#yolk in the fur

[phlurrii]

How are you able to draw fluff/fuzz so well? It's like I can feel it irritating my eyes with how sharp and soft it is.

I have an obsessive petting/fidget thing, where I love soft things and just… repeatedly petting them. That ended up with me making everything fluffy or soft in my art as a comfort/preference. Which results in having a decent amount of experience with making things soft and fluffy ;D

[muckpit]

enough of meat fear. meat appreciation intermission. lucky am I for my senses, lucky am I for my existence.

[2kmps]

DARK POOL

aquatic monster x reader | 18+ | 2.8k

story summary; your granduncle explains that the noises at the bottom of the lighthouse and the missing chunk out of his leg are from swimming rats. you let him think you're a fool.

story warnings; some graphic depictions that some may consider gory, mentions of biting, mentions of rats, creature in captivity, explicit sexual content, double penetration (not safe), prose + detail heavy, implied breeding, not proofread.

if you enjoyed it, please reblog + interact!!

Granduncle told you that the rats in Cape Tellis liked to swim and when they were in search of food, they didn't care how long they'd have to paddle through the water to find it. Some would simply drift with the current for days; black-gray fur rotted off, skin peeled off bone, little faces disfigured by sea and salt, but they would keep going until their bodies nudged the rust-red walls of the lighthouse and found the energy to scale upward to a window and squeeze inside.

He mentioned this anytime you had something to say about the ruckus down in the basement—sometimes scratching, sometimes powerful, erratic thuds that you felt pulse through the floorboards, through the rubber soles covering your feet, and into your skin. That place was sealed behind a rusted metal frame and door, deadbolted and locked with a key he always carried on a chain through a belt loop.

It always jangled when he walked because he had a limp so bad that his entire leg always dragged a pace behind him and took a great amount of effort to haul forward. When you had asked of it, as memory dictated a handful of years prior he didn't have such trouble, he first claimed it had been a bad sinus infection that got into his brain and disrupted something neurologically. In another instance where he had stopped for a third time on an evening stroll together, he had said he scuffed with one of Cape Tellis’ formidable rats and the mangy bastard had won and taken a chunk of meat out of him before scuttling back into the walls.

“Just ignore it, it's normal that they're active this time of year,” he was saying while scraping fried eggs out of a pan onto your plate. Meanwhile, you winced to the usual commotion downstairs. “They get real flighty this time of year. The rats do. They get frisky and chase each other all around. I don't know nothin' about them besides being persistent, ugly things, but it may well be their special season.”

You ripped a sharp edge in your toast and prodded the egg yolk until the sunny orb burst, oozing out across your plate before you could scoop it all up in the bread.

“How long does it take for the rats to go away?” you asked with some interest in his answer, if for no other reason to know what sort of yarn he'd spin next. The bread was buttered, the eggs unseasoned, but you ate it all anyway while watching him. “Are they permanent residents or do they come and go? You must be feeding them if they stay here.”

Granduncle took a long time to situate his bad leg under the table, longer to arrange his silverware and the direction of his food. “Oh, they have no interest in leaving, I don't think. If they really wanted to, I imagine they would've jumped back into the water and swam somewhere else.”

Each time the noises rose up between the wood slats under your feet during breakfast, granduncle told you not to worry about it, but you quieted every sound in your head to better hear rattling metal, reverberations of some sort—like having a man’s deep, anguished moan pressed right against your ribs. You weren't sure what you were looking for when you listened, only that you knew they were rats.

Granduncle looked at you, his appetite pushed away towards the center of the table with his plate. “Let's go for a walk, yes? The rain won't come back for a few hours.”

When you did walk after a meal, granduncle would often have to lie down with his dead leg propped up on a short stack of pillows for a long while. It became something of a habit of yours to exert him too much after dinner, forcing him to keep up with your youthfulness—your merry prances and unburdened soul.

For what it was worth, he did the best he could to never be a hindrance. He didn't seem to fully understand his own limitations either, making it quite a simple thing to steal the key from his belt loop while he slept—deep and silent, so much so that you needed to drop a tissue over his face from make sure he was still breathing—and unfasten the lock to descend a set of slick, stone stairs.

