her on a straight path. Shera’s fingers laced through the thick fur of the wolf, who’d become somewhat of a guardian for her since the incident ten years ago. The loss of vision in her eye threw off her calibration of the world, often leaving her lost and clinging to walls. Cregan had procured the wolf as a pup, six moons after Shera’s return to Winterfell– she hardly remembered Moongeist as a puppy, as she lived on milk of the poppy and venison stew broth for a year. 

The now gigantic wolf, Cregan citing him as a Winter King’s direwolf, acted as Shera’s eyes and balance. She could still see, of course, out of one eye– but her chronic pain debilitated her, rendering her into that sobbing, sniffling, poppy-addled child she was a decade ago. Cregan, whom Shera hardly knew when she returned, was very much the depiction of an angry wolf, pacing back and forth in the maester’s chambers for weeks. She didn’t remember much during those months, but she remembered the movement of Cregan’s shadow, bristled and looming like a creature out of fantasy. 

And now she had returned to the place that started it all– ‘twas her home for eight years. Cregan was here, too, meeting with the Queen and Princess Rhaenyra on matters pertaining to Shera’s betrothal, a sign of goodwill from Alicent to somehow mend the rift between the Starks and the crown.

It all seemed very dreary to Shera. She didn’t wish to be looked at, perceived, much less married to a man, to whom she would have to share the intimacies of her disfiguration with and lay bare beneath.

Shera walked through the halls of Keep, fingers skimming over the familiar yet so foreign stone.

She looked very much like a ghost or banshee in her gown and veil, one she preferred to wear to conceal her scars, flitting through the corridors. She was often dreamy eyed, when people did see her eyes, and certainly was a touch maddened — especially since the accident at Driftmark.

She was a quiet, solemn woman now, tamed by the Queen into a proper young lady as a child under almost solely Queen Alicent’s eye as her ward— an unexpected oath that Viserys upheld, as he’d made a promise to Rickon Stark, the girl’s father, many years before. She had come to King’s Landing at the tender age of five.

Alicent brought up Shera as she saw fit—sheltered and safe, softening her rough edges and wild nature. Shera became the perfect Hightower daughter that Alicent never had, who attended prayer, read the Pointed Star of the Seven front to back and served the Gods with honor, much to the chagrin of Cregan once she returned.

She adjusted her veil as she walked towards the holdfast, thankful for the shield from the resplendent sun. Her hair was coiled into a braided bun, pinned with silver jewelry. 

Shera was much a Northern lady in her appearance now, with copper hair in billowing curls. Her hair hadn’t been trimmed much in her lifetime, and when unleashed from its braided confines, it would fall past her bottom. Her unblind eye was a deep brown, edging on black, and her blind one was a milky, pupil-less blue.

Her stomach churned with anticipation and she mostly felt like vomiting. Her hands were now clenched together tightly, white knuckled, as to distract herself. She wished to see the Queen first— a way to anchor herself to reality, and would be the easiest, along with Helaena, to reacquaint herself with.

As she reached the corridor that held the queen’s chambers at the end, it was oddly bereft of people. She watched as the heavy doors swung open and a svelte figure dressed in black receded from the solar. She blinked profusely, seeing the white hair, long and taken pristine care of— and pin straight. That couldn’t be Aegon, could it? 

The figure turned after closing the doors, facing Shera’s direction, who was still at the very end of a long corridor. It was not Aegon. The leather eyepatch gave it away instantly— Aemond. He had gotten tall, much taller than she by at least a foot. 

They made eye contact, violet to brown— he paused, lips pursed. His form went rigid as he clearly acknowledged her presence; but said nothing. 

Shera said nothing, either. The wind was taken out of her lungs, stolen by him, it seemed. 

His one eye widened in surprise, then narrowed. She couldn’t parse the nature of his expression besides cold, hard steel. His fists clenched and unclenched— and he walked away in the other direction, a corridor off to the left, towards the ramparts. Away from Shera. Purposefully. 

“A-Aem,” she attempted to raise her voice to call to him, but was stopped by the sting of pain. “Aem—!” she croaked again, persisting past her limits. 

He looked at her again and kept going, going… until he was out of sight. Gone. 

Shera wracked a cough, clutching her throat. What… was that? Did he just flee from her? She pushed her utter confusion (and ever creeping despair) aside, knocking on the queen’s door. 

A handmaiden, Talya, answered. “Her grace is expecting company— if you haven’t a prior engagement, you must return later.” 

“‘Tis… ‘tis the company,” Shera murmured, suppressing the urge to hack up a lung. “Shera Stark.” 

The handmaiden’s eyes widened with a gleam of recognition, confusion, and then pity— she stepped aside, bowing her head. 

How Shera tired of those expressions being thrown in her direction. She passed through the threshold, a shaky hand gripped into Moongeist’s fur. 

“Oh— Shera?” Alicent echoed, standing up from the settee she was perched upon. She was radiant, to say the least— her hair was shorter than it had been before, but she hadn’t aged much. Aside from a lingering shadow beneath her eyes and in the depths of her irises. She was tired. “By the Seven, I hardly recognized you, my dear.” 

“Your grace,” Shera whispered in greeting, once again curtsying with wobbly legs. As much as she anticipated seeing Aemond, she wished it’d been after she greeted his mother— she felt the part of a ruffled hen, her fragile demeanor temporarily cracked. “It’s… good to see you— you haven’t aged a day.” 

Alicent rushed to her, only slightly phased by Moongeist, who stood now off to the side in preparations for the Queen’s no doubt touchy-feely welcome. “Your voice,” Alicent murmured, her large brown eyes wide, lips downturned. “It’s… you’re very quiet now, my sweet.” she swallowed, putting her arms around the woman— who now, inherently flinched. Shera, as a child, loved to be showered in physical affection, and loved to be hugged, kissed and snuggled by Alicent. But now, she flinched. Only for a moment— she had to get used to it again, she was much a spooked horse, skittish. 

Shera nodded slowly as Alicent led her to sit. “Yes— I… I cannot sing any longer, I am deeply sorry, your grace.” she looked down at her hands.

Shera loved to sing as a child, Aemond listening to her songs, usually ones associated with the Faith of the Seven, and hummed along while he studied. They were both outcasted children, bullied and poked at to a point where they recused themselves into one another, communicating in a language that they made up— a combination of High Valyrian, which Aemond had lovingly taught Shera at the same time he was learning it, and gibberish. 

“It was a terrible thing, what happened that day,” the queen said, pouring them both tea. “It was a terrible thing with naught justice brought.” 

Shera sipped at the tea, letting out a soft sigh as the warm liquid soothed her irritated throat. “… I remember nary a bit, your grace— only…” she clenched the cup tightly, the memories of that day flooding back. 

“You!” one of the twins bellowed.

“‘Tis I.”

“You claimed my mother’s dragon– you stole Vhagar!” 

“You cannot steal a dragon.” Shera huffed, proverbial feathers already fluffed. 

“I do not remember.” Shera corrected herself. 

“I wish I could forget– I still remember it… all too well.” Alicent echoed. “... you must know, I– we rejoiced with the Gods when we heard we hadn’t lost you. I am remiss that we did not get a chance to say goodbye, though.”

The scream that she would never forget– the slash of Lucerys’ blade piercing and mangling Aemond’s eye.

It was a wail that haunted her dreams still. 

Shera could hardly react– did they want to kill him? Were they going to kill her? She moved, shoving Lucerys down, his head hitting the wall, the blade skidding in the dust. Where were the guards? Where were the adults? Where was anyone?

As Lucerys began to cry, blood trickling from his head, Jacaerys went into a rage– fists swinging with a crooked look in his eye that Shera was afraid he would kill her. If she were to die in a skirmish, she would go down with a fight! Barreling toward Jace, she supplanted her weight into the center of his chest, scratching at his face and snapping her jaws like a rabid dog.

Then she was pushed back– but not by Jacaerys. ‘Twas Baela, the more brazen of the dragon twins. She shoved Shera back, brandishing the same dagger that Lucerys had used– it was still dripping with Aemond’s blood. She wasn’t as close as they had been, but the cut was the same, slitting up Shera’s eye as her vision filled with blood. She felt dizzy and could hardly hear herself scream over Aemond’s wails– she was silent, sputtering for breath. 

“Kill her! She’s going to tell on us, Baela!” one of the other kids had cried. Shera couldn’t remember who. 

Her body went into shock– she didn’t even feel the knife slice her throat, her mumbles coming out as garbled choking, spitting up blood– 

Her hand went to her throat absentmindedly, feeling the raised scar where she’d been slashed by that damned knife. The maesters said it was an act of the Gods that it didn’t hit a prominent vein— but as the Gods give, they taketh away. She couldn’t sing any longer, nor hardly talk above a whisper, and was not able to see out of one of her eyes. It wasn’t taken out like Aemond’s, but muted into a milky blue color. 

“... I’ve missed you much, your grace,” Shera uttered, her hand snaking to Alicent’s as she clutched it with a small tremble.

“We cannot change the past, Shera– we can only… forge our future,” Alicent returned her squeeze with a smile, brows downturned. “... do you wish to marry him, my dear?”

Shera breathed audibly. Did she want to? Was that her wish? No– of course it wasn’t. It wasn’t– Jace had changed much since the incident on Driftmark, but she feared how to tell him that she would wake up sobbing from nightmares about him, about him and his brother and his cousins, brutalizing her. It was twisted, in truth, how when they would share a bed, how they would have to conceive an heir, how she would have to let him touch her. He would be gentle, she knew, he would let her take her time and be studious and princely and all the things encompassing the future King after his mother– but she wouldn’t be able to truly look at him without thinking of that, of the pain, the blood filling her throat, gurgling and drowning in her own life’s essence–

“... yes, your grace.” Shera responded. “I wish to… marry Jacaerys Velaryon and mend the rift between the crown and the Starks.” 

Alicent’s brow furrowed and she regarded Shera for a long moment before nodding. “Then… it shall be done.”

–

Shera felt her skin prickle into goosebumps as she left the queen’s solar. She felt flustered, like she’d been pricked in the bum by a thousand needles– she sorely needed to go to the Weirwood and pray. As she turned to abscond to the ramparts, she was stopped. A pair of arms boxed her against the wall, the scent of dragon and sandalwood overwhelming her senses. Moongeist let out a growl at the intruder, but Shera silenced him with a hand gesture. She knew who it was, of course– she carefully lifted her gaze to him. Aemond.

“Ñuha dārilaros,” My prince, she murmured in High Valyrian– she had rehearsed her greeting to him so many times over the years in her head. Her eyes roved over his form, taking in all of the changes of nearly a decade. He was tall, so much taller than she was now, his once curled hair straightened to a point. His aquiline nose led to his mouth, pursed in anticipation, in challenge. “… it’s good to see you.” 

Aemond’s brow furrowed, his hands still boxing in, as if he were the wolf and she the prey. He looked like a shadow of the boy she once knew— he had all the makings of a predator now, a true dragon in his own right. “Shera,” he grunted. “I’m surprised you remember our lessons, I can’t imagine you use it much anymore, talking to weirwood trees and wolves, or not talking much at all, I’ve heard.” his voice was so laissez-faire, but it held an unmistakable edge to it, like a sheathed blade. 

Her jaw clenched at his tone. She wasn’t expecting a warm reunion like no time had passed, but she wasn’t expecting to be iced out, either. Her mouth twinged in irritation, bleeding into a pang of sorrow in her chest. They had been so close all those years ago, so close that at times it felt they were fused as one— was he so unhappy to see her? She instinctively thumbed over her choker again, poking the tip of her finger into the cool threading to anchor herself. Moongeist pressed to her hip, sensing her change in emotion. The wolf stared at Aemond before nudging Shera’s hand atop his head in an effort to calm her.  “I may not speak it much anymore… but I still remember. We learned it together.”

Aemond’s hand reached out to inspect the veil concealing her face between his thumb and forefinger, as if testing its worth. His violet eye roamed over the outline of her face— he couldn’t quite see all of her from behind the wretched garment, which seemingly agitated him. “You always had such an excellent memory, my lady. You look much like the banshee they say you are with this… veil. Why do you insist on wearing such a thing, it mustn’t be so terrible under there, is it? Not like mine– they took it out. I heard you still have yours, don't you?” he paused, “Why have you returned?” he tugged on the laced curtain, earning him an annoyed whine from Shera and a rumbling growl from Moongeist. He was so callous now, so rough— like unhewn wood, splintering at the edges. 

“I wear it for the same reason you wear your eyepatch– It appears that my brother, your mother and sister, as well as the Gods have other plans for me. I’m to be betrothed.” Shera whispered back, her hand going to her throat as she felt an acute pain from raising her voice a bit too high. 

Aemond’s pupil wavered as he looked her over, concerned over her mewl of pain, then the realization of what she’d said coming over him. “Betrothed,” he said, his voice flat and clipped. “Betrothed,” he repeated again, his grip on her veil increasing. “And who is it? Who dares to try and claim the banshee of Winterfell? I always thought it would be me to claim you, hm? But you ran away to the North and replaced me with a dog.” he eyed the giant black and gray wolf with a curled lip.

A flush of heat came to her cheeks. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t call me such things, it's a nasty name. I didn’t expect you of all people to pay attention to court gossip,” she scoffed. “It’s none of your concern whom I’m to marry, Aemond.” Shera let out a breath.

“Who. Is. It?” he continued, spitting each word through gritted teeth.

“That isn’t for me to say. Your mother wishes to announce it formally at dinner tonight.” Shera distanced herself from him as he rescinded now, allowing her some breathing room. She smoothed down her dress and fixed her veil. She sighed inwardly, based on his reaction now, that once Alicent announces her betrothed tonight, he will lose it. She can only speculate how severely he will react when he finds out that his once close companion is being betrothed to someone he loathes. 

He squinted slightly, resting his hands behind his back, foot planted carefully on the ground. “I pray then,” he said with somewhat condescension, “that they aren’t terribly important— all the easier for them to be charred fodder for Vhagar’s belly.” 

Shera snorted, twisting her sapphire signet ring on her middle finger, shaking her head. “You jest, my prince.” 

“Not a jest, sweet wolf. Think of it as a promise.”

“You cannot,” she glanced up, her veil rippling with the sudden movement of her head. “You’re unbelievable, do you know that?” 

“What is so unbelievable about my promise?” 

“You act as if you have a claim over me, Aemond,” she whispered his name, her voice taut as she swallowed a sting of pain from the sudden change in tone. “No one has a claim over me, least of all you.” she coughed, her hand clutching her throat as she awkwardly took in a breath, stretching the limits of her injured vocal cords. Shera let out a strained sigh, shaking her head.

Aemond’s nostrils flared at her words, his jaw clenching. “No one? And yet, you let your brother sell you off like a broodmare. Or mayhaps a prized bitch.” he glanced at the wolf at their feet. “You’ll let him sully you? That basta–,”

Another voice broke the heated conversation. “Brother,” a cool tone said. It was Rhaenyra, on her way to Alicent’s solar. “… Shera.” she squinted slightly, violet eyes darting between Moongeist and the pair. 

“Sister.” Aemond responded, clipped and short. 

“Princess,” Shera greeted shakily, bowing her head. 

“We shall see you tonight at dinner, won’t we, Aemond?” Rhaenyra asked, cocking her head. 

“I suppose I can be persuaded. I’m quite busy, though and don’t have much time for idle pleasantries.” he dipped his head, facing away from Shera now. “Ladies.” he bid his farewell, stalking off like a half-cocked dragon. 

Once he was out of earshot, Rhaenyra leaned close to Shera. “You should steer clear of my brother. You were companions once— but he’s different now,” she paused, taking a breath. “I only have your best interest at heart, dearest. For you and Jace.” 

“… thank you, princess,” Shera swallowed, grasping her skirts. “I will… keep that in mind.” 

Rhaenyra gave a nod before disappearing into Alicent’s chambers– leaving behind an exceedingly frazzled Shera, who retreated to the Godswood. 

–

Kneeling down before the ancient weirwood, she clasped her hands together. “For guidance… for peace…” she murmured, staring at the face etched into the red wood, its eyes bleeding. It felt familiar, in a way. 

“So, which is it? The Old Gods, or the new?” a deep voice interjected into her prayers. She didn’t recognize it at all. Glancing over, she took in the figure of an older man, dressed in black leather and cloth with white hair cropped to his shoulders. A sword was strapped to his waist. Dark Sister.

“Prince Daemon,” Shera sighed, not entirely up to verbally spar with the Rogue Prince. “... I am praying to the Old Gods, as is custom in the North.”