There wasn’t much to at the bottom; a space half-flooded from seasonal rains raising the sea-level, old pieces of ship equipment hanging like ornamentation, an old folding chair that had yet to rust despite damp air, and a large hole in the ground that was dark like the throat of a nightmare envisioned in the most precious hours of night.

You held a plate of raw meat, freshly thawed from the freezer, outstretched with a flickering lantern in your other hand. Anywhere else, you'd have just brought a flashlight—but, he didn't like the bright lights, had ripped the last one out of your hands and smashed it against the wall. Oil lanterns were better tolerated, but he still seemed to cower from the gentle flickers.

So, you placed the meat on the seat of the folding chair and walked closer to the hole, wading a hand through seawater until touching braids of cold metal, chains pulled taut as though weighted down by an anchor. You gave the closest one a tug, always with the same caution as a child gripping his mother's clothes in uncertain times, and backed away.

He never made noise when he surfaced, always frightfully quiet, only indicated by a trail of bubbles that followed after where he roamed underwater. The first thing to emerge was a dorsal fin flared proudly from the middle of his head until midway in the deepest curve of his back. His eyes were on you, abysmal black things with a luster you likened to a landbound fish, and skin and scales that moved stiffly with his facial movements.

“You,” said the creature, toneless and in a voice far too raspy and deep to have an equal match amongst human men. “You have come. You are here.”

Months ago, he hadn't been capable of simple speech such as this. The noises he made were incompatible to anything you had ever heard—perhaps mere vocalizations he utilized underwater, possibly something long gone and archaic—but he had started mimicking you when you'd speak, and eventually you started slowing down, giving him the time to feel how the sounds vibrated in his own throat.

“I brought you food, again.” You gestured towards the seat with raw meat with your lantern, prompting his passing glance of interest before he was back on you. “Not hungry? He usually doesn’t feed you that well. I haven't been down here in a week or so, so I figured you'd be ready to scarf it down.”

“No.”

He came closer and the size of him grew, a towering figure with strong, broad-shoulders and a chest built to withstand the friction of the sea he used to own. His face, although hidden in darkness and flickering shadow cast from your lantern, gleamed as the light struck his iridescent scales. The shape of his lips were human-like yet taut, helping to comfortably fit his sharp teeth inside his mouth.

You'd wondered at times what exactly he was, what your granduncle believed him to be and feared so much to hide him away, chained to a wall. You fantasized that he could be the lost prince of some underwater civilization, or the offspring of several thousands of years of evolution between humans and something else.

He never seemed to understand you when you asked him what he was.

“Come,” his reach was limited by the chains that bound his limbs, keeping him shy of touching your body. “Come to me.”

With the lantern set aside, a distance you hoped wouldn't turn him petulant, you walked in his arms and the shackles and made home there as he surrounded you. His embrace was not the sort you could escape, nor was the kiss he pressed against your mouth.

There were parts of him you were too scared to touch, where his scales were like serrated teeth and he had much less control to retract at will like the dorsal find along his back. His lips were smooth and cold, however, a safe place for you to be on his body along with the hard flesh on his chest.

He pushed himself into your touch as your fingertips traced the shape of his torso, rose with the sprawl of his breasts and shoulders, molded into the ridges of his lower abdomen that you felt pulse and tense the further downward you roamed.

The sheath around his groin had swelled significantly and seemed to twitch when you smoothed your hand across it, kneading it gently to see what would come of doing so. You'd seen this only once before several months ago, a time where you'd been more frightened of him and fled from the basement for weeks when he'd acted more aggressive than usual.

It was one of the many things he had taken notice of that were perceived negatively—with fear and distance and shutting him away in this deep dark until you found the courage to feed him again, because your uncle was petrified along with being restricted in his ability to navigate the stairs with his lame leg.

So, he had learned to behave at the worst of times to keep food supplied, for you to stay wrapped up in him like this and so curious to challenge the extent of his self-restraint.

His kiss had grown full-bodied and restless and gone elsewhere on your body to a great expanse of skin. His face nuzzled into the fabric hiding your warmth from him, teeth tearing and fraying the threads that kept your clothes together until you stopped him.

“Stop—wait, wait, wait.” You walked back out of his arms once he was able to recognize the words. He reached for you despite the clattering bonds around his wrist, but you took your time to shuck the clothes from your body and fold them.

Once he had you back, he led you to the edge of the pool of endless depths and sank down inside of it. Your toes touched the very edge of darkness, stirring a rabble of butterflies in your gut that did not dissipate even once he resurfaced.

“Sit.” He gestured right at where you stood. “Sit down.”

The idea of having any part of your body submerged in the black water left you with little desire in continuing this, but you obeyed and slowly lowered your rear to the rim of the pool, legs speckled by goose pimples as the cold water gripped up to the inside of your thighs.

“Yes, good.” He was close enough to push your thighs wide apart and stick his tongue inside of you. You took in a great sucking breath, startled from the suddenness of it and the long, articulate appendage massaging a part of you in a way no one ever had before.

You leaned back on your arms when they weakened and shook from the sensations, eyes flicking towards the drab ceiling, wondering just how far under the living quarters of the lighthouse you actually were and whether granduncle would hear any lewd sounds that were beginning to hum in your throat.

“Keep going.” He said when you moaned, tongue retracted from your body to mimic the ministrations you made with your hand and fingers while you stroked yourself. “Keep doing it.”

He nudged your hand away to put his mouth over that stimulated spot instead, sucking and licking along you with such fervor that you dissolved into hard pants and whimpers, tempted to close your thighs around his head and push him away as the tight warmth inside of you flushed out with a kaleidoscopic burst of color and cool air following the trail of something slowly oozing out of you.

It took a second orgasm and chanting turned to cries to get him off of you. That brief respite ended when he took you by the waist and dragged you into the pool with him. By that point, you were too far spent to have anything but unshakeable indifference to the depths and the cold.

His kiss was as it had been before, rough and restless, forceful in a way that left you malleable and melting against him. Even when he had your front wedged between the rim of the pool and his chest, you couldn't bring yourself to react much.

You felt his thighs mold to the back of yours before the slim tip of his cock pushed into you, the girth of it thickening considerably at the base. The friction of the water wasn't an obstacle for him to fuck into you with greedy thrusts that threw your hips forward, knocking skin and bone against the wall of the pool.

“Oh, oh, oh, oh—” the ridges of his cock were an unusual feeling, catching your walls in spots, spreading you wider when he'd withdraw part way and plunge back inside. “Oh, shit—feels good. Harder. Harder. Harder!”

There was truly never any way to know how much he understood when you said it, something called into question when his thrusts slowed to a stop, but he stayed hard inside of you. For a moment, the water settled along with your heavy breaths and blood gushing through your ears.

Things slowly came back into focus—the dancing lantern light, the room temperature meat, the wicked water in which you were immersed to the waist while the rest of you was braced by him.

He shifted behind you, adjusting his thighs so yours went even wider. Before you could ask the things you wanted to, a new sensation stole your breath—the swollen head of a second cock, different in shape and size from the first, pushed into you and lay flush atop the other.

“Don't—don’t move.” You were struggling to do the same thing with such an enormous stretch you'd never had to accommodate before. Tension built in your throat, whether a sob or a scream or your own anxiety, and stayed there to cinch your voice into silence.

He soothed you with lips and teeth all over your flesh; the back of your neck, the cartilage of your ears and the underside of your jawbone. His large hands left the shelf of your hips and felt along your front side, nipples, chest, stomach, and groin where he tried to recreate the same pleasure on you now as you had done for yourself earlier.

“Good?” He nested his cocks deeper when he heard you moan. The pain of it was beginning to subside, but the strangeness of it remained. “Is it good?”

"Just—just don't hurt me.”

His hands were back on your hips to keep you seated on his thighs while he thrust into you. It wasn't as easy for him to move as it was before, perhaps realizing the limitations of a human companion, but continued in snappy pulses that made the water lap at the skin on your back and turned your thoughts into senseless, garbled things.