“Ah? And here I’d heard you were quite the little septa in your youth, singing hymns like a… delightful little sparrow.” 

“... that isn’t untrue– I… I hold both the Old and new ways–” 

“What does your brother think of such a thing? Northerners are so rigid in their worship.”

“It isn’t my brother’s concern–” 

“Well, mayhaps you shall start learning of the Valyrian gods, if you’re to be married to Jacaerys.”

“I know… a few, my prince. Tessarion, Meraxes, Shrykos….” she paused, brow furrowing under her veil. “Vhagar.” Shera gave a pointed stare to Daemon.

“Ah, knowledgeable you are. You must be a bookworm like my dear nephew. But, you forgot quite a few– Syrax, Meleys, Arrax, Vermax, Caraxes… the list goes on. I won’t fault you for forgetting them. You have quite a few Gods on your plate already, young wolf.” Daemon gave a toothy smile, extending his hand to her. It was ungloved and looked calloused, old scars littering over his skin like shells on a beach. “Do you need assistance getting up?”

Against her better judgment, Shera took his hand. It was warm, unnaturally so like all of the Targaryens. He hoisted her up to her feet, steadying her with an overreaching hand upon her waist. It made her skin crawl.

“Very good,” he hummed. “Enjoy your prayers, Lady Stark.” 

Moongeist grumbled uneasily next to her, eyeing the Rogue Prince with a wary amber gaze. Shera felt sick.

[raspberry-rampage]

Jagna's crown in The Peasants (2023)

To begin with, I really liked this film in many, many aspects, so this is by no means hate on it.

Buuut if there's one tiny thing that they could've done better... is to double down on the folk stuff. What I mainly mean is Jagna's crown. It's like a nod towards tradition but... Her dress is very city-like imo, white, embroidered with what seems sparkly (meaning expensive) threads. Meanwhile, the crown is small and made of lace, peacock feathers, blueberries??, plants I don't recognise. Don't get me wrong, it's pretty and huge respect to the maker. In the og book, regarding the crown, we read: "Her hair, braided over her forehead, bore above it a rich pile of gold spangles, and peacock���s eyes, and sprigs of rosemary. Therefrom, down to her nape and shoulders, fell long ribbons of every hue;" (translation by Michael Dziewicki). It was also described as tall but I guess it was lost in translation.

Well, just compare this:

to these:

These are from Łowicz which is kinda in the region where Lipce is.

Anyway, this film is not super historically accurate (there's no way they would let Jagna have her hair down, not braided at all) but they did try. Overall, it's a nice introduction to the culture and an invitation to explore more on your own.

More on flower crowns in this brilliant article with more gorgeous examples by lamus dworski.

[vortexstars]

In the osc it fr feels like all anyone can stomach is the least depth to a character possible like I've been trying to defend taco for YEARS like no girl her looking sad whnenmic left her ISNT MANIPULATION???? THAT'S CALLED BEING SAD???? SHES ALLOWED TO HAVE EMOTIONS???

Also i remember so many people being mad about Nickels joke when blueberry was voted out like "yeah dude just be nicer" and i saw so many people just so angry at that because it was "hypocritical" like yeah... That's the joke. That is the POINT of the joke that is what allows it to land it wouldn't hit coming from someone that's genuinely nice

Also female characters who hang out witj men get watered down SO often to that guys (girl) friend i see it all the time ESPECIALLY WITH CANDLE AND SILVER SPOON like guys please can we not. Can she be an indépendant character

Sorry for the (second) rant in your inbox i have big feels about media literacy in the osc

no dw i have strong feelings to people who lack media literacy

ive only been in the osc for almost 3 years and saying that ive always felt sympathetic with taco is an understatement , you can clearly see that shes genuinely upset that mic left and not because she wanted to use her more, but because she actually LIKED her. She genuinely did care about her and this episode really does prove it and so many other things, this woman literally fucking SHATTERED when being too overwhelmed and people still have the gull to say that she was being manipulative, like please watch the episode again and maybe the entirety of s2 along with it

Also i dont remember the nickel joke very well but i do remember people being pissed off about it like it wasnt just a joke

and oh my GOD DO I NEED TO TALK ABOUT THIS, one of the main things that contribute to the mischaracterization of female osc chatacters is when they are involved with another character that just so happens to be a man, there are so many examples to this and i think the worst one is the silver n candle arc. I have made multiple threads about these two separately and they both have their own story arcs and their own personalities. Most people [ or shippers ] will just make the two of them be associated with eachother and call it a day, and it pisses me off cause their character are an important thing to understanding the character itself — without knowing or not caring ab those arcs and making those two just be with eachother could lead to even worse mischaracterization from there.

I cannot express enough on how many times ive made posts like this on other websites and it still happens, they are more than just '' Silver having a crush on candle and candle is just the helpful one '', they are so much more. Now dont get me wrong silvercandle is my absolute most favorite ship ever and i will defend them with my life, but ive seen people who hate it make both characters so mischaracterized i start to think that they are just talking about an oc. Even people who like them still sometimes just make them be associated with eachother and claim to know them like their bedroom, they are so much more than that — romantic or platonic, they still have their own story arcs that correlate with eachothers arcs

theres more female characters that get mistreated but ive only seen silvercandle get the worst treatment, every character is their own chatacter with their own goals, own beleifs, own arcs.

i think you can tell who my favorite character is

[allisluv]

Lucy gray helping reader with depression?

thank you so much for your request anon! 1k words.

pairing: lucy gray baird x fem!reader

content warnings: seasonal depression, lack of self-care, reader is going through it :(((((, lucy gray being sweet, use of petnames, mostly fluff with a sprinkle of angst, not proofread so i apologise for any mistakes

November hits you like a tonne of bricks. 

It creeps up on you, slowly but surely, like water seeping through cracks in the ceiling. The days grow darker and the leaves turn a crunchy golden colour as you sink further and further into the comfort of your white satin sheets. Your body feels weighed down, like it’s made out of lead. 

It’s been like this for a little over two weeks and part of you knows it’s only going to get worse as the nights grow bitter with cold. Your body is tired but unfortunately, you can’t afford the luxury of sleep– it’s impossible to shut your mind off. 

Lucy Gray understands. You don’t know how, but she does. 

She pads across the wooden floors in her bare feet and opens the blinds. A whine of protest escapes your throat. “I know, sugar,” she coos, slipping under the duvet with you. 

She smells like lavender and you nuzzle your face into the warmth of her neck. Lucy Gray pulls you closer by the waist and tangles her legs with yours. You haven’t showered in a while but she doesn’t seem to mind. Her fingers thread through the knots in your hair. “How are you feeling?” 

You mumble out an incoherent answer and she hums in understanding. “That’s okay. Why don’t we do something fun today?” She feels you frown against her skin. “I’ve got all the ingredients to make that blueberry pie you love.” There’s a gentle lilt to her voice. “If you wanted, I could do the baking and you could look pretty all snuggled up on the couch. What do you think?” 

You weigh up the options in your head. Part of you doesn’t want to move. Part of you knows that you have to do something. “Okay.” Your hot breath tickles her neck as you sigh in defeat. “I think I need a shower but I don’t feel up to it.” 

Lucy Gray smiles. “I have an idea.” You glance up at her. “Why don’t I run some nice hot water in the sink and you can just wash yourself with a damp towel? That way you can sit on the toilet seat while you’re doing it.”

“Can you sit with me?”

“Of course I can, darlin’.”

“Not just yet, though. Wanna stay here for a minute,” you whisper softly, burying your face in the violet lace of her nightgown. Lucy Gray doesn’t miss a beat; she tugs you even closer and, as if on instinct, you melt under her touch. 

Time isn’t a priority when you’re wrapped in your girlfriend’s arms. Her touch warms your insides and you can feel her heartbeat thudding steadily against the place where you rest your cheek on her chest. 

It must take at least an hour before you’re ready to move. You start out small, rubbing your fists into your eyes and sitting up. Lucy Gray coaxes you into stretching and once you are up on your feet, she’s intertwining your fingers and guiding you towards the bathroom. 

Lucy Gray doesn’t leave much up to you; she just tells you to sit down and relax as she lets the hot water from the faucet run into the sink. She settles on the tiles by your feet, her hand resting on your bouncing knee. 

Your hands tremble as you pull a towel off the rack. If it was anyone else, they would’ve belittled you for being unable to do something as small as washing yourself. But it wasn’t anyone else. It was Lucy Gray, so in very Lucy Gray fashion, she offers you a reassuring smile and says, “‘m so proud of you, honey.”

That alone nearly makes you burst into tears. Your bottom lip wobbles and she gives your knee a gentle squeeze, a silent reminder that she’s right there in that dark place with you. You suck in a deep breath through your mouth and steady your hands. 

The warm water feels good against your damp and clammy skin, like you’re washing away the sadness, somehow. 

Lucy Gray rambles on about the Covey and how there will be more people flocking to the Hob to see their performance now that the cold has settled in District Twelve. You know that she’s only talking to keep you distracted from the task at hand, but it seems to be working, so you don’t complain. 

By the time you’ve finished, she has successfully managed to keep your mind busy. She kisses the crown of your head and leads you back into your shared bedroom. She lays out your softest nightgown and helps you dress into it, tapping you playfully on the nose when your head pokes out of the top.

She carefully brushes the knots out of your matted hair, taking care to check in and make sure she’s not hurting you. As much as you hate to admit it, you do feel a bit better. “Can we go make breakfast now? I’m hungry.”

Lucy Gray beams and turns you around to face her. Her dark hair falls into her eyes and she’s quick to sweep it to the side. She’s so used to you mumbling that you don’t feel well, so hearing that you’re hungry is like hearing that The Hunger Games have just ended. “Sugar, we can do anything you want.” 

“Can we go for a nap afterwards?” 

She pecks your lips. “Honey, if you eat something, we can nap all damn week.” You plod to your feet and just as you’re reaching the door, she grabs you by the hand. “I love you.” 

“I love you, too. Thanks for not giving up on me.” 

Lucy Gray’s brows furrow. “I wouldn’t dream of it, honey. I’m in it for the long haul. Now, how do pancakes sound?”

[inkwolvesandcoffee]

Ideas are baking (and another Alfie imagine)!

Today’s my day off and I thought I’d put on a nice dress and give baking a go. So, on the menu is low-calorie blueberry and vanilla pound made with plant-based yogurt (plain) and milk (vanilla).

Here’s a what it looked like before it went into the oven and afterwards:

Can’t say I did too shabby, judging by the looks of things. I wonder what it tastes like, though, because I’m no baking queen.🧐

Update 06/07/‘23: the taste wasn’t bad but version 2.0 has definitely turned out better.

But, as per usual, this got me thinking.

What if Alfie is crushing hard on a girl who runs a baking channel on YouTube?

He has his own channel called The Mad Baker, because we all know how chatty the King of Camden is.

It’s really per coincidence he stumbled across yours. He was looking over the shoulder of his assistant manager, Ollie, out of curiosity. After all, why was he staring at his phone instead of working?

No, those last ten minutes of a break are not for leisure. They’re to discard and return to the floor early.

Alfie's philosophy, not mine.

Anywho, at first he’s skeptical because your channel is all about healthy and low-calorie baking. Now, I’m sure you can imagine how badly that clashes with Alfie’s personal opinion.

“Bakin’, right, is a bloody art, mate. It’s the creation out of the simplest ingredients, given to us by Yahweh, a transformation into something incredible. Why would you tarnish a brownie by using Greek yogurt instead of rich butter? I don’t use agave syrup or worse, stevia, whatever the fuck that’s supposed to be, instead of the highest quality honey whenever I make lekach, do I? No, if something is meant to be sweet, make it sweet, yeah?”

And yet there he was that very same evening, sitting in his living room and suffering from insomnia.

Watching your videos.

Although he was grumbling his own opinions about 'proper' baking, he couldn't stop further investigating 'the girl with the micro bakery, whatever the fuck that is'.

Strangely, he found himself quieten the more he watched your videos. Moreover, Alfie found himself wanting to discover more about you, much more than what little you shared on camera.

Also, and he only realised this much later after some rare self-reflection, your voice calms him.

Soon after, he started to leave comments. At first, they were quite shallow, general. Nonetheless, they’ve grown more genuine over time, admitting to trying your recipes and asking questions.

Nowadays, those comments more often than not turn into conversations which create long threads that tend to stray from the original topic quite fast.

Both of your fan bases have noticed this too, hopping back and forth between your channels.

Recently they’ve been practically begging you two to do a collaboration.

Alfie was hesitant at first because he prefers being by himself and working on his own.

Nevertheless, when you ask him to teach you some traditional Jewish recipes he agrees without so much as a second thought.

He only has one condition, though.

That you put your own twist on his recipes and teach him the modified version.

The collab has the fans nothing short of going feral. Ships are sailing left, right, and centre and half the comment section are remarks how good you two look together and sparks are flying.

And perhaps they are right.

The conversation flows as easily as when held behind screens.

It feels natural how Alfie guides your hands while kneading the babka dough. At first he hesitates, his palms awkwardly hovering around you before he clasps them behind his back.

Only to warm the back of your palms when you ask him to teach you his way to knead dough.

Though really you only asked to fulfill the nagging curiosity about the way his body would feel against yours. His chest is warm against your back, the satisfied low hum he lets out reverberating against it.

You hear his breath hitch when your fingers entwine and for a moment he grows still. Nonetheless, when you look over your shoulder to check his reaction, his eyes are warm and a tender smile has found its way to his lips.

You know it must be weird for him to have a young thing like you interested in him in a way that goes beyond friendship. In fact, it isn’t hard to tell since the rigidity in his composure hasn’t lessened since you welcomed him into your studio/micro bakery.

Yet, Alfie tries his best to relax. Henceforth, while you two have coffee while waiting for the oven to heat up and the camera is off for the time being, he allows himself to lower his guard ever so slightly.

He nestles into the corner of your sofa, loving the softness of the cushions. Mostly, however, he loves your presence, sitting right next to him.

Like in the fantasies he’s found himself entertaining, especially when it’s just him in the otherwise empty house in Margate.

The need to settle down has never been as strong as it has been recently, started the moment you two truly began to talk.

Truth be told, though, it scares him. He isn’t used to being rooted, to being unable to think of a person the way he thinks about you despite the doubts it stirs within him.

Regardless, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

One day you’ll collab and Alfie will allow himself to let his guard down completely.

Until then, you two work through the motions of various recipes.

Slowly growing closer.

Tag List: @zablife @potter-solomons @liliac-dreamer @wandawiccan60 @buttercupsandboys @dreamlandcreations @rose-like-the-phoenix @babaohhhriley @hecatemoon87 @vir-tual @mollybegger-blog

[mightbesmall]

Small Shenanigans

Riddle was sitting on your bedside table. You were currently out shopping so he thought he'd keep an eye on everyone.

There was Ace, currently running from an angry Deuce. Cater was laying on your bed, playing with the silky pillows. And Trey was right beside Riddle, reapplying the bandages on his arm. The old ones were getting stained by excess ink.

"Sorry-" Trey began before Riddle promptly cut him off.

"Don't. It's not your fault." And before the clover could even get a word in, you arrived back home.

"I'm back!" You called through. Cater immediately perked up before rushing to greet you, he's such an affectionate little guy. You chuckled and let him climb up your shoulder. Ace gave you the stink eye while Deuce timidly waved at you.

"I restocked so I can make you guys a new attire." You explained. The diamond on your shoulder let out a little squeal, clearly delighted at the prospect of new clothing.

You chuckled at his antics, he’s such a little guy!

“Oh and Riddle, I can fix your dress now.” You turned to the red head. He gave a polite, yet appreciative, nod of the head. Gosh he’s so cute!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You flicked the light switch on as you entered your workshop. You really like your workshop, it has a nice homey feeling to it.

“Here, you lot wait here while I make your clothes. I’ll call you up for measurements but until then wait patiently.” You told the five boys as you set them down on your desk before turning to the cabinets that held fabric, threads and needles and anything else you may need.

Ace crossed his arms before glancing around, it was much nicer here now he could actually see. A glint caught his eye. Turning he saw what looked like a big machine, he had no idea what it was but he felt compelled to press the big red button on it.

“Hey we’re are you going?” Deuce whisper-shouted at him, he didn’t know he was moving towards the odd machine until Deuce hissed at him. Glancing at the older three, Ace saw that they were having a nice time chatting and watching you. Perfect.

He looked at Deuce with a sweet smile on his face, said spade immediately felt the urge to ignore him.

“Heyy Deucey~ How about we go play with that thing over here.” He said pointing at the weird machine, the blueberry looked over to where he was pointing before fixing Ace with a disappointed look.

“No Ace, we were told to wait here.” Ace sighed, what a goofy-two-shoes!

“But they didn’t say we can’t touch anything or look!” He tried to reason, it was working as Deuce started looking conflicted, battling his inner curiosity.

“Fine but we’ll just look okay!” His curiosity won today.

The two sneaked over to the machine, Deuce checking it out but didn’t get too close. Ace on the other hand just, pressed the big red button.

SHREEEEEOOOMMMM

“WHAT’S THAT?!” Cater yelled over the noise, covering his ears. Trey covered his as well before yelling “I DON’T KNOW BUT IT DOESN’T SOUND GOOD!” Ace and Deuce stared in horror as the machine started moving towards them.

Riddle was in a state of panic, he has to get those two idiots to safety but he can’t even stand on his own. Before he could move, the noise died down.

“Huh?”

There you stood, your wood cutter in hand, unplugged and Ace and Deuce in the other.

“You’ve got to be more careful.” You said with a sigh before setting the two troublemakers back down. “Seriously there is dangerous stuff in here.”

“What is that?” Surprisingly it was Trey who asked, the little lad who you have not heard a peep from. You couldn’t understand him though, it was like he was squeaking. You wonder why that is. Still by context clues you could deduce what he was trying to get at.

“This is a wood cutter, I use it to well cut wood. It is very sharp and dangerous though so I don’t want any of you near it.” You explained to them. It is important they know that they cannot just touch the stuff in your workshop.

[paused-waterfall]

Care to tell more about what you think of the plot and characters to the dsmp? Which ideas you enjoy and don't? It's super interesting since I was there during the hype and it sucks that the whole thing seemed to crash in and burn (at least in my eyes). At least a few CCS got to end their characters how they wanted too

Ah man, the plot and characters. First, a caveat: My thorough watch-through hasn't yet reached the conclusion of many of the characters, so I can't properly speak to that. I've encountered plenty of warning signs of controversial and stunted conclusions, so that has been my expectation from the start. With that hanging ominously over our heads, here are some of my thoughts on the rest:

Despite its overt absurdity, the plot of the dsmp feels more like a history book than a novel. In your prototypical novel, one author is really just trying to tell one story. They will cut scenes that don't add to that core story, and simplify their work if they're afraid their audience might get lost in the weeds. Background characters, in particular, get cut down to only existing as the minimally adorned cogs needed to complete the mechanisms of the plot.

In the dsmp, damn near every character is fleshed out by a whole human who is specifically invested in that character. A creator might only play a small part in a given storyline, and any individual viewer might have a complete blindspot for a given character. But there's still a whole person sitting behind every username, monitoring (and sometimes, experiencing) their motivations in real time.

And this lets them do weird shit with their characters. Authors need to keep their whole cast in their head and keep them on the rails well enough that there aren't any unexpected crashes. The creators on the server generally don't bother with this. I haven't gone out of my way to peel back the curtains of the server's writing process -- curtains can hide horrors, I don't touch curtains until I'm ready to flee -- but I have the impression that pivotal characters in pivotal scenes have beats to hit and maybe some scripted lines. Meanwhile, the rest of the players seem to be set loose to do whatever fits their concept of their character, with only minimal guardrails in place to prevent an accidental derailment of the core plot of the day. Nobody looks like a cardboard cutout who is just there to play Shocked Man #3. Even players who are not deeply invested in the roleplay have comprehensible motives, because they seem to mostly be there to just play some goddamn Minecraft. Hey, that's a game I've played! They want to build a nice house and maybe find some netherite -- I know what that feels like!

No viewer can follow all of the uncurated knot of plotlines that make up the dsmp. But I find it so satisfying that any thread I choose to pull on is likely to reveal an earnest line of character motivation. When I complete a novel and want to know more about a character, the best I can hope for is that the author happened to have the same thought and is willing to act on it. When I finished watching the Blueberry TV cut of Doomsday and wondered what the fuck Ranboo's deal was, I was able to dig up VODs and see it all first hand. Plenty of plotlines are cut short and plenty of perspectives have been deleted, but on some level these flaws in basic storytelling are a rarely explored reflection of the real world. Because history is not a streamlined novel. No history book can fully encapsulate the events it portrays, but we know that every character contained within it has their own perspective, and that every thread in the knot can be pulled on further if we're just lucky enough to have not lost the information to time.

There are, of course, a ridiculous number of downsides to this approach to storytelling. But, since this is my first time encountering this specific type of narrative, to me they are new and interesting downsides. Flaws that haven't yet dug grooves into my patience. I'm quite eager to see artists build on this example, wrestle with those flaws, and either find solutions or find some other approach that's even better.

I've somehow rambled for 6 paragraphs and barely touched on any specific character and story beats, but I better cut myself off here for now. If you want more of a rundown of notable design choices, I could certainly be baited into more of that lol.

[zaffreberries]

I’ve spoken about how hard it is to transcribe my thoughts into words. Trying to turn something that defies description and somehow put it into words that others will easily be able to understand. How to describe my hyper fixated obsessions and then the accompanying strings of various links to said obsession, how to understand why this thing has managed to ensnare my focus and imagination in the first place, how to explain that this subject is now a black hole in my mind, that it will drag my thought processes towards it with inevitability and how I find enjoyment in lavishing my imagination as it gets swept up in these links where I find enjoyment and wonder.

Which subject do I start with? Dallas Fuel? Blueberries? The colour Blue? Sapphic love fantasy books? The sea? Where does this tangled web begin, where does its origins lie? What was the start and what is the best place to start to describe them? How do I describe my thoughts jumping from subject to subject that are on the surface completely unrelated without losing myself explaining the countless tenuous links between them that only I can see that allowed me to make the connection and forge this complicated web of comfort to revel in?

Blue seems to be the best place to begin..on the surface. It’s the one that, on paper, has the most obvious links. But it’s not the cause of these obsessions. It’s just A common thread, not THE reason. I have reasons for liking these individual things that are aside from the colour blue, for many of them the colour blue is a happy coincidence. Likewise the link is more fragile the more you investigate it. Blueberries aren’t actually blue, they have a “bluish” skin but the juices are purple, I like that they don’t have a strong taste, that they are extremely healthy. The Dallas Fuel wore Blue skins in game, but so do many other teams, I liked the players individually and it could have easily been another team they joined, the synergy I admired so much could have still be evident on a red coloured team. What about Team Mystic? The colour scheme was only a single facet of my many reasons for wanting to be part of that team, I was more drawn to their description of being the “smart” team. Same thing with Ravenclaw, I took the sorting hat quiz (multiple times) and was placed in Ravenclaw (each time) the blue colour scheme (whilst nice) wasn’t even a consideration. Blue Mana in magic the gathering? Merfolk, Jace and it has the play style I like best (draw cards, play artifacts, counter their spells). Sapphire lumineers? Belle from beauty and the beast was/is a strong blue staple and they have a focus on ramping and gadgets/items. Ultramarines legion from 40k? The Unremembered Empire Horus Heresy book and the fact that they are about synergy and organisation. The alliance in Warcraft? I like the races and factions and Jaina my favourite character is part of the alliance as is the Human race that I played so much of in Warcraft 3. Obi wan Kenobi? Favourite character from Star Wars. France? Because I like how the language sounds, their literature and culture. Neuvillette and Furina from Genshin impact? Both are hydro characters from the French inspired region. Ouro Kronii? She has a time theme and I like how her voice sounds. Sailor Mercury? Genius best friend, quite and uses water powers. Sayaka Miki has a good tragic story arc with a strong belief in justice, love and enjoys classical music. Hopefully already you can see that the subjects have more similarities (being smart, synergy, good aligned, water themed) than just wearing or having a blue theme.

What about something I love without the blue theme at all? Rhaenys Targaryen is my favourite character from the House of the Dragon Show, bilbo from LOTR is my favourite character, followed by Gandalf and then Sam. None of these fictional characters have a blue theme. The show Normal people is my favourite show and it lacks any blue theme. The girl with a dragon tattoo is my favourite book (and series) and that lacks a blue theme as well. I love honey and one of my favourite drink flavours is Honeycomb and if I can’t have Blueberry crumble oats (I still yearn for them) than I am (somewhat) happily satisfied with honey oats being the substitute, likewise bees are my favourite animals.

Hopefully you can see the diversion even in this post, where the subjects have taken me off focus and instead on a merry jaunt through the various things I like. We haven’t even broached the subject on music yet (another day maybe) and there is still more I could lose myself in. I guess the point of this post is to highlight that whilst i will explore different (often nonsensical or fictional) subjects that the only true common theme is that they appeal to me in various ways and sometimes the reasons why they mean something to me might be more than just what is obvious or what I am able to explain. I want to explore myself in this blog, create a place to dive into my own depths and show off what things I have found and try and elaborate on them and my feelings about them. I want to practice writing about myself and my feelings, to look upon my works in the comfort of anonymity and (inwardly cringing) see my thoughts. Sometimes they’ll be about a thing I like, sometimes they’ll be about my feelings or thoughts. But always they will be my thoughts, my feelings and my truth.

[mistfallengw2]

Spoilers from SotO below, first impressions ramble time

Tl;dr: Mixed opinions about story. Hope they won't flunk the landing after setting up neat stuff. Gameplay and rest is all fine. (Exes theory?)

Story was... okay, I guess? 🤷 It's the typical "that part where stuff goes bad before the final part" of other expansions, so it fit my expectations for the most part, so I'm not unhappy. Granted, I wanted a bit more meat cuz I feel a bit starved rn, so now I'm just gonna hope the final release will have as much meaty substance as the amounts of it scattered around this expansion's maps, because it's not bad, just... not as good as they can clearly make it. I'm really hoping it's just teething pain of the new expansion structure and that the next one will be more well-rounded, but honestly? I'm not sure they're gonna catch all threads they've woven so far this far into this expansion. Like, I'm perfectly fine with waiting and the setups are all juicy stuff, but the lack of payoffs or further building on the setups is killing my interest a tad (kryptis civil war is fine, but I want to see more astral ward stuff that was interesting (because I want to tear a bunch of it down along with the old bald blueberry if he says one more shitty thing)). The interesting stuff done in the first part WAS GOOD, and just... Come on! I want to love it even if it wasn't my jam at first (I'm a diehard dragon saga fan), not feel "eh it was okay" when thinking about it :/ Anyway, one interesting thing coming out of this chapter might be the fact that Eparch seems to have genuinely loved his queen, and no one in the audience™ expected that. Maybe in the final update he'll get built up in a more interesting way than he's been so far (not at redeemable levels, but more than... faceless tyrant who is way too much into royal roleplay and vore?), given we've known him only through perspectives that are defiant or more-or-less fearfully devoted. I just hope it's not gonna be another missed chance .-.

Onto the good part, map and meta are more of the first part of Nayos, which is nice for me (I like the aesthetic and vibe, and the fairly-mindless continuous grind of events is good whenever my brain does the funkies). Might need some tuning and fixing in some places, but it's quite enjoyable in the "map you can both grind away or do quickly" kind of way. I love the little houses around the place and I hereby declare that all chonky lil' kryptis are under my protection, and I'll be soon looking into legal adoption. Now to delve into legy armor crafting, playing around with the new weapons and all that, since that and gameplay in general kinda seemed to be the main servings of this patch. That part I'm ready for, and I may have the medium set mostly pre-farmed already oops.

And last, THEORY TIME: Isgarren and Eparch do feel kinda similar, not just for the rig, but specifically in that way of bitter exes who can't even stay in the same realm of existence because the other is too similar to them for comfort. Tell us what you're hiding, you old pair of farts >:T This whole Astral Ward vs Kryptis thing derived from their break-up, fight me about it >:V

[weltonreject]

hi !! super late bc i never refresh my dash so i just saw the ask game thing BUT,

1. i hope you are doing well it's been a while !!

2. i went to meet my advisor for my masters starting in the fall last week and she was soo sweet and helpful, im going to be doing research with figurative language which i'm SO excited for i have a lot of reading to do to figure out what exactly i'll be looking into but i'm excited !!

3. i have pottery class tonight, it is my second last class of a 2 month course but i'm really excited, i made a soap dish last week, this week i'm going to attempt some kind of mug or maybe shot glasses ?? we shall see what happens tho haha

4. i have become fully obsessed with the album "under the new light" by maia friedman over the last couple of days it was the only thing i listened to all day at work today lol, what have you been listening to recently ?? i will need more new music soon so i don't get tired of the one album i'm listening to right now lol

i hope u have a great evening and week !! <33 egr

omg it has been a while! what a nice surprise thank you for sending this update i love it! i am so so thrilled for you and your masters program. that's so exciting and i hope you get lost in the research and reading and just feel pure joy. like you're finding things in those pages that no one else has. that you feel like you've caught a thread in the legacy of literature that is just yours-- you're the first to find and pull it. god speed (but you're going to do amazing, i just know it).

and as if you weren't doing the most: pottery?? that's so gd cool too. would literally kill for that specific soap dish i love that i bet it looks so cool-- did you glaze it with a color or just leave it? also, with that: if you do make a shot glass.... paint the bottom of one cobalt for me.

i bookmarked that album i'll have to give it a listen thank you! i'm in a bit of a rut with music lately. not that i'm not enjoying myself but every time i go for that same playlist i'm like... bitch come on PICK SOMETHING ELSE. but it instantly picks up my mood so i will not be stopping until my spotify wrapped embarrasses me. that is to say, it's been a lot of albums from when i was a teenager: infinity on high, believers never die, i like it when you sleep for you are so beautiful yet so unaware of it, hello nasty, days are gone, dare to be stupid...

i hope you have a great week love (and re: your other ask enjoy your blueberry cake)!

[seaoreos]

🙃 🧡 🐸 🎤 🌸 📷 🎵 🍪

What’s a weird fact you know:

It seems at this moment that I cannot recall any. But you mayhap fascinate a maiden by giving her a piece of cheese.

A color you can’t stand:

I feel as if I am obligated to say red, with it being the color of our rival court, but verily, I do enjoy the color. I do suppose I do not have much fondness for darker yellows. They do not tend to look nice, at least alone.

Describe your aesthetic:

It be a mess. I am a little wizard forest beast, aye, but I am also enchanted by punk as well. I feel as if mixing the two would be fun, even quite comely. I think we shall do whatever we please forever.

Is there a song you know all the lyrics to:

Aye, many songs! I often end up memorizing a great many songs because I listen to them so often, and because it be very easy for me to mishear the sung word. But off of the top of mine head, ‘when the night is long’ comes to me since I have recently discovered it again.

Best compliment you ever received:

Well, just a few days ago my friend Master Strickford complimented my little ‘mustache’ and asked me if I happened to be on T! I am not, but the question filled me with much joy. I do love being, as the new worlders say, ‘gnc as fuck’.

What’s your phones lockscreen:

My phone lockscreen is a picture of me and my partner when we visited an aquarium together! It was when I was visiting him. I love it very much and it always makes me smile <33

Last song you listened to:

I am currently listening to ‘Emotion thread’ from the game rain world! I usually have an ambient playlist of music going during my mornings. And by mornings I mean ‘it is 2:41 pm but I’m still in bed’. Which I should change soon, for I must leave the house soon and I want to make pins or something of that sort before I do. Also I must eat.

If you were a cookie what kind would you be:

Oatmeal chocolate chip with blueberries. My mother made some recently and they are wonderful.