Soon enough, you were riding a sloppy, savage rhythm to which you had no control of whatsoever as he chased his end. In moments where he seemed to regress into a natural state, almost animalistic in the way he rutted into you and buried his cocks, one would slip out and go forgotten for a time. The length of it glided against your groin, a smooth motion underwater that prodded your sore spots before he was able to fit it back into place with the other.

Amid your luscious sounds were those of his own; labored, air-sucking rasps that rumbled from places more than just his throat. They were probably never meant to be heard above the surface of water, just as he didn't belong fucking a human while being chained to a wall.

You thought about that fact while the last thrusts he took seated his cocks so deep that you ached, hard surges of warmth flooding your insides in a way unexpectedly delightful. He clung to you with his arms and shackles even well after he had emptied himself in your body and retracted both cocks into their sheath.

After a while, he hoisted you out of the water and followed you to retrieve your clothes. He stopped short of the chains pulling in the wall, watching while you wiped away the remnants of him oozing down the backs of your thighs and redressed.

“Don't go.” He kissed you and let his cold lips linger over yours. “Stay here.”

You returned the affection as endlessly as he gave it, only thinking that sunrise would soon come to pull you apart.

a/n: not my best work, but hopefully passable. it's really helpful when y'all reblog, so please do so!!!

I don't really have any comments on this because I'm starting over from zero on the long-fic of the aquatic monster story bc I hated what I had lmao.

anyway, please keep in mind that is a concept piece. chances are that none of this will be present in the actual long-fic. this just helps me to explore ideas and familiarize myself with characters.

[thegnomelord]

Shark Merperson reader is real gud.

- 🦈

(HOLY FUCK. THANK YOU TO WHICH EVER ANON REQUESTED THAT BECAUSE I FUCKIN LOVE SHARKS.

Now Im thinking of a Price x Reader, because shars are the oldest species known to exist. Obviously sharks arent immortal, they've just been on this earth way b4 tress bloody existed.

So Im thinking the readers an eldritch creature, they represent sharks as a whole, as long sharks exsist they exsist. Heck they mights of even of been Prices mentor when he was in his draconic 100s? (Late 20s?).

Imagine Price missing his friend calls him up to see hows hes doing. Reader elated to meet an old friend, accepts the invitation to meets up with him. Reader definitely scolds him for lossing a wing, honestly is pertrified Price lost a piece of himself and thought he was retiring due to it. Cut ahort to him smacking him slap dab on the head when he learns he's lost it a long time ago and didnt tell him.

Cue wholesome interactions th 141 and etc. Heck maybe some romance with Price.

Just a blurb i had yo tell you abt)

Okay, this tickles my eldrich abomination trying to act human itch

CW:SFW, eldritch reader, kissing

Price knows you're there the second he steps onto the old wooden pier, able to smell seaweed and brine and something in the air — what he thinks the bottom of the ocean smells like, old rot of decaying whales and older heat of geothermal vents — the soft wind billowing his hair like the breathing of an elderly beast.

He knows you're watching him, passively at least, washed up mermaid purses dotting the beach to give you a glimpse of the world above the waves through the yolks vital for the pup's survival, able to dream of the warm sun and course sand while you slumber beneath the waves.

"Oi, ser, yer look like a wee lass waiting for her sailor." Soap's sharp voice cuts through the air, the werewolf far too energized for his own good, the sand in his fur not dampening his mood when he can just shake himself off and flick the grains on Simon.

"Hah," Price snorts, "Maybe I am." He tilts his head back to the sea, sharp eyes watching the breaking waves. "Time to wake up old friend." He mutters your mangled name under his breath, mortal lips and vocal cords unable to replicate your own voice.

The young ones in his team lack the sight needed to notice your form slowly rise from the sea like a submarine breaking through the ice, only the visible flicker of air and the receding water keying them in. Price old enough to see you without needing the inner surface of his skull to be dotted with eyes. Though even he sees your real form like a man having a stroke — vaguely familiar at first yet the details are undefinable — flesh and sea melding together without rhyme or reason, long strings of seaweed bearing miniature eyes with pups wriggling inside, cookie cutter sharks boring holes through finless corpses so long eel sharks may form ever reforming sinews, fossilized bone and old rock giving giving support to the massive insult to reality's laws; birth and life wrapped up in death.