[0tivez]

also while i’m on a tangent here i want to talk about how we lost fun and whimsy in clothing. FUCK clean girl aesthetic FUCK scandinavian girl aesthetic

i remember my mom’s clothes being so creative. silk blouses with colorful flowers on it, gowns that flowed through her body as if she was a marble statue and someone carved the dress onto her, leather jackets that were actually lather and lasted for years, handbags that looked like someone poured their heart onto it even though it was mass produced, shoes that had so many details on them that you’d assume they were medieval paintings. the shit you saw on tiktok’s “pick an outfit for this and this extremely specific situation” posts were random finds in mango in mid 2000s. i hate how boring we have become in the fashion world. even with designer brands you see minimalism take over like the plague.

chanel has always been boring, but dior? seeing their 90s-00s shows vs today feels dystopian. versace is one of the last high designer brands that bring something to the table and even they’re also laying a thin thread. gucci, who was supposed to be the most extravagant and chaotic of them has been diluted into shit brown coats and massive logo tshirts. and don’t get me started on how shitty their fabrics look.

what happened to expressing yourself through fashion? when did everyone become so “mass produced” and when and WHY did brands start to cater to this? i blame hailey bieber for this HARD. she put her hair in a bun ONCE and started wearing tinted lip balms and she’s suddenly a fashion icon. look at bella hadid. she’s a true ICON. she makes people question her with some of her fits. she also wears a slick back bun on top of her gorgeous, chaotic fits. she’s wearing your work clothes after she’s out from pilates. you look at hear beauty in awe but never take the shot to be brave with your style like she is, and rather idolize boring, vanilla celebrities like hailey and kendall.

and i know these people are also bored because no one would be so gagged over leopard prints like we did last season. come on man. your mom, aunt, even grandma wore leopard prints more creatively. and you think it’s fashionable to wear an elastic leopard crop top from h&m on top of your straight legged zara jeans. and the colors don’t even match. and bitch… don’t even get me started on those “fashion influencers” who think they’re so revolutionary because they advised their audience to wear a blazer over their jeans and wear gold jewelry that hailey bieber wore once. remember bestdressed? how everyone was obsessed with her brave fashion choices? she BUILT the current “over the top” fashion trends years ago on her own because she allowed her creativity to take control over her fashion choices. she remains one of the best influencers in my opinion, even though she hasn’t been active in ages. she was wearing baggy jeans and bloomers, she was layering her clothes in 2017!!

we are so used to mediocrity now that having dark red lips was sensational (cherry cola. come on. cherry cola? stop fucking labeling everything). tomato girl, clean girl, blueberry milk nails, rockstar gf, old money. can yall not figure something new without having it be labelled something? “what’s this aesthetic called?” i don’t know someone wore something nice. “it’s a mixture of grunge and rockstar gf” and it’s bootcut jeans with green long sleeves taken with a pale filter on. be so fucking for real once. “can we start wearing this again?” just fucking wear it? do you need a this-core to wear it? do you need to be a this-girl to feel comfortable within yourself? you’re wear this-item’s mass produced version from bershka, which will probably give you rashes if you wear it for longer than 5 hours, and will probably annihilate itself after 3 washes, and let it collect dust in your closet because the trend lasted for two seconds. but no worries, now that-core is popular and everyone’s trying to be that-girl. and bershka will produce some shitty that-core item because they know you’ll create a line to buy it. like you did with stanley cups. fucking reusable cups man. stanley is an incredible thermos brand. it lasts years. my DAD used to chase sales to get one. but now it’s pink and has a straw so it’s so cute core and you can even buy pouches or special ice cubes for it so you can feel like you did something valuable for yourself for once. and you’ll fucking use it to drink water. a stanley thermos for drinking water in your home. water that you emptied from a plastic bottle. at least pour some gin in it to make it count for something.

i am so angry at this topic specifically because i have experienced the change. i have had a different fashion sense but was scared to stand out even as a kid. i did dress like a basic bitch at times, don’r think i was (and still am) a fashion connoisseur. i wore leggings and sweatshirts like everyone else. did my makeup like everyone else at times. and it made me feel AWFUL. i felt like a background character. so this year i promised myself that i wouldn’t dress down for anything. i started wearing weird combinations that i liked, started doing my makeup extra dark the way i always wished it to be. even during my exams, i dressed up. because it took no more extra energy, and i felt comfortable! i wore heavy makeup while spending the night at the library. wore platform heels to the exams. i felt GOOD. i knew people would find some of my choices odd, as they did years ago when i tried to dress differently. but i realized, i would rather be ugly than be boring.

there is a girl in my faculty who is a micro influencer. she dresses “weirdly” and posts her outfits. even her comments are filled with mean comments. and i keep hearing gossip about her from people who have no business with her (a freshman, we’re fucking SENIORS), and make fun of her.

bitch, she’s wearing statement pieces from her mom’s closet and you’re wearing a 50$ polyester sweater with “future milf” on it. you have no business talking shit about a young girl experimenting with her identity through her fashion choices. and you know what? yeah she does wear some questionable stuff every now and then, but overall she dresses nice! she looks confident and despite being bullied she keeps posting herself. she wears like someone you’d drool over if you saw it on pinterest. i respect her. we all should wear more “ugly” stuff.

the regression era (2010s) left an unfixable damage in fashion and music in my opinion. fun is dead. take full offense in my post. stop looking mass produced. start thinking what YOU will like to wear, not how others will want you to wear.

and fuck minimalism. fuck fast fashion.

seeing fast fashion brands try to create y2k clothing is hilarious because the real y2k clothes are sold on second hand apps from retired baddies cleaning out their closets (including their kids’ clothes) for so cheap that you think someone must have died while wearing it

[luvneymar]

(2) BABY NAMES & BREAKFAST — NEYMAR JR

SUMMARY: Neymar, Davi & You are picking out baby names for the future daughter & Davi’s future baby sister.

“how about Isabella?” Neymar asked munching on his pancakes getting crumbs all over the white sheets of your king sized bed. After the skincare situation last night you made breakfast to make it up to Neymar for “ruining” his eyebrows.

When you were cooking you, Davi & Ney were picking out names for the baby that’s about to come into your lives. Once you finished cooking Neymar and Davi brought the food upstairs on a cart so you could eat together as a family.

“Mmh, that’s cute. Maybe with an accent? Like ‘Isabélla?’” You also munched on your pancakes trying to brainstorm regular names and making them unique. “I don’t know make it unique or something.” You added before shoving another piece of maple syrup drenched scrambled eggs.

“That’ll give it a whole other pronunciation. Like ‘Isabecghlla’” Neymar laughed imagingi the teacher trying to pronounce her name on the first day of school. Even though the name might be the least of their worries on that day.

“Did you just call our baby an ‘it’?” You jokingly glared at him throwing in of your blueberries from your pancakes at his forehead. You both unconsciously called your baby an it but it was worse when he called her an it because you were carrying her. (Pregnant lady logic)

You both laughed as he threw a blueberry right back at you having it roll down your face and into your shirt in a split second. “Boob-Berries.” Neymar whispered trying to not have Davi hear his perverted joke.

“Mama, what about Camila…?” Davi stuttered out, ever since he’s turned 4 & 1/2 he’s been having trouble pronouncing his C’s, its really cute watching his face light up when he finally is able to pronounce it.

“That’s beautiful Davi, wanna write it on the list?” You hand him the pen and paper we’re the names; Valerie, Sofía, María, Veronica, Selena & Fernanda. They were all really nice but we were looking for something that’ll make her stand out.

A bit more banter and Boob-berry jokes until the boys were done and weren’t talking as much. Davi was picking at the thread of the blanket and Neymar was picking at his fingernails.

“Are you finish with your food guys?” You sighed at Davi & Ney. They both picked at their food the same way whenever they were full but didn’t want to say so. Having you ask them is so much easier than having to wait the next 30 minutes for them to finally rip off the bandaid and scrap their food.

“Yeah, Davi come lemme help you scrape your food.” Neymar and Davi waddled into the hallway and headed downstairs to the kitchen which was on the other side of the condo so it would take them a while.

You finished your food whilst caressing your very pregnant belly & staring into the distance. Hoping that a name would just come to you like 1,2,3, You never knew that coming up with a name was supposed to use so much energy.

You sighed and placed the plate on the bedside table swinging your feet to the side of the bed. They were so swollen you couldn’t wear anything but house slippers in sizes 5x your own. Being pregnant was such a blessing but sometimes you wish you could switch pregnancy shifts with Ney. See if he liked having cantaloupe feet.

Soon after, you heard laughter coming down the hall as Davi & Neymar came back from the kitchen with suspicion grins in their faces. Like they had done something they weren’t supposed too.

“What’s with the grins? Did you guys sneak bites of the Ice Cream in the freezer?” You asked getting up and walking to the powder room to relive yourself from all the food you just ate.

“Me & Davi have found the perfect name for our little kidney bean.” Neymar announced, walking towards the bathroom with you just to have the door slammed in his face. You didn’t like him seeing your pregnancy symptoms like morning sickness, diarrhea, vomiting and more.

Even though he insisted he didn’t mind you still didn’t prefer for him to see it if he could avoid it. “Continue talking through the door. It helps me. Or the baby, your voice convinces her to be nicer to her mommy.”

“Okay well me and Davi thought about the name ‘Valentina Rosa Camíla Santos-[Last Name].” Neymar revealed the name as he fiddled with his hands waiting for your response. “We thought to add the top 2 names on the list as a middle name so it’s not just a boring short name like ‘Valentina-Santos-[Last Name]’.”

Neymar nervously chuckled hoping you would like their suggestion. Last time you guys discussed names it turned into a huge argument. Davi grabbed his hand as he waited for you to answer him and his papa until 10 seconds turn into 30, then 1 minute then 2 minutes.

After 2 minutes with nothing but absolute silence Neymar had gotten worried and turned the door-knob. You stood in front of the mirror with eyes watering rubbing your pregnant belly. It wasn’t even a situation where you should be crying but the name was just so beautiful you couldn’t help it.

“ Valentina-Rosa, It’s perfect. She’s perfect. You’re perfect.” You smiled at Davi who was peeking around the open bathroom door before walking inside when you ushered him too. You hugged them both as tightly as you could.

“Princesa, I love you so much. Thank you for carrying my child & giving me the family I always wanted.” Neymar Hugged you before smiling brightly as his son as they marched out of the bathroom happy with the ending of their mission.

after that sentimental moment you elbowed Neymar glaring at him. “Heyy, Why’s my last name at the back? Shouldn’t it be first? After all I am carrying her.”

“That wasn’t me! It was Davi.” Neymar turns to Davi who has a shocked look on his face. “Papa! Don’t lie it wasn’t meee!” Davi stomped his feet hitting Neymar’s stomach with his tiny fist.

You laughed at the scene in-front of you impatient as to when you could share this amazing life with your daughter; Valentina-Rosa Camíla Santos.

← prev [ neymarsluv! ] next →

[marximoff]

take me, one more wave | w. maximoff

summary: you start to take your first steps towards healing, but that doesn't mean the path will be easy. luckily for you, Wanda happens to be a great listener.

warnings: heavy make out, smut, strap-on sex (Wanda receiving), fingering (r receiving), hair pulling (Wanda receiving), dirty talk, dry humping, maybe a cumfilled strap hint, mentions of smoking, mentions of drinking, canon typical violence, heavily detailed panic attack, angst.

pairing: Wanda x fem!reader

word count: 11k

A/N: ok, things are finally getting better in a certain way (and horny, these people are horny), but the question is… how long will it stay like this, eh? kidding, i want the happiness of these two as much as anyone - but it's just so ironic to enjoy writing angst when you have a heart as gay as mine, i know

((wanda and r totally listened to deftones together btw

well, well, well, enjoy!

|series masterlist|

|part one| |part two| |part three| |part four| |part six|

《《《《《《《ᱬ》》》》》》》

Wanda's unwary green eyes glance toward the face of the brown-strap watch, screwed on solemnly by the length of her slender right wrist, in a necessary acknowledgment of the time marked by the small gray hands on its monotone interior—seven forty-two in the morning, still there is plenty of time to have breakfast peacefully and subtly.

And then she hears, in an avid gulp, Tommy drink the entire contents of his glass of warm milk at an astonishing speed, almost as if to quench a naughty thirst in the back of his throat that has lingered for more than days. And then Wanda takes a deep breath. It would be nice if he understood a little more of what peacefully and subtlety really mean.

Then she just blinks slowly because soon after she turns, with a spatula, the face of a homogeneous, round mass of blueberry and oatmeal, which is fried before the extension of a metal frying pan which she holds by the handle with her right hand, the pancake shivering in the air as she does.

Y/N used to be a natural breakfast pancake connoisseur, Wanda remembers well, which is why she suspects her boys have a specific taste for their morning meal too – blueberry pancakes, sugary cereal, toast with butter and orange juice, just as their mother was so fond of too.

Behind Wanda, then, on the counter stretched out to the left side of the sink, a juicy orange sliced in half floats and squeezes against a juicer made of yellow plastic, the spherical fruit with a porous rind shrouded in a thin layer of scarlet mist all around itself (the fruit which is enchanted to press itself against the object), turning and squashing, until all its fresh juice is extracted into a thick glass jar.

Nearby, in a pale plastic bowl, a wooden spoon turns clockwise as it mixes more pancake batter on its own.

At the dark dining table, which is set not that far from the stove where Wanda is standing on its edge, Billy, intently, finishes verifying a question answered the night before in his math notebook, eyes diligently digging into each of the numbers written there on the sheet of paper in airy strokes of pencil lead by his refined grammar, while Tommy, still with his cheeks cluttered with long swigs of warm milk, nibbles a green apple with a slurping hollow sound of “fronc”, even though his absorbed gaze does not fail to capture any movement made by the cartoon character that is highlighted by the television screen placed some distance away from the table, next to the dark linen sofa.

The sweet melic essence from the pancakes intoxicates the interior of the house, like an irrepressible deluge of intense domestic flavors worthy of a family environment, with its den centralized in the kitchen – a room which is being covered by a serene sheet of external solar beams, shy golden streaks, thin as small threads of gold, that enter the room through the long panes placed in their thin windows raised in front of the sink.

The mild climate that hangs over the city during the early afterglow of the morning, despite the sunny day that stretches across the celestial field, is prone to somewhat heavier clothing than the usual spring shots require, but this is something that in no way bothers the excellent brown-haired witch, who, in turn, wears, buttoned to her chest, only a simple silk shirt, and nothing superimposed on this banal piece of clothing.

As for her children, on the other hand, Wanda has that maternal need to wrap them up and keep them healthy and warm, which is why both twin boys wear long, thick fabrics on their small bodies – to shelter from the subtle chill that plagues that phlegmatic morning regurgitated through the so prosaic Westview.

“Boys” she calls over her shoulder in a motherly tone, “Have you packed your bags yet?”

“Yes, mama” is the immediate response from Billy, still sitting at the table.

"I was going to do that right now" and then Tommy gets to his feet, leaving the half-bitten apple on the table, "Be right back"

The boy turns his back and then heads towards the stairs - although his speed is not exceeding that of a normal child, there is still, on Tommy's part, a useful lightness in his actions as he steps fast, one foot right behind the other, down the wooden steps, inferring a warning from Wanda's reprimanding side.

"Tommy, please don't run up the stairs, I already told you that"

But there is no answer to be heard – just the tiny sounds of fast footsteps to be perceived stepping away, towards the upper floor. Wanda blows out a helpless sigh, shaking her head in denial as she mutters silently under her breath.

"I swear, he's just like his mother..."

There is the squawk of a bird outside the house, along with the wheels of a car on the asphalt. Wanda flips the pancake again, and then another one after that, before feeling the tiniest touch of solemnity beside her hip and a pair of expectant little eyes looking at the contour of her jawbone, right next to her ear.

“Mama?” a tiny voice calls out to her, sounding uncertain and vulnerable at her core.

Wanda allows herself to smile with the corner of her pink lips, losing the focus placed on her blueberry pancakes as she turns to the boy.

It is Billy who catches her eye, holding the hem of her silk shirt between the tips of the small fingers of his right hand. He wears a jacket of roomy red, white, and blue stripes to his juvenile torso, and looks down at the floor beneath his sneakers when Wanda tries to make eye contact with those eyes inherited from her ex-wife's family, offering him an affectionate smile, showered with kindness.

“What is it, Billy?”

But there is a hesitation in the speech on the part of the boy, Wanda doesn't take long to verify this fact because she knows him so well, she just knows so much about him. And the little boy seems cornered, somewhat irresolute, in an internal conflict with his own efforts to say whatever it is he has to say (because he presses his lips together and doesn't sustain eye contact with his mother). Wanda just knows, at her heart, that something isn't right.

And then she squats down on her knees, lowering herself to a height where she and Billy would be eye level, and Wanda scans his childish face with her gaze in half a second – his eyes looking back at her, the hesitation in the midst of the darkness, the disinclination which he is no longer able to hide as much as his mother is interested in the cunning childish caution. She takes her lower lip in her mouth and opens and closes her eyes, expelling a gust of warm air through her nostrils.

The hard plastic spatula magically continues to flip and fry the pancakes in the pan, even when Wanda no longer does it directly.

“Baby, what is it? Did something happen?” Moving her fingers closer to her son, Wanda holds him so that she can take the contour of his small face between the palms of both hands.

"You know you can tell me anything, don't you, dear?"

“Can I” Billy limps in an ambiguous vagueness, supported by his mother's gaze, which in turn propels him an encouraging smile, “Can I stay home today, mama?”

Something in Wanda tinkles – but she knows she shouldn't show such sudden estrangement at the boy's request, even though she knows well that it's not like him to be the type who openly takes advantage of any possible loophole to be able to skip class. She just tilts her head to the side of her left shoulder, stroking the skin of her son's cheeks with both thumbs in a circle.

“Why, baby? You like going to school so much... Did something happen there? Did someone say something to you?”

“Uh, no, no one said anything… it's just that” Billy falters a bit in wavering hesitation, brow furrowed, and a flash of fur creased between his dark brows, “They think too loud, mama. And I can hear what they think... what they think of me. They think I'm different. They are afraid of me"

The distraught voice lectured her, a grim veil clouding his innocuous childish gaze, his small, dull face exhaling an air of embarrassment, melancholy weighing down on his thick lepidopteran lashes, both razor-edged eyebrows twisted in a caliginous way.

There's an excruciating moment of silence, supplanted by an aching feeling of Wanda's heart squeezing inside her chest; a troubled gaze spread across her emerald-green eyes.

She knows what it's like, hearing what they think so loud it sounds like screaming inside her head, feeling what they feel to the point of wanting to throw up. The fear. The disgust. And she only came to feel it when she was already a young woman somewhat older than her boy is, better able to deal with this avalanche of judgments that feel like mosquitoes buzzing around her brain.

But Billy is just so young, and so small.

She knows what they think, what they assume—the boys' mothers are gifted with superhuman abilities, and so will they someday. And it’s scary. Perhaps with Billy there is even more stigma; after all, he is a sweet child, quiet and careful, even a little shy – the kind of child Wanda herself once was also.

With a gulf of anguish regurgitating her stomach, the enchantress touches the scrawny left shoulder of the harried boy with the palm of her hand; a faint, complacent smile directed at her son.

“Oh baby, they just don't understand…they don't understand what you are. And sometimes some people are afraid of what they don't understand. I think it's part of human nature to be surprised by the different, and believe me, I know how it is... how difficult it is, to be different. I know"

“Mom told me that everyone is a little different” the boy carries himself in a downcast way, somewhat embarrassed, prompting a frown on the part of Wanda, who promptly gives him a curious look.

“But… but no one seems to like it when I'm different...”

And then, she presses her lips together in a line. There's a pile of forgotten pancakes by the now-off stove.

“I…I understand, Billy. I used to think about myself in a certain way too, but... I know I'm something else. And so are you, honey. But that doesn't mean that you and I aren't ourselves anymore, we just... have something different that makes us a little different from other people”

She sighs.

“Me, you, your mom and Tommy, we… we're different, but that's who we are. And I know this isn't what everyone sees, but... you're still you, Billy. You’re still my sweet, precious little boy. So it's okay to be different, because you'll always have us on your side, honey. We could never leave each other even if we tried. Do you know why?”

She questions, in soft tones of a warm, loving maternal touch.

“Because a family is forever?”

Wanda smiles, caressing the skin of Billy's cheek with the pad of her thumb.

"Yes, baby. A family is forever. You, Tommy, me and your mother will always be a family. Even if it's a family of a bunch of weirdos with superpowers” she adds in a chuckling tone, inferring, on the boy's part, in a warm little smile, “You don't have to be afraid to be different, honey. Stand your ground, be yourself, and the rest of the world can never touch you”

“Even if they are afraid of me?”

“You can't control their fear, Billy” she pats him on the cheek, “Only your own. And you should never be afraid to be who you are”

“Right” Billy smiles, and, as in an infectious spread of his childish alacrity, Wanda ends up doing it too, “I can’t be afraid of who I am”

"That's right, honey"

She then stands up and wraps her forearms around the boy's scrawny shoulders, pulling his small body close to hers, enveloping him in a loving embrace that is gladly accepted when Billy tucks his face into her chest.

Wanda had long ago retained his facial features in memory (the sharp eyebrows, the small nose, the strong cheekbones like hers), but the witch, however, still devoted herself to studying him just to see that the boy was real, and he was there, and he was hers to love and care for; just as she did also with his brother.

She therefore placed a chaste kiss on a beam of skin on his forehead, before arranging for the caresses between the strands of his short, light brown hair. He still gave off a pleasant baby smell.

“I love you, Billy. I love you and Tommy very, very much” she smiles, and so does he, “But now I need to go see why your brother is taking so long to pack his bag, because I don't trust him alone for more than ten minutes and it's been a while since he went up"

And Wanda isn't the least bit surprised to find Tommy finishing his homework five minutes later – even though it's only thirty minutes before school starts this morning.

ᗢ

The tenuous hands of the circular clock on the wall emit ticks, clicks, as they move to mark the time of little more than 2:22 on a particularly gray afternoon, with infinitesimal touches of an insistent spring chill taking care of your keen senses inside one of your many, many jackets - this particular one is made of a dark material, with fleece trimming around the collar.

You took a sip of warm coffee before you arrived, interspersed with a few puffs of smoked cigarettes, and you think about having another cup of the hot drink once this meeting finally comes to a very anticipated ending.

The wall on which the clock is located is far away, painted in bands of a pale yellow and navy blue, but even so, your eyes focus on that thin piece of red plastic turning, getting lost in seconds, marking the emptiness of your gaze in an absorbed hypnosis that turns your brain into a dysfunctional, vacant mass. Concentration dispenses with intrusive thoughts, and you don't want to think about anything right now.

Still, something inside of you wants to get up, march and go to the sign that says, in big white bold letters, “HOW TO GET BACK NOW THAT THEY ARE BACK?” and rip that damn thing off like you rip a band-aid off a well healed wound.

It sounds stupid being there. You feel stupid for being there. What’s the point of being there?

Your heel propels your right knee up and down in a continuous motion of tendons, like the fluttering wings of a stirring bee. Up. Down. Up. Down.

On the thick material of your jacket, close to your right lapel, is an inviting sticker announcing your name written in the glossy lines of a thick, red highlighter, but the ripple of feeling characterized by the features of your face is nothing short of inhospitable and even a little grumpy.

You know you don't want to be there. You want to get up and go out and smoke a cigarette until you choke on the smoke and develop asthma (or something among those lines, whatever, who cares).

Then your leg wobbles. And it wobbles. As if you were trying to soothe one of your children when they were still tiny little babies, rocking them sitting on the kneecap of your knee joint.

But in the closed circumference of aluminum chairs, with broken people all gathered in a circle like a bed of dead flowers, that's not the only tic to point out (since an older man keeps poking his restless fingers, and a short-haired woman just can't seem to get her hand off her neck).

Fucking therapy group, that's what goes through your head when your teased eyes scrutinize around, finding themselves with gazes as bewildered as yours, among the other taciturn and hollow phantoms that mark their place in the thin unfolded chairs.

Everyone here is also a fucked up, one way or another.

Your leg wobbles.

The drinking fountain placed in the corner of the room bubbles a lot, but in view of the fact that you already were there for a considerable amount of lengthy long minutes, which were very painful to expire at the meager speed of a lame turtle (causing, thus, in your resigned relinquishment of counting them inside your own head), frugally seated in an uncomfortable creaky metal chair and utterly saturated, bored to the limit in your imo, this was not the first time the bubbles had sailed with snoring noises of “blob-blob” by the iced water.

You sigh in defeat, shrugging your shoulders into the faux leather of your jacket that is a bigger size than you really are – since there's nothing else you can do about it, you just hope to be able to remain in silence until the end of the meeting. It just seems… pointless, in all your honesty.

It's not as if you have any real interest in the account of that bespectacled man, with thinning hair already giving indications of a coming baldness, who so heartily narrates, with an audible lump pressed down to his throat, of the day that some friend of his (or his boyfriend, you didn't pay close attention and honestly you don't have any disposition to do so) crumbled to dust before his eyes on a casual lunch date on the 7th Avenue.

Or about how that same boyfriend knocked on his door five years later, as if nothing had happened, only to find him married for two years to another man.

Your leg wobbles.

"It's... it's hard, to think that you've moved on, that... that it's okay, that you're okay" his nasal voice echoes through the vault of the school gymnasium.

"Only for it all to come crashing down again when you least wait. When you see someone, or smell an odor, or hear a sound and... and suddenly it's all back, right there in front of you. Like it's happening again and again and again and there’s nothing that you can do about it”

You, however, aim cowardly eyes at your own feet, at your favorite pair of threadbare white Converse sneakers with the baggy laces that Wanda scolded you now and then for failing to tie them properly.

You know all about the creeping flashbacks slinking through the cracks of your damned soul. And the nighttime torments are your most frequent roommates – the shadows of your sleepless nights echoed to your bedroom wall.

You then let out a languid yawn, weary, turning to the wall clock above the Midtown High School bulletin board (the Academic Decathlon Team had won nationals once again in Washington), reality slipping away from you, giving stage to the impertinent boredom watered by the purest monotony, devastating everything that is present in its field of reach.

Click, click, stop. Click, click, stop – makes the clock. Your leg wobbles. And wobbles. But it stops just as abruptly, once someone calls out your name.

You blink just one time.

“Y/N?” it's Dr. Raynor who catches your eye when you look airy and scattered, urging you to tilt your chin toward her.

The middle-aged, upright woman sitting parallel to you with her right knee crossed over her left thigh, exuding a kind of polished erudition that makes her look out of place in the circle of chairs, looking too sophisticated to sit there in the company of wretched souls like those half-a-dozen poor sufferers (you included), aims your way with her dismayed eyes, and there's even a shadow of cynicism in those dark irises like burnt coffee beans that squint toward you.

Something about her tough stance, however, hints at a certain militaristic past, and you kind of turn up your nose at such a notion about the therapist.

It only takes a second of staring into the vacant eyes of that tart-faced woman for you to feel the bitterness of regret take over the tightness in your aching stomach, and a kind of compunction sinks in your shoulders as you wonder why you ever even resorted to Bucky Barnes to get the war veteran to refer you to a suitable therapist in the first place.

Maybe the old bastard did it on purpose. But he's the one who's coping better after all, and not you by any means.

"Why don't you share something with the group, Y/N?" the tapered toe of her shoe points towards your left knee, “It's your first day, so we'd like to know a little more about you”

You feel eyes, a bunch of them, reorienting their route all towards you (focusing, emphasizing, gauging your own figure), and to you it's kind of like a trial where Dr. Raynor is your judge and jailer, just waiting for the moment to come for her to hit with the hammer, and then, be able to sentence you to death by hanging. To pay for your sins.

The fingers of your right hand press along the outline of your left palm. The incisors in your upper jaw chew and harm the soft flesh of your lower lip. Blood, they want your blood. May you pay for your sins.

There, in that linoleum-floored sports gymnasium, there is no caressing of a sincere reception, the good old heart-to-heart typical of suffering misfortunes that find reciprocity in the experience of similar tragedies; in fact it may even be, but it is not possible for you to feel supported and sheltered in the face of the paying victims of your fateful failure.

If they are there, conglomerated by melancholy, engaged by sadness, agonizing in regrets that seem impossible to overcome, it is because your actions have led to this inevitable unfolding of successive events.

Of course, everyone there knows your face from Twitter, from the news, Youtube videos, press conferences, magazine pages and the damn action figures who never quite got the color arrangement of your old black and white suit right (which is now battered and folded, with a hole in the abdomen, stuffed inside a cardboard box gathering dust at the bottom of your wardrobe).

J. Jonah Jameson once said live that you were just an irresponsible little girl who should be stopped and sent away. So, they know. And you know they know. It's your fault, after all.

All yours, solemnly yours, it’s your fault that their loved ones went back to dust, they know, they know that you failed, that you didn't stop it from happening, that you didn't jump into the abyss, that you didn't give your soul.

They know.

You clean the inside of your throat hard, swallowing a sip of still saliva as you do.

“I don't know if there's anything interesting that I can... that I can share, no,” you mutter thinly, noticing a dirt on the heel of your sneaker, “I've never done this before, so I'm not sure where to start, doc”

“How about why you decided to join us today? It's a good way to start, and then you can say more about your personal experience with what happened” a short pause, “If you feel comfortable doing so, of course”

She adds quickly, almost emulating some fortuitous tone of cynical kindness. There is a moment of hesitation, covered by uncertainty and even anguish.

You can lie. Maybe give them, the hungry wolves, a condensed version of the facts and then call it a day.

But there urges a sense of honesty within yourself, of not straying along the easy paths as you have been doing for so many years; not when your motivation to be there, in that chair, in that group, is your deep yearning to be the person to instill a sweet smile on Wanda's kissable lips one more time in her life. Of being a mother to Billy and Tommy again, and no longer an uncertain figure throughout their lives.

You want to give it a try. You need to give it a try. For them (your family), it's always for them.

“My… my ex-wife asked me to come over, honestly” is what comes out of your mouth after a few shots of a long silence, “I think everyone here knows who she is. Who we are... who we were. What were we doing back then”

Your leg swings again, in a spasm of restless muscle.

“I think I'm here because I want to get better for her. For our... for our children. They don't deserve the way I treated them after… after all this shit, no”

You press your lips together in a thin line.

“I know they needed me. That they needed me to be there, but… it was hard. After that everything was just so goddamn difficult. Wanda, the boys... they've been gone for far too long. And I stayed. I just... just got left behind. And it was like that too when my parents died, I know, I should have known how to deal with it by then, but… but my parents didn't die because of me. I wasn't the one driving that fucking truck that hit us at 75 miles per hour. But that day... that day I was there, and I... I…”

You shift uncomfortably against the icy chair and clear your throat to ward off the acidic tears that accumulate in small pools inside your eyes, intercrossing your forearms in front of your chest as you lean your spine against the aluminum backrest.

“Wanda went to therapy after she got back, but I just… stayed there. Still. Stagnant. Not doing a damn thing about all of this stuck in here, in me. Drinking myself to sleep and staying up late. I think I just- I just couldn't get back to normal, you know? Not like other people did. Like there's something wrong with my damn brain programming, I don't know. I could barely hear my children cry without wanting to cry along with them, I… I didn't think I was worthy of touching my wife anymore, I... I don't know. I don't know"

And the one who gets the stage to speak is taciturnity, cold and cutting like the edge of a dagger.

“I don’t know. I’m sorry. I don’t know”

There's so much you want to say.

So much stuff that swells and bubbles to be regurgitated out of you. They are words that are watched over by the martyrdom of your chest, contained in your guts, in your bones, in your bloodstream. Compunction has become part of your genetics at this point, you can even feel it moving through your cells, proliferating through your system like the ramifications of a harmful disease.

You do want to talk. But you just don't speak.

What you actually do is get to your feet, stretching your knees into the comfortable material of your pale baggy jeans, and then turn on your heels toward the half-open double doors of the gym, head down towards the floor, and the shoulders retracted as the psychologist calls out your name.

The only noise that accompanies your movements is the soles of your sneakers against the linoleum floor, making rhythmic squeaking sounds as your gait takes on a running air.

And you walk, one knee after the other, in a dreadful stomping march to the chipped pavement, even as the dimness of a firm grip leaves you blind as it swathes your corneas, and deaf as it envelops your eardrums.

The unavoidable collapse that follows, like the ends of a tasteless piece, is like a bolt of lightning that discharges from the heavens at the top of your head seconds later – electricity running through your nerves, your tendons, your spastic muscles.

It takes approximately seven seconds for hyperventilation to take over.

And you squat down, with both your feet flat on the pavement, when the joints of your legs sag and falter like soft lemon jelly, because the air becomes thick and gritty and so strenuous to swallow into your bronchial tubes, and even as the tissue in your lungs inflates and deflates like shriveled bladders being squeezed by vigorous fists, there is not enough oxygen for the blood in your head to flow, and the nausea and dizziness that wash over you like waves become too much to bear alone.

Maybe that was what it felt like to swallow a bunch of razor blades. Your pharynx constricts until it takes on a shape similar to a crumpled sheet of paper, and dark flashes crisscross your field of vision as your senses derail and fail.

Your skin bristles. You try to suck in the air, to keep it to yourself within the pathways of your sweltering aching lungs, but nothing happens. Your collapsing muscles no longer respond to your will.

Stomach acid rises up your larynx and the taste are disgraceful when it slides across the face of your tongue, an acrimonious sourness that burns between your teeth and seems to want to escape amid your parched lips. You slam your eyelids together as your heart seems to throb, swell and compress in thunderous internal hammers against the bones of your rib cage.

It looks like you're going to have a heart attack and die right there. And it’s dreadful. Petrifying, even. And then you blink once. And then twice.

The smell of scorched earth hangs in the air like a fog based on terror and despair.

There is nothing in all the vast longitudinal footage comprised of tens of miles circuited to your surroundings that is not limited to ruins, or craters, or rubble.