You're an affront to logic. And with one sneeze from existence itself you're human standing in front of him.

Eerily human.

Perfectly human.

Almost.

"What the fuck?" He can faintly hear Gaz's voice, all of them only now noticing you stand where you weren't previously.

Your hand touches his back before he even registers you move, always slightly damp, "When did this happen?" You ask as you trace the spot where his wing used to be. "What did this?"

"And a 'hello' to you too sweetheart." He clasps a hand around your waist, purring softly in greeting as he pulls you closer to his chest. Even if he sees you once every few centuries, even if you don't possess the ability to reciprocate, his love for you is as youthful as it was when he was but a wyrm.

Your facial features remain neutral like the ones of sunken statues, but you blink, and for a few seconds he can see that yawning abyss in your eyes. "Hi." You say, your hand still tracing the bump created by atrophied flight muscles, trying to judge how fresh it is. "Explain."

Your tone sounds like a predator baring it's teeth, but he knows you wouldn't harm him. "In a lil' bit." He snorts, puts pressure on your back until he forces your legs to move. "Come, want you to meet my boys."

The introductions are odd on both ends considering you hadn't spoken with people other than Price since that Icarus of a passenger ship mistook your fin for an iceberg and they've never met an old one like you. But you like them, they compliment Price just like the small scale he gave you makes the pearls and gold offered to you through the ages shine more.

Even if your face is unreadable, somehow they can figure out you're not too amused when you hear he'd lost his wing during a mission. "I told you arrogance would cost you." You at least you can mimic a sigh as you rub your head, "At least you retired." You say,

"We wish!" Soap snorts before he can help it, and the next thing they hear is a horrific crack that has them jumping out of their skin.

Your head had whipped 180 degrees with the rest of your body remained in place, the laws of nature nothing more but blurry guidelines. "You. . .did retire?" You ask, voice like the roar of a whirlpool.

"About that," Price starts, unable to finish his thought as you slap him upside the head as if he's still the whelp who thought he could brave an ocean storm.

"You'll put me in the grave." You growl, holding him by the ear, words spilling from your mouth like seawater filling the empty bowels of a ship. "I swear your scaly hide hasn't learned a single thing-"

"Should we help?" Gaz wonders as they watch you chastise their captain like he's a boy.

"No, this is great entertainment." Ghost chuckles.

"Want me ta grab the popcorn?" Johnny ads, already snacking, tail thumping against Simon's leg and growling playfully when Gaz reaches for the snacks.

Eventually your anger relents, mood changing as swiftly as the tide. You spend the time they have left learning about the men he's chosen as his hoard. Kyle's a bit weary of you just due to his harpy nature, but soon enough you two can be found sitting on the pier and fishing, and if you purposely make the waves flow so a big fish snags on Kyle's line, Price never says anything about it, not when his boy has a smile as big as the sun when he looks at the gigantic fish flopping on his hook.

You attempting to help Soap cook the barbeque, but you're fine motor skills are rusty after all these years of slumber, so the food is slightly burnt but Price loves when his food's basically charcoal and eats it with a smile, especially as it keeps you from telling all the embarrassing stories you have of him, from when he got his ass bit by a squid to when he was so horny he ended up rutting against an extra curvy piece of rock, though the rest have already heard enough dirt to bury him for the next several decades.

Unfortunately for Price, you and Ghost hit it off like a house on fire, and Ghost ends up learning far too many ways to hurt people without killing them that most definitely are against the Geneva conventions but you pull seniority on it. Simon in turn, teaches you how to play cards, which, when you're literally a god that can see almost everything including your opponent's cards, means the shmucks Simon ropes into playing you and Simon end up with empty pockets.

As the sun stars to dip behind the horizon you wind up sitting next to Price by the fire, the others splashing in the water.

You feel his wing spread behind your back to pull you closer to him, "I missed this." He says, knowing you won't comment on the 'I missed you' hidden behind his vellum words.