Vibrant whirs of spaceships rip through the slate-gray skies, metal and technology gleaming every time the sun comes out in timid beams from behind the thick clouds of smoke that billow into the sky—and then screams, several of them, and explosions, and the characteristic shiver of shimmering magic comes from the vanguard of Kamar-Taj's resident sorcerers in their quilted brown robes.

There are hundreds of devoted souls going to war against Thanos' army (again).

The undaunted battalion of Wakandan soldiers wade through the ruins and force their way through the row of gruesome alien sentries, brandishing their spears and shields where their strength is most concentrated, honoring their king in a dialect you've never heard before.

From their shoulders hung cloaks and fur, embroidered with droplets of blood and sludge of freshly splatted clay. Long streaks of yellowish-orange blistering magic pour from the battlefield.

I don't want to be here, you think as your vision clears the image of a colossal Ant-Man in the distance, as the deifies esoteric figure of a goliath, delivering a stunning punch to a winged creature wearing plates of extraterrestrial mineral armor, your own suit feeling suddenly too tight around the neck contour for you to breath appropriately.

I don't want to be here. I don't want to be here.

Archers, spearmen, mages, heroes, mounted swordsmen and a hundred more warriors to command them. The palms of your hands squeezing your own temples, crushing your skull thorough your hairline, quelling skin between your bent fingers.

I don't want to be here. Thanos killed my kids and my wife and my friends and he's here and it’s my fault that he’s here and I'm going to fail again and I'm going to die and everyone’s going to die and it’s my fault, it is all my fault.

You don't remember that it was Wanda who found you, crouching and deplorable like a wounded animal, tearing up wails of treacherous anxiety in the middle of the battleground; your face was smeared with dirt, dust, tears and blood. She didn't say, but she could hear the turmoil of your fretful thoughts from afar, all the way across the combat zone.

“Y/N! Baby!” the voice sounded so buoyant, covering the roars of the war raging round about you.

You don't remember seeing her again, all beautiful and sweaty, after five years apart from her. You don’t recall that when Wanda cried out your name, you could barely trust your ears as you lifted your head and saw her there, your gorgeous wife standing before you again.

And then you sobbed harder, and the first thing you uttered towards Wanda (after approximately 1825 days - 43.800 hours - without seeing her) was a chorus of wails, a compilation of cries, thick tears running down the contour of your scrunched nose as she involved your quivering, dirt-spattered body against herself.

She kissed the top of your head and a beam of perspiring skin of your forehead over and over again, cuddling you close to her necessitous tight embrace, because before she turned to dust, she also thought you were going to die in her arms. Her long disheveled red hair was like a curtain that captured you inside it, a barrier between the two of you and the rest of the war that raged there, around you.

“You’re alive Y/N, ty zhiv, moya lyubovʹ” she muttered against your murky hairlocks, more to herself than to you to hear, “You’re alive, baby, you’re alive, you’re alive”

“S-sorry! Sorry! I'm sorry Wanda, I'm sorry, I'm sorry Wanda, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I’m so sorry"

But this you remember, nonetheless. Of disgrace and shame. Of exhilaration and desolation.

From breaking down and wailing, crying out her name, bursting into tears, squeezing the material of the long, tattered, crimson coat that roofed your wife's warm body through your eager fingers. Of squeezing her so hard, your knuckles turning white, as if again she would go up in a cloud of dust through your firm grip if you let her go one more time.

As if you could still lose her, even when she was there, as close to you as she was. As if your grasp was the only thing holding her back to material reality.

You had so much to say to her. So much to tell, so much to ask. But after five years, your initial reaction was to grab her sturdy forearms and ask for forgiveness like a drooling, out-of-control child. Like someone with a widowed heart. Like a second chance.

"Sorry! Sorry! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, Wanda, I’m so sorry!"

And she held you close because she cried too. Because for a moment she was sure that she had lost you. That you had bled to death on the ground, your eyes empty and icy, blood seeping from your broken lips, and she wasn't there to hold you when the life had completely drained from your wounded body.

“It’s okay baby, it’s okay, you’re here, you’re safe, I’m here with you dorogoya”

It certainly wasn't the first time you've shed guilty tears on Wanda's behalf, though. And, of course, that wouldn't be the last time either.

ᗢ

Although, at the beginning of the week, a wave of scarce chill had hit the northeast region of the country, it was enough for when Friday arrived, right after the end of the week, for the sinuosities of the heat to return to the spring calendar, and a sweltering climate face again.

Over the pleasant little town of Westview, then, hangs the celestial vault, dazzled by dusk, from which all twinkle, like vivid space fireflies, the antecedent stars of a new tomorrow which contingently would come to lean over the serene little town, situated to the Mid-Atlantic region of US New Jersey.

The warm climate of seven o'clock at night prompts Wanda, in her residence, to dress her body only in a light burgundy silk shirt, and nothing superimposed on this simple piece of clothing.

She had just had dinner (both Y/N and their twin sons claimed there was something peculiar about her macaroni and cheese), and so she was ready to do the dishes - living in a house with just her and two others little boys, there's not even an ample amount of cutlery and plates in her possession to enjoy over a meal restricted to three people.

The bell rings in sudden chimes into the house, however, and Wanda, halfway through sliding the bristles of a foamy brush in a clockwise direction across the face of a china plate, somewhat guided by curiosity to discover whoever was knocking at her door on a full Friday night, tries to quickly dry both hands on a dish towel after closing the sink's faucet, in order to head with cautious strides towards the main entrance.

Her two twin sons, both snuggled up on the linen sofa and with their respective backpacks looking like guard dogs at their post tucked close to their heels, glare at their mother with their smart gazes overwhelmed in interest as Wanda crosses the living room toward the front door.

“Who is it, mama?” Billy asks, looking at her over his small, withered shoulder, his voice echoing over the sound of a random cartoon.

“No idea” is the return that comes from Wanda, who slides both of her damp palms down the sides of her hip dressed in a pair of dark leggings.

Opening the door causes the boisterous night breeze to kiss the high, sharp cheekbones of her pretty cheeks— however, it’s the figure of a woman clad in a shabby leather jacket and baggy jeans, Y/N herself standing in her front porch, what really takes Wanda by surprise.

The mindful pair of clever eyes look at the deep emerald-green shade of her own irises in firsthand, gleaming in a ruddiness that glows expectantly, but then they scan the entire length of her body until, finally, they reach her hip height.

And then, they've doubled in size, and Wanda realizes that it's been a considerable amount of time since her ex-wife has seen her dressed in such tight clothing.

“Y/N...?” she raises a single eyebrow at the other woman who is there in her doorway, her hands tucked into both pockets of the jacket that adorns her body.

It's certainly not a face Wanda expected to see there that night (although, in her core, she knows it's a more than welcome sight, because she can actually feel her heart skipping a lot, abruptly fueled with energy as she does so, and her mouth kind of salivates a little bit).

“Uh, h-hey, hey Wanda” Y/N breaths then, looking lost in her own words. This time she doesn't smell like smoked cigarettes.

There isn’t, for Wanda, a way to not to feel her gaze scorching her considerably toned thighs, which, despite being covered by the dark elastane fabric, suddenly feel so exposed, as if what she was wearing there were just one of the miniskirts she loved so much when she younger.

There's a brief moment showered with tentative silence, at which Wanda can well hear Y/N gulp and shrug. She, in turn, crosses both arms along her rib cage, just below her breasts buttoned by her red shirt, and leans on her side against the doorjamb.

There is a failed attempt not to bring back to her memory the fact that a couple days ago, Y/N had her face sheltered between those same thighs that she stares at so carefully.

“So,” Wanda chirps after a hushed pause, distant cricket sonatas adorning her speech, “Can I… can I ask what you're doing here? I mean, I don't want to sound rude, but... you know...”

She shrugs a little awkwardly.

“Oh yeah, sure” and Y/N emits a husky sound, as if clearing her throat, “Well, you told me to pick up the boys for the weekend on Friday, and… today is Friday"

Wanda opens her mouth to speak, but then connects her lips again in a fine line. Y/N seems to have stated the obvious, but she still stares at her ex-wife as if waiting for her reaction.

“Y/N” she begins, pronouncing the name in a slow-sounding voice, “I told you to pick up the boys next Friday, not this. Today they are going to sleepover at a friend's house. You know, Dottie, from school”

Y/N blinks once, and then one more time in realization of the facts. And then, she raises both of her eyebrows in a half-funny awe.

“I- wait, really?!”

“Well, yes” Wanda nods her head in confirmation, even as she cages a spark of laughter in the back of her throat, “Actually, I was about to leave to drop them there”

“I, I- well shit, I was actually going to order hamburgers this time…”

And that's when Wanda can't help but chuckle softly, feeling her shoulders light up against the silk of her shirt as they sway subtly.

“You can tag along with us” Wanda proposes in a friendly and courteous tone of voice that portrays a smile, despite not having expressed it to her lips as she said, “If you want to, of course”

She adds quickly, almost like a thin squeak of a hesitant little mouse, eyeing her ex-wife in an expectant air – the fingers of her right hand hook uneasily through the fingers of her left hand as she does so.

And she doesn't know exactly why she'd offered it to Y/N, but something adorned by a rash itch inside her sort of wanted her to accept the proposal, like a fish accepting the bait of a hook. Wanda wants to hook her. She wants to hook her and keep her for herself.

And something even more urgent thumped in a throbbing gasp within her guts when it was that Y/N willingly nodded, nodding and a complacent half-smile broken at the corner of her lips, her hands still clasped inside her jacket pockets, sort of emulating a jock pose.

And something builds up inside Wanda for a third time, when the family of four finds themselves snugly secured by the seat belts of her car (a Buick Verano dyed in a can-of-tomato-sauce-red color that, in a way, goes well with her), the twins in the back and Y/N in the passenger seat, all neatly arranged in a homely and domestic way, performing with mastery the role of a well-structured family.

When, from the backseat, Tommy asked Wanda for a song and she promptly took her relaxed right index finger to press the digit on the little button that turns on the radio, only for the rustling sound that would encompass the interior of the vehicle to be the melody of an old alt rock song (a bit corny one), Y/N couldn't help but utter a hearty, nostalgic laugh as both boys grunted in tandem with the song's lyrics, and just as fast as she had done so before, Wanda quickly turned off the radio, feeling a flushed warmth heat her cheekbones and the tips of her ears.

She doesn't want to look the other way, at her ex-wife sitting close to the elbow on her right side. Wanda just wants to disappear in mortification.

She and Y/N used to have that same music as a soothing background for their late-night conversations in the compound, when the two of them, a couple of young girlfriends who could never get tired of each other, were just two bodies hugging and sweating against the rumpled sheets of her bed, the whole room smelling of sex and the red color – Deftones was definitely a band to listen to on pillowtalk… or at the heights of the passionate moans that would come after such pillowtalk.

“Ew, mama, what is this?” Tommy twists a beam of skin from his freckled little nose, and in the rearview mirror, Wanda sees Billy do the same in an expression of pure disgust.

“Wait, wait, wait, did your mama ever tell you guys about her goth phase?!” Y/N turns her chin over her left shoulder, flashing a smile cut in taunt mockery at which her voice sounds like a jocular laugh.

Wanda, on the other hand, grunts in embarrassment, squeezing the steering wheel material between her fingers. Maybe the boys wouldn't mind if she threw their mother through the windshield, after all.

ᗢ

The path back to the house had been solemn and, at Wanda's sheer request, you joined her in a romantic tasting of tea in the living room, having barely given up after the scorching mid-night that spills over Westview.

You didn't expect her to actually ask you to stay after you dropped the boys off at their friend's house (the little girl's mother, Sarah, certainly put an ulterior motive between you and Wanda, and your ex-wife swore her mouth to call her a bitch when it was just the two of you back inside her car), and you suspect she didn't expect you to accept the invitation either, because a veil of genuine astonishment fell over Wanda when you nodded with your head and smiled towards her.

(The initial invitation was for a glass of wine, but you said you were trying to avoid alcohol and Wanda apologized, and then the wine turned into tea which became a lame excuse for you to stay until after ten o'clock of the night)

The television which flickers, on its monochrome screen, a French film in black and white, is the only thing that fills the room with any kind of light or sound, as the two women, both seated well on the cushions of the dark sofa, say nothing more to each other (although a sudden abundance of coziness has surfaced in Wanda's exhilarating core, she who has her head bent dangerously close to her ex-wife's vigorous shoulder – her silky hair emanating a sweetened scent of strawberry shampoo).

You, however, roll on your axis in search of a comfortable position, and your elbow brushes lightly against Wanda's under the silk shirt, causing the two of you to look at each other curiously – two dark glances in the middle of the lighted room, only lit by the artificial lighting of a meaningless old romcom.

Wanda craves the comforting body heat radiating from you when as close to her as you are.

As much as you wanted to touch her, however, and felt your fingers tingling to do so; you, however, held the notion of the fact that between the two of you lay an invisible dividing veil, which neither of you would dare to cross a second time in such a short period of time.

And with that thought also tucked into her mind, Wanda chose to scoop more of her tea, enjoying the boiled hibiscus acrimony flavor that slides down the face of her tongue, between her teeth and the flesh of her cheeks. But she feels a gaze scrutinizing her from her jawline and cheekbones.

And you stare at her in ethereal devotion, simulating her gesture as she sips from the tea poured into her pretty china cup.

“So,” she calls, albeit from behind her teacup, “How's therapy going?”

You wet your lips with the tip of your tongue.

"Well, I've only been in one meeting so far... and I couldn't make it to the end" shrugging, you just know there's no need to withhold the facts, "I know I need to, and I swear that I will, but... it's hard to bring it all back. It's exhausting, exhausting as fuck. Honestly, I just want to lie down and not get up”

“I know,” she says, in a tiny, meaningful voice, “Yeah, I know how it feels”

And the air is kind of bitter, but you know toughness is needed. You know about the fact that you made mistakes with the woman sitting next to your right elbow, after all (grotesque and disproportionate mistakes), and from that you always understood very well.

But withholding awareness of your errands to those you've hurt and trying to repair what's been broken, that's kind of a fresh start that Wanda wants to see in you.

“But I'm trying, you see. For the boys, for... for you... I'm trying, Wanda. I'm trying to be better for you. Trying to take responsibility for my mistakes”

Something sparks inside Wanda, in hibiscus-tasting greed. And she looks at your face – and you just want to feel her close, all to yourself, comfortable in your needy grip. It scorched in will and greed sharpened through your veins. But all she does is just look for another sip of tea.

“I'm happy for you, Y/N. I really am. I know that it's easier to live in denial, that it feels more comfortable to stay in a melancholy state of mind, that... that acknowledging that you need help is difficult. I know it's hard, trust me" she half laughs, "I think I know better than most what self-deception looks like. And I know that someone can't live like that"

And then she looks at you, and you look at her.

“But you deserve to allow yourself to heal, Y/N. Not for me or the boys, but mostly for you. You deserve more, much more than that. You deserve to heal” and then, a vague hesitation, “Because it's when you heal that I'll forgive you”

And the silence is tiny, but it lasts for a considerable amount of needy seconds. Someone laughs greedily in the movie on television, a plastered, off-air laugh, but you didn't pay any attention to the joke – not when Wanda is next to you, when you want that woman so much that your veins throb inside your skin just for you to take her for yourself.

And when she stands up, the linen on the sofa moving next to her body to do so, your gaze follows her closely, attentive, watching her make her way to the kitchen, whereupon Wanda heads towards a new round of hibiscus tea.

Her dark hair looks silkier than usual, and you want to run your fingers through the locks just to feel, between your avid digits, the softness that oozes from Wanda's head. To make sure that touching them one more time would be like reeling in a dark puddle from the source of your greatest victory, your greatest pleasure in life.

Then you get to your feet, stretching your knees out into your baggy old light blue jeans.

And as if a red leash is constricted around the outline of your neck and Wanda is the one holding the rein, pulling and squeezing until the blood rushes to your head, towing you around like her pet, you are magnetized towards the throbbing figure of your ex-wife – as if you might choke and suffocate if you didn't breathe from the scarlet oxygen molecules that evaporate so subtly through the pores of her skin.

You need her to fill your lungs, to quench your thirst, to teach you to breathe again.

And your fingers throb in anticipation as she turns and looks at you, standing there, in the middle of her kitchen, in the middle of the night; both of her irises drenched in a sharp shade of moss-green, her pupils dilated like two abyssal puddles you want to sink into, as if you're on the edge and need just one last incentive to give yourself away once and for all; her chest heaving weighty like an animal in confrontation mode.

And it doesn't surprise you, in fact, when the proficient witch stomps toward you and takes your face between her warm palms, grabbing the bones of your jaw to pull you into a needy kiss.