"Last time we met like this Napoleon was still emperor." You hum, a small yawn escaping you, sharp tips of shark teeth peeking from human gums. "And you had two wings." You can't help but point out, making it clear you've not forgiven him about not informing you.

Price pointedly ignores your later comment, his hand tentatively, almost shyly, reaching down to sit on top of yours. "Afraid I'll forget about you?"

His pulse picks up when you shift your hand to hold his, fingers lacing together when you don't have a tail as a human. "You wait for me." You shrug, holding your free arm up, reality wheezing for a few moments before his scale is suddenly in your hand, shiny and unharmed just as it was when he'd given it to you all those years ago. "And I dream of you."

His eyes widen and heart melts, a purr rumbling in his chest "C'mere sweetheart," He rumbles and pulls you into a kiss, free hand holding your chin stable.

You taste of salt and blood, of chilling cold and boiling heat, of something ancient and familiar and Price drinks it all down like a babe, tongue licking in your mouth and fangs nibbling on your lip, feeling you respond, the touch of hungering god as soft as silk, just to him.

But he knows this won't last.

A shark has no reason to stay on land, and a dragon can't survive underwater regardless of how much he wants. Soon you'll return to slumber, and Price won't know when he'll see you again, if he'll see you again, or if you'll learn of his passing when your waves swallow up his ashes.

He doesn't notice the prickling in his eyes but you do, wiping a stray tear with the pad of your thumb, your other hand still wrapped around his. "Don't worry John," You say, statue features finally cracking into a small smile, "I'll stay for a little while." You say and lead him into another kiss, the other members of TF141 leaving you two to catch up on lost time...

[ginnsbaker]

In Silent Screams (3/3)

Chapter word count: 11.8k+ Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader, Wanda Maximoff x Vision (past) Warnings in this part: Smut (F/F), Angst, Gaslighting, Blackmail, Mild attempted sexual assault

A/N: This is probably the most uncomfortable fic I've written after In Flames (for good reason lol), so I'm nothing short of amazed if you were able to go through every line in this three-parter. P.S. For some reason, third part was the hardest to write for me, I guess it's because a lot of the scenes now are the same ones from In Flames after R found out and switching perspectives was a lot harder than I anticipated :P

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

-

It all feels like a dream, starting from the moment she opens her eyes and a few rays of light have filtered through the slats of the blinds. For a few moments Wanda pretends she’s back to that day—to that first morning she woke up next to you as your wife.  She can still vividly recall the setting: your old bedroom in Montauk. Less than a year out of college, both you and Wanda were being frugal about the whole marriage thing, opting out of checking into a hotel after the festivities the night before.

Wanda smiles to herself at the fond memory. She glances to the side, and the alarm clock reads 5:30. It's too early to be waking you up, or anyone in this sleepy town. Nevertheless, she has to talk herself into extricating herself from your arms if she wants to pull off a very special breakfast-in-bed. A hesitant decision, a quiet sigh, and Wanda's slowly pulling herself from the warmth of the bed. The wood floor feels cool against her bare feet, prompting her to reach for one of your used polo shirts hanging over the back of the desk chair.

She enters the kitchen, her hands immediately getting to work. The spinach and mushroom are her first go-to, swiftly layered with day-old bread, and custard mix, forming the base for her strata. Next come the eggs, which she sets to poach, anticipating the smooth burst of yolk that'll cascade over the muffin once all is said and done. And then finally, bacon—your favorite. 

Sparky trots into the kitchen, inevitably drawn by the wafting aroma, his tail wagging in tandem with his eagerness. He settles by her feet, watching with those pleading puppy eyes, occasionally letting out a quiet whine that speaks of his impatience and hope. Wanda chuckles, bending down to ruffle his fur. “You think this will get you a piece, huh?” she teases. But, she already knows that she'll give in, sneaking him a piece or two. He's your and Wanda's baby after all.

After she’s finished plating the meal, she sets them on a tray and carefully carries it back to the bedroom. The morning sun presents itself more boldly, almost spotlighting you in bed. Your face is tucked beneath a pillow, the sheets haphazardly pooled around your waist, revealing the bare expanse of your back, without a care in the world. Warmth floods Wanda's chest. She places the tray on a nearby desk.