When your lips clash your obsession explodes inside your chest, as if your mind bends to Wanda's will; she who invades your senses with a deluge of scarlet liquid and usurps your essence, your soul, your heart.

You know you are as devoted to this woman as a believer is devoted to their god. That she is purely your religion and your belief, that her body is the reason for your idolatry.

Gradually, you obtained urgency to overcome the slowness, and rudeness took precedence over the elegance imbued in the act. The kiss is transmuted into something visceral and animalistic, primordial, just bodies lacking the warmth of flesh or the robustness of touch; a throbbing knot at the mouth of both of you bellies just waiting to be undone.

As if in a rehearsed ceremony, you run your hands over Wanda's thighs and evenly spaced knees, and she, in return, links the folds of her elbows to the outline of your neck, placing herself on your lap, belly to belly. Soon, a sly pink tongue slips back into her mouth in search of what is hers, expert and needy.

And then, a strong, powerful touch, palms wide open and pressed to the curve of Wanda's round ass over dark leggings, which elicits an ambrosial groan from her as you sit her on the kitchen table, rising from her heels, standing through her open legs.

And you dive towards her mouth again, being welcomed like a welcome hug.

You feel a warm forehead press to your pale skin band above your eyebrows. And you and Wanda open your eyelids at the same time – pupils dilated and not at all confused. You feel like two animals mating, studying, seeing who will devour the other first.

Dark strands like charcoal strumming against the material of your jacket that feels just so hot against your smoldering body.

Shedding with the tips of her cut nails along the line of your neck, Wanda, then morosely, slides her spandex-covered thighs across the accentuated bones of your hips, placing herself tucked beneath your navel—your legs bent, her heels rubbing against the jeans you wear.

Her gaze sharp and shadowed with impetuosity as you feel the familiar flicker of a crimson nebula caressing her mound of Venus, and Wanda's half-open mouth (parted lips gasping) projects a sly little grin at which she zippers your pants drop slowly, circled by a thread of intangible red.

In the green of her irises a haze of scarlet mist is traced and, like fire in a straw, it only takes a second for there to be no more trace of emerald in her eyes; red drowns green within its wall of vivid fire, red intoxicates you, red touches you where you urge to be touched.

“Wanda”

You mumble breathlessly, your breath hot against the pulp of her lips, her hand tucked inside your pants, fingers caressing you, your hips rocking in a friction against the tense lap below you.

“Wanda, Wanda please..."

“It’s okay, baby” the speech overflows in ecstasy, pure and high.

Expectantly, Wanda threads the sides of your hips with the insides of her thighs, searching for something only you can give her, her forehead pressed to yours.

“It’s okay, baby, you deserve this”

There's a hot touch on your clit and then you whimper in labored need, a whoosh of hot breath hitting your ex-wife's lower lip, a friction of your restrained hip rubbing against her nervous pelvis, looking out for each other.

Wanda's greedy nose drifts toward the curve of your neck, below your ear, and there she sucks between her lips a shaft of skin she could bite and nibble on.

The massage is continuous against your pleasure core, and the return comes in the form of suction, and then the flick of the cheek of Wanda's tongue against your stinging skin. On your part, a hollow groan implodes.

"F-fuck, fuck me, Wanda..."

“Shit, baby, you're so wet” she chokes against your mouth, “So tight Y/N…”

Wanda's cunning fingertips settle to your needy clit and then decline at your entrance in an idolatry-soaked endeavor, a continual action that brings out the nastiest, baser, animalistic side of you, who doesn't give a damn about the trouble of suppressing the yelps in your throat.

It's so raw, hot and visceral, so human, that you even seem to be able to cry while Wanda fucks you fervently on that table. There's something in you that needs her – you need her to untie the knot, to touch you in that place only she can touch.

Your clever hands run along the contours of Wanda's body through the fine silk of her thin shirt, which you don't take long to break the fastenings, buttons exploding like projectiles in all directions, so you can clear a path and then cover the pale skin of her neck with your own lips, brushing a lot of lethargic kisses and licks over her sensitive epidermis.

And then another finger appears. And followed by this, another one. Slipping, exploring and filling your embers inside. Stretching it, enlarging it and softening it.

You want to explode in red (so little is missing). Before you can squeal (the frayed lungs sparking to do so), another hand wraps itself around your neck, a stinging palm choking the yelp back into your throat. Your brow furrows and your eyes narrow as your inner walls press Wanda's fingers inside your cunt.

“You're close, aren't you? Huh?” The fingers curled inside you, coercing a ragged response from you. You nod fervently in affirmation.

“Y-yes, God, Wanda, please-!”

Her eyes flicker a maniacal crimson as she looks into your eyes, into your soul. And then she kisses you hard.

“Come, love” is ordered, in a mixture of moans and saliva on the pulp of her lips, “Come on my fingers, Y/N”

 Like a spell, you do as she says.

As if your lover's oratory alone was enough to untie the knot of your lonely ecstasy, plaited all below your navel. Dark irises in smoldering glee dipped to the waterlines of your eyes, and a red haze, in delight, swamped your insides, pouring from your pulsing center the sweetest honey through Wanda's fist, imprisoned inside your lowered jeans.

So she kisses you where she can, as she can – in a thread at the tip of your brow, in the crimson cheekbone of your Apollonian cheek, in the corner of your sweet lips, in the curve of your tasteless chin. Your head drops to Wanda's shoulder, still drunk from the high of your climax. You can barely tell when the enchantress withdrew from your, only to bring her fingers to her lips, and taste your ether, your cum, with a shocked whisper in acknowledgment.

It took seconds for you to recover from the jolt of the powerful orgasm that washed over your pulsing core.

“You still taste the same” Wanda kisses a swath of sweaty skin above your brow, “So hot”

And then you stick your greedy nose into the curve of her pale, inviting neck, between a few strands of dark hair artificially smelling of strawberries, inhaling there the hallucinatory scent of Wanda's vegetable soap.

“Fuck, I love your smell. I fucking love your smell, Wanda”

And then, a new pressure blooms between your legs.

And it doesn't surprise you to see that there, by magic, a red phallus of considerable thickness and just the right length for Wanda to take was deposited around your pulsating clit. You know what she wants, and you feel ready to give it to her. You look at her as, without a word, you move your hips toward her, touching the tip of the silicone cock to Wanda the way you know she likes it, and you sip from the soft moan that bursts out of her.

“I want to feel you” she breathes, looking profoundly into your eyes as she does, “I want to feel your cock deep inside my pussy. I want you to tear me apart, Y/N”

Something inside you snaps. You then share a throbbing mouth moan, closed eyelids that keep dark and empty pupils, brows crumpled between the foreheads.

And then your hips begin its avid, pleasurable work, up and down, stimulating the nerve point deep within your ex-wife's thighs. Wanda is just a sweaty mess flanked by moans and rambling words; and pleasure, in its sweetest, purest, most genuine form, gnaws at your insides and demands more of you than you could ever imagine - a constriction in her womb that only you can touch.

Your ex-wife kisses you on the corner of your mouth, a flash of skin on your chin, the bone at the tip of your jaw - a lacked ecstasy compels you to collide with the pulps of her lips out of necessity, even if it is without the presence of tongues and an act much more carnal and rudimentary than it needs to be, so that the friction against her nervous lap never stops.

Her bundle of nerves is massaged, and as a result, Wanda squirms in between your legs.

“If you don't take those fucking pants off right now” you gasp against her ear, “I'm going to rip them off you”

“Y-yes” she pleads hoarsely. A haze of red is all it takes for the material of the pants to come undone, giving you access to Wanda's throbbing center.

"If you only knew... If you only knew how much I want to fuck you..."

You snake the smoldering tips of your fingers over the ruffled skin of the cool body below you, feeling the other woman's heavy breathing, drifting through the gap between her lovely breasts to her eager belly, leaving a hot trail of anticipation in its wake.

“How much I miss fucking you, and having to stifle your moans with my hand so you don't wake the boys... turn around, Wanda. Ass up”

And she does so without hesitation, her legs trembling in anticipation as her fingers pinch the edges of the table, and on the part of the experienced witch cringes a yelp as you squeeze between your palms both the pulps of her ass, massaging the soft skin, and carefully guides the toy to the entrance of the rosy, sensitive pussy, drawing from both parties a deep satisfying grunt as your fake cock comes into contact with the dark-haired woman's melancholic wetness in a burning, necessary and deliciously satisfying heat.

Still without penetrating her, however, prolonging your lover's preliminary pleasure as much as possible, you guide the length of the phallus to Wanda's swollen clit, masturbating her with the tip of your cock - and as you do, you take your skittish teeth to the curve of her pale neck with a faint scent of red, strawberry and sweat, where you began to pamper her bare skin with kisses and meticulous licks.

“Y/N please” she whimpers, quivering her ass in search of needy contact, “Please fuck me, please, ah-!”

Grinning hungrily against the bristly skin of her ivory neck, your teeth scraping the battered, reddened skin, you shove yourself against Wanda's wet, burning insides, which immediately spread a comforting sensation in her belly, complaining a small, barely audible “Fuck” out of her nose as you sink deeper and deeper into this delicious grip of delirious pleasure.

Wanda moans during penetration, throwing her head back dramatically, giving access to her throat for you, who cover it with kisses that leave her pale skin feeling feverishly warm. When you go all the way in, there's a needy squeal, and the television goes off-air—smell of sex and the color red oozing from her cunt.

“You're still so tight, damn it, Wanda,” your fingers tug at her scalp as, unceremoniously, you start a frantic rhythm against her ass, “I really missed your pussy squeezing me”

“Ah-ah-Y/N!” it was a squeaky grunt, her forehead against the wood of the table, “Glubže, malyshka, bystreye- faster- ah! Ah!”

The table rocks as you hit her cervix. The sound is of furniture creaking, and something in you roars. You love it. You love turning Wanda into a sweaty mess, filling her inside inch by inch, claiming her as your own, making her feel full of life.

As she leans on her elbows across the table and lifts her chest with heavy breaths, her hair being pulled toward you as she moans into her wet, nibbled lips, the brown locks covering her face like a dark veil, her breasts swaying at the same rate as the table legs scrape the floor and you sink deeper and deeper into it, she moans in pleasure like a needy beast.

“I bet you missed that too, huh?” you gasp, still keeping the steady rhythm of your strong hips against Wanda's, all the way inside her walls, “Someone to fuck you the way I know you like”

"Yes! Yes, yes, yes, yes...!"

She takes her right hand back and grabs your forearm that holds her waist.

When she looks at you over her shoulder, you groan; at the sight of her drawn cheek rubbing against the wood of the table, the hollow of skin against skin echoing off the kitchen walls for a good few minutes now, you swaying your hips against Wanda's, taking distance as you move in and out of the warm embrace around her wet cunt, thrusting with the true intention of destroying her from within, taking her to heaven and hell if need to be done.

You bite your bottom lip, feeling your skein of orgasm begin to be woven in the pit of your belly.

“Wanda, fuck,” you curse into her name, sticking your nose into the crook of her pale neck with a faint scent of sweat, your hips fast, sloppy, in an unstoppable beat against her skin, “Wanda, Wanda, fuck, Wanda!”

“Faster, baby! Don't- don't stop- don’t stop- ah!” you do as she says, again.

You alternate between slow and fast, deep, precise movements, causing your ex-wife's eyes contorted beneath you to roll in their sockets, her chest being unconsciously thrust forward, brushing her nipples against the silk of her open shirt on the wood under her moving torso.

Her body suddenly stiffens, and her neatly trimmed nails dig into the edges of the table; around the crimson material of your cock, a hot, viscous membrane leach up the erect length. And you feel the same trickle down between your thighs, as a yelp erupts from your ex-wife and a scarlet fever haze slams every window in the house in a harmony of hollow beats that build on Wanda's scream.

With the enchantress panting and limp as a jelly, that was the confirmation that, in a cloud of pleasure, the woman reached her apex, melting into the erotic red haze that clouded her dark eyes. You, panting, get the toy out of her insides; the shiny liquid glistens around your cock, and Wanda squeals even feeling the sudden lack of you inside her.

The living room window is cracked. The table can disassemble at any second. Wanda's neck looks like a galaxy of bruises, and her waist and buttocks are groped with red handprints that aren't going away anytime soon. The crotch of your jeans is stained with your pleasure and hers. And then she looks over her shoulder at you, the two of you still panting like two ecstatic animals.

She looks deliciously worn and messy, and you feel a new sting dulling below your belly button as you realize just how much natural juices trickle out of Wanda's abused pussy.

“So,” you gasp, brushing a strand of damp hair out of your face, “This…this is starting to become a thing, huh…?”

"Y-yeah..."

Your cum leaks out of her and drips onto the floor between your feet.

《《《《《《《ᱬ》》》》》》》

taglist: @diaryoflife, @iliketozoneout, @raqelacevedo, @wizardofstories, @wlwfanfictionss, @wandsmxmff, @whhyyynotttttt, @sayah13, @when-wolves-howl

i wrote porn lol

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

An imagine for adeuce please! They hang out someplace in their hometown during vacation but awkwardly run into crewel. I think treys family bakery would be a nice location but the setting is your choice in case you want to limit the dialogue and number of characters

Ps. I personally feel like the game needs more interactions between the students and teachers. Hopefully we can get more in the new event

Teacher-student interactions are so much fun! We definitely got more from Vargas Camp (which I’m really thankful for), and I hope we keep getting more!

So far, my favorite teacher-student dynamic has been Vargas and Azul. I’d feel bad for octoboi if I wasn’t laughing so hard at his flying fails--

I really liked this prompt, so I wrote more than my usual ~1000 word imagine; please enjoy!

***Mild spoilers for chapter 4!***

Imagine this...

The Rose Kingdom was aptly named for the flowers that bloomed in nearly every corner of its land. In the summer time, they blossomed magnificently, perfuming the warm air with their heady aroma—but in the winter, those delicate rosebuds were banished by a spell of frost. Without fail, a great cold would wash over the region every year, casting their famous red flowers in a thick layer of white.

It was a pattern that the kingdom’s residents had long since grown accustomed to. This was, after all, their beloved home—amid the roses, frozen as they were.

“Oi, Deuce! Hurry it up, will you?!” Ace called, tossing an annoyed glance over his shoulder.

His friend—wearing so many layers that he resembled a moving blueberry more than a human—lagged several paces behind.

Deuce attempted to return the sass, but his words caught in the scarf bound tightly around his mouth, coming out muffled instead. The puffball on his winter hat furiously bobbed up and down, as though communicating his frustration for him.

“If we don’t pick up the pace, they’re gonna sell out of hot chocolate and fresh pastries!” Ace rushed back, grabbed Deuce by the arm, and tugged. “C’mon!! I thought you were in Track and Field Club or something—so let’s get moving!”

Deuce loosened his scarf with his free hand and, glaring at Ace, declared, “No way am I running with the roads this icy. That’s a recipe for disaster.”

“Hah? You serious? I already got wasted enough time waiting for you to dress in your 101 layers of coats,” Ace grumped, gesturing to Deuce’s ridiculous outfit. “It can’t hurt to be a little quicker about it.”

“Mom wanted me to stay warm,” Deuce countered stiffly. “I’m gonna respect that, no matter what.”

Ace rolled his eyes and waves dismissively. “Yeah, yeah, whatever—enough talk, we really gotta get going...!! I’ll be damned if I freeze out here.”

“The Clover Bakery isn’t that far from here, so we don’t need to rush.” Deuce indicated a warm building at the end of the block, which gave off delicious fumes—spun sugar, baked bread, and spices. “Slow and steady wins the race.”

Ace groaned loudly. At this rate, it would take all day for them to waddle on over. He was about to bury his head in his hands when an idea dawned on him.

A mean, but clever, idea.

“Betcha I could make it there faster than you,” Ace chirped, his voice casual.

“It’s not a competition,” Deuce reminded him sternly.

“No one said it was, dummy! I’m just saying I could definitely beat you at your own game.”

“Tough words for someone shaking like a leaf in the cold.”

“Oh yeah?” Ace’s grin was wicked. “Prove me wrong, then.”

“I don’’t have to prove anything. It’d be dangerous to run in this weather, anyway.”

“I bet it’s way more snowy in Pyroxene—and Jack’s probably totally fine with running through it!”

“That’s Jack, and this is me. I said I wasn’t going to rush things, and I meant it.”

“Yeah? Too bad~” The redhead gave an exaggerated sigh and a shrug. “Backing out, huh...? Oh well. Guess if you snooze, you lose...!!”

“Hey, I never said...” Deuce’s voice trailed off, for Ace had shoved by him, darting off in the direction of the bakery. “H-Hey...!! Ace...!! ACE!! GET BACK HERE!!”

He tore after his friend, shouting at him all the while—and Ace, with his (cheating) head start, only laughed in return. Deuce soon caught up (no thanks to his club conditioning), and they were neck-and-neck for first place.

Windchill, knives upon their faces. The biting cold seeped into their lungs, making it hurt to breathe as they hurtled toward their destination. Yet they sailed on, determined to outdo the other.

Both boys launched themselves at the bakery entrance, grasping the handle at the same time.

“EXCUSE US!!” Ace and Deuce yelled in unison, yanking open the door (struggling to cram through the doorway at the same time) and stumbling in.

They were greeted by a blast of warmth and the smells of sweet cakes and toasted breads. The employee manning the counter glanced up, startled at the duo’s sudden appearance. When he saw who it was that had barged in, he sighed and calmly readjusted his glasses.

He looked a little different than usual, wearing a white shirt with green plaid that showed off his broad shoulders. The sleeves were rolled up to reveal thick forearms forged from years of lifting flour sacks and kneading dough. A brown apron was slung over his attire, four-leafed clovers sewn on the pockets.

“If it isn’t Ace and Deuce. How are the two troublemakers of Heartslabyul doing?” Trey asked, his smile lopsided as his underclassmen approached.

“A-Are we really troublemakers in your eyes, Clover-senpai?!”

“I’m just kidding,” he reassured Deuce. “Well, you are troublemakers, but more for Riddle than for me.”

“Geez... thanks for the vote of confidence...” Ace grumbled, casting the third year a cheeky look. “Some senpai you are, huh?”

“Now, now... I’m allowed to have some fun, aren’t I? We’re all ‘off-duty’, so to speak.” Trey said light heartedly. “Anyway, what brings you guys to the Clover Bakery? I’m assuming you’re not dropping by just to say hello.”

“Hehe. Obviously we’re hungry, so we came by for some grub!” Ace held up his index finger. “One large hot chocolate, and a plate of assorted butter cookies for me!”

“I’m okay with a small spiced apple cider,” Deuce chimed in, “please and thank you.”

“Gotcha. I’ll get you your drinks in a bit,” Trey nodded, “but as for the butter cookies, I’m afraid I won’t be able to sell those to you.”

“Huh?” Ace’s face collapsed. “Why not?”

“We’ve only got a few dozen left, and they’re reserved for a client that preordered them. Sorry.” Trey pointed to a neatly wrapped box already set upon the counter, done up in a bright green bow.

Through the plastic window in the box, Ace could see that the cookies had been converted into little sandwiches. Each pair housed a generous dollop of cream, caramelized raisins threaded throughout it.

“What? Who needs that many butter cookies? And why are there gross raisins in them--“

The door to the bakery flung open, summoning a gale of cold once more. A bell suspended above jingled, ringing in a new customer.

“Ah, speak of deville the devil,” Trey said—while his underclassmen balked in terror.

There, in the doorway, was a tall man in black faux leather gloves and a voluminous fur coat—striped, black and white. Beneath that, he boasted a crimson turtle neck and a blazer, half solid white, the other half a black , checkerboard pattern. This, paired with his slicked back hair, steely eyes, and regal face, made him appear as though he had just strutted off the runway, were it not for the leashes he gripped.

Two Dalmatians—one in a blue coat, the other in a red one—stood alert by his feet. They caught Ace and Deuce’s eyes and barked in greeting, but the two boys were far too fixated on the Dalmatians’ owner to gush over dogs.

“Crewel...”

“... Sensei?”

Ace and Deuce glanced to one another, then back at their Alchemy teacher.

“C-CREWEL-SENSEI?!”

“Wh-What’re you doing here?!” Ace demanded, pointing an accusatory finger. “School’s out for winter break...!! You... You didn’t hunt us down to make us do our homework, did you?!”

Crewel snorted. “Spare me your theatrics, Trappola. Your instructors are granted a vacation for the duration of winter break as well. Were you not aware?”

“I-I knew that! I just didn’t know you lived in the Rose Kingdom, too!”

“I thought teachers lived at school...”

“... Seriously, Deuce?!”

“The more you know.” Crewel narrowed his eyes at Ace. “But speaking of homework, I trust you pups are keeping on top of your assignments? Being on break is no excuse to slack on your studies.”

“D-Duh! Of course I haven’t been slacking!” A lie, Ace grimaced, thinking to the piles of homework he had abandoned in his bedroom in favor of hanging out with friends. Whatever, he could just pester his brother for help later. “Right, Deuce? Back me up here!”

“I’ve been diligently studying and working on my homework bit by bit every day, Crewel-sensei!”

“... But have you done it accurately?” Crewel asked, raising an eyebrow. “Simply writing down an answer does not guarantee full marks, Spade.”

“... Errrrrr, okay, maybe I need to work on it a little more.”

“You’ve got your notes and a reliable Science Club member to count on for assistance,” Crewel quipped, gesturing to Trey with a gloved hand. “There is no excuse for why you should not do well. That goes for you as well, Trappola.”

“Y-Yessir!”

“Crewel-sensei, I think that’s enough interrogation,” Trey called, waving for him to come to the counter. Outwardly, he wore a smile, but inwardly, he sighed. For the love of the Great Seven, don’t offer my help for me. “Here, I have your order prepared--oh, but be sure to keep your dogs at the doorway. No pets allowed beyond a certain threshold for health and safety reasons.”

“I am aware, yes.” Crewel’s eyes passed over to the two scared stiff underclassmen. “... Trappola, Spade--come here. Do your professor a favor and tend to my Dalmatians for me.”

“What? You want us to watch your dogs?”

“I’ll do my best, Sensei!!”

“Don’t just blindly agree to it, Deuce!”

“It will only be for a moment,” Crewel insisted, shoving his leashes into Ace and Deuce’s hands. The boys fumbled, but held firm--the Dalmatians eagerly staring up at them.

“... Oi, don’t give me those looks,” Ace grumbled. “You’re... You’re too cute looking and innocent to be Crewel-sensei’s pets.”

The dog in the red coat gave a happy bark, as if pleased with the compliment. Its partner, in the blue coat, panted with delight as Deuce gave it a firm head pat.

Crewel received the box of raisin butter cookies--but allowed his eyes to quickly a scan the glass display case as he strode up. “Do you have dog treats in stock as well?”

“We do.”

“Then add two to my total, please--peanut butter flavor.”

“Alright, you’ve got it.” Trey ducked, retrieved a pair of tongs, and fished out two bone-shaped biscuits. He dropped them into a paper bag and handed them over to his teacher. “That’ll be--”

He was cut off by several bills being fanned out on the counter.

“I’ve ordered enough from your bakery to know the general prices,” Crewel smirked, tucking his wallet away into his massive fur coat. “If there is a discrepancy, you may keep the change.”

“Ah, thanks for that. Hope you and the dogs enjoy--” Trey paused, cut off this time by the sound of several small footsteps from the back room of the bakery. He groaned, already knowing what was coming. “Oh no...”

“Trey-nii!!” A chorus of high-pitched voices piped up, startling Ace and Deuce. “We heard bark-barks!! Did Mr. Fluffy Coat bring back his doggies?”

Three heads of green hair poked above the counter--just barely. One girl and two boys, probably elementary school age, all of them sharing Trey’s mustard yellow eyes.

“Guys, not now. Big bro’s busy with the customers,” Trey warned. He passed an apologetic look to his underclassmen and teacher. “Sorry, my siblings are excitable sometimes.”

“I wanna pet the doggies!”

“I wanna feed’m snackies!”

“I wanna dress them up!”

To the boys’ surprise, Crewel merely chuckled. “No worries. Fellow canine lovers are always welcome.”

“Mr. Fluffy Coat!! Can we feed your doggies?”

“Pretty please with candied violets on top!”

“Please, please, please!!”

Crewel barked with laughter. “Perhaps I can allow it, little ones--permitted that your brother grants his permission.”

All three Clover siblings looked expectantly at their eldest sibling.

Trey heaved a sigh. “... I guess I’ve got no choice. Go ahead.”

Excited squeals filled the interior of the bakery. The Clover siblings nearly tripped over themselves racing over to Crewel’s dogs (they nearly trampled Ace and Deuce’s feet, too).

“Hey, watch it! We’re the ones babysitting these dogs, not you!” Ace cried as the kids descended on the Dalmatians. I’ve only had these dogs for five minutes but if anything happened to them, I’d kill everyone here and then--

“We can share, Ace!”

“Spade is correct. There is plenty of the pups to go around,” Crewel interjected. He produced two dog treats and broke them into smaller pieces, offering them to Ace, Deuce, and the Clover siblings. “Go on, then. One for each of you to feed them.”

The Clovers cheered and eagerly claimed their pieces, holding them out and allowing each Dalmatian to sniff and lick the treats straight out of their palms. As soon as the food was slurped up, the Clovers proceeded to vigorously pet the pups. But the first years hesitated.

“You’re... being awfully nice,” Ace noted, eying him suspiciously. “Are you gonna spring a pop quiz on us as soon as I take the treat?”

“Keep biting the hand that feeds you, and I just might consider it,” Crewel warned with a dark smirk.

“W-We’ll take the treats!” Deuce snatched up two pieces, shoving one into Ace’s hands. “Come on, let’s not worry too much. We’re on winter break, after all. Let’s just relax while we still can.”

“You’re right, you’re right! Let’s not sweat it!”

They exchanged a brief laugh before kneeling and offering up their own dog treat pieces to the Dalmatians. Just as the dogs’ sloppy, wet tongues connected with the boys’ hands, their cell phones went off.

“... Huh? Did you just get a text, Deuce?”

“I think I did. I heard your phone ping too, though. Did you get a text too?”

“I can check. One sec...” With his free hand, Ace fished his phone out of his coat pocket and consulted it. He immediately paled. “Oh, shit.”

(“Hey, language!” Trey shouted--but his protest seemingly went ignored.)

“What’s wrong?” Deuce asked, frowning.

“Check your phone. Check it right now.”

“Is it something seri...” Deuce’s face dropped as soon as he looked at his messages. “Fuck.”

(“I said, language!” Trey tried again, only to be snubbed a second time.)

The distressing text they had received?

SOS SEND HE LP STRAND ED D IN SCAR ABIA CANT GET OUT - Yuu, Grim

Ace and Deuce abruptly stood and bolted toward the exit, much to everyone’s surprise. They paid no mind to the concerned shouts of Trey, nor Crewel, or to the excited barks of Dalmatians no longer held by leashes.

All that remained of where the duo once stood were soggy, half-finished peanut butter dog treats.

[xgoldxnhour]

What she would give to take away his strife—his guilt that isn’t his to carry. To go back to a time before fear cursed this town and threaded itself into its infrastructure. Cases like these always felt far away, something on the news or some true crime podcast, but never outside your front door. The haunting part was who. With a town that knows just about anybody and hell, they’ve got their own problems but a question of torturous murder was never one of them. It keeps her up at night, thinking about the girls taken and those possibly to come—but as a girl who never considered herself all that religious, she prays that the list ends tonight. Naive ignorance but any other thought process would surely send her into psychosis. Lock her doors and never step foot back out until that bastard is locked away or scorched from his sin. Their home, these people, along with their Sheriff deserved better.

Blueberry was her favorite. The answer felt like a no brainer. It wasn’t a matter of needing protection or damsel nonsense (though there’s nothing wrong with any of that, just wasn’t her). It was a both a peace of mind for both parties. So neither have to sleep alone or worry themselves worn about the other. El hums softly, cheek resting against his chest. “Well, if there’s pancakes…how could I say no.” There’s very little she could say no to when it came to Sam Silas. He’s turned a stubborn girl willing. She was without a doubt joyously and unquestionably in love with him. Perhaps that’s what made all this helter skelter business just a little bit easier. Someone to hold and lie with at the end of the day. Someone to kiss away tears and fears of the like. It might’ve sounded ironic but it was nice—worrying about someone—in a way. It meant that they had your heart and were willing to share theirs. So even behind locked doors, weapons at your bedside and guard dogs, there he was to melt the fear away, even for just a moment.

“Don’t think the kids will mind either.” She giggles with eyes closed. By kids, she meant their little clingy babes waiting by the door tires roll over gravel. Seamus and Pumpkin. But the joke brings another sense of lighthearted wonder—that one day, two could turn into three or four or five or hell, even six. Little curly haired blondes and gingers running around. They’ve talked about it a little with glasses of wine or whiskey, sitting on the rug as a vinyl plays in the background. It seems like poor time to be thinking about such simple fantasy, but maybe it’s exactly the hope needed. It’s just that for now. Hopes. There’s no need to rush anything, but the thought is nice. That there will a time after this fearsome misery. That this town could be safe once again, a place you’d want to settle down and raise your kids in.

It’s then when El looks up into his cerulean gaze with another soft smile. She reaches to hold his cheeks and brings his head down slightly so she can kiss his forehead, down his nose and finally tenderly against his lips—finally resting her forehead back against his. “Hey. I love you.” Her voice is only but a whisper even in this near vacant bar, it’s only for him to hear. Just for them. “You somehow make me feel…brave…yet safe. And I really hope you…catch this rat bastard and…kick his ass…” There’s other words on her mind but could used in a court of law—like the fact that she’d put up a hard fight if ever in the position.

But it only added to what she said about him helping her feel brave. And she could only hope that she somehow makes him feel the same.

“I just wanted you to know that you mean everything to me.” Whether it’s the alcohol or somber, she’s feeling awfully sentimental. And with this devil around, now’s the time to tell your loved ones every wonderful thing that lays on your heart..

There’s a knowing glint at the song he chooses, one that favors winter socks and wooden spoons for a microphone. It’s a wondrous reminder that she has found someone who knows her so mortally to the point his very breath rattles her bones. Her gaze falls to his chest as lungs release that unknowingly held breath, the tension loosening of his shoulders. It’s perhaps that the young blonde knows him just as deeply too. They’re both a marionette, pulled by each other’s fingers, and yet as free as one could ever be with someone. Which is why it’s so difficult seeing him this way.

The stress put on the department is palpable, hell, more than half of them drag their feet through these doors just to sleep at night. What this person—this sadistic, putrid fuck—is doing to this town is abhorrent. Yes, there’s been accidents before or even suicides, the occasional runaway or a dumb kids thinking they can shop lift. Redwood had their sum of problems that kept the Sheriff busy—but this—this case is gut-wrenching and has done nothing but scare good people. The town is at a standstill. People lock their doors (which they always should’ve but historically had no reason to), they close up shop before dark or shut down altogether. Saying they’re spooked is putting it lightly. Lately, some patrons have been saying perhaps El shouldn’t be open this late at night or at least not by herself and despite never considering herself a paranoid person, the thought does cross her mind. Which is why most nights are spent together, either picking her up from work or driving Sam home when he’s not quite sober enough to drive himself. In a world that only knows fear, and a community that’s beginning to understand that reality, it’s nice to have someone to home to. Someone who makes you forget what the hell there is to be scared about. And that’s Sam.

So, as he beckons her forward and arms wrap around his neck, they fall into a comfortable slow step. It’s practically just moving side to side, but anything more might make anyone’s sea legs lose themselves. El chuckles at his mention of his shirt, looking down only briefly as she almost forgot she was wearing it. “What’s mine is yours, right?” There’s a pause and a mischievous look. “But, technically yes, I actually missed laundry day.” Her apartment doesn’t have a washer and dryer and the laundromat could now be considered a ghost town with everything that’s been going on. El sometimes will go visit a friend to use theirs or just hand wash it herself. Her bathroom is now lined with wet clothes hanging to dry and come to find, it takes a little bit more than a dryer would.

Their moves slow a bit more as foreheads press together, holding foundation to steady movements. His skin is so warm against hers and she relishes in its touch. “I missed you too.” Their voices are now a whisper though the place is mainly empty besides a couple of stragglers paying all their attention on the silent sports game in the background, talking amongst themselves or are already asleep at the counter.

And when he finally confesses the obvious strain and trouble on his mind, her lips purse and eyes nearly water toward something far more loving and sympathetic than its teasing predecessor. Her tongue clicks before she speaks. “I’m sorry, baby. I can’t even imagine.” Fingers stretch slowly as they glide at the nape of his neck and into his hair. “It ain’t gonna be bad forever. You’re doing all that you can—and we all see that and I know that you’ll catch the guy.” There’s other words or names that feel more appropriate than just ‘the guy’, but El is attempting to be somewhat ladylike.

One hand glides down to hold his chest, rubbing softly where his heart is. “But it doesn’t mean you have to carry it all alone, Sam.”