Breakfast can wait.

Slipping into bed behind you, she becomes a shadow to your form. Her fingers gently trace the curve of your shoulder, lightly skimming over your skin. A shiver runs through her, and she lowers her lips to your nape. The temptation is too great, and soon, her tongue joins the fray, drawing a wet path down your spine. And then, unable to stop herself, she begins to rub herself against you, a soft moan escaping her lips. The sheer fabric of the polo shirt she's wearing, infused with your scent, rubs tantalizingly against her sensitized skin, heightening her need. 

She can't stop thinking about last night, and the times before. She can't stop thinking about you—having you, being had by you. However, as your muscles start to tense, indicating the micro movements of your awakening body, a soft “fuck” slips from Wanda's lips, distracting her rhythm. She waits, a small smile tugging at her lips, silently asking if you're ready to greet the day—together.

You lazily roll onto your back, causing Wanda to reposition herself, now straddling your abdomen. With a drowsy smirk, your eyes half-lidded, you murmur, “Good morning,” squinting at the enthusiastic goddess—my wife, you think possessively to yourself— hovering above you.

Her face lights up, her morning energy nearly palpable. “Morning,” she chirps back, leaning down to capture your lips in a short but sweet kiss. Breaking away only slightly, she gives you a playful eskimo kiss, her nose rubbing affectionately against yours. A giggle escapes you, and she continues until you feel her nose scrunch up from how hard she’s smiling, all the while relishing the sound of her laughter. 

When she's done teasing you, she buries her face in your neck. Drawn to the soft, milky expanse of her thighs, your hands begin to wander. As your fingers brush the curve where her thigh meets her hip, the subtle absence of fabric gives you pause. She's without a stitch beneath your polo. Your thumb ventures further south, discovering the dampness tangled in her soft curls. Heat surges to your cheeks, and you bite your lip, stifling a moan.

Wanda notices the slight change in your expression and a devilish smirk forms on her lips. “Seems like you found a little surprise,” she teases.

“Did I?” you smirk, tracing  the V-line leading to her hidden treasure, teasing her a little. Wanda's breath catches, her pupils blown. But just as she readies herself for whatever comes next, you suddenly shift upwards, unbalancing her slightly. Reflexively, her legs wrap around your waist, anchoring herself to you. Her hands fly to your shoulders, gripping them for support. With a swift move, you part the front of the polo she’s wearing, exposing the smooth curve of her breast to the cool morning air.

The sudden exposure makes her gasp, but before she can utter a word, you close the distance, taking a hardened nipple into your mouth. Her face contorts in unabashed pleasure, her world spinning as you draw her deeper and deeper into your mouth. It's messy and primal, yet at the same time, it's reverent and sacred—something she has only ever experienced with you. She can't help but squirm, fingers threading through your hair, pulling you closer, urging you on. 

Keeping an arm firmly around her waist to ensure she stays secure, your free hand travels down her belly, fingers tracing a sultry path to her soaked center. You leisurely trace her slick folds, gathering her arousal, playing with it. 

“Please, baby,” she arches and bucks, grinding her hips, “more...I need more.”

Your lips twist into a devious smirk, reveling in her desperation. Drawing back slightly, you gaze at the flushed, vulnerable state of her, taking a moment to commit the image to memory. “I love it when you’re this needy…” you rasp, the tease evident in your tone. 

Oh, but she is. She needs you to claim her, time and time again. She never wants to be anything else other than yours once more.

You lean back in, trailing a path of searing kisses from her collarbone, down to the valley between her breasts. Without warning, you nip at her tender flesh, causing her to let out a surprised gasp. Marking her further, you suck and bite gently, leaving a trail of reddened spots, declaring your claim on her. With every purple bruise you leave, Wanda's moans grow more desperate, more wanton.

When you finally lift your head, her chest is littered with bites, then with a wicked grin, you dip your finger into her wetness once more, circling her entrance but never dipping inside.

“Tell me what you want.”

“I... I want you,” she admits breathlessly, biting her lower lip, eyes pleading. “Please, I need you inside.”

Not wanting to make her wait any longer, you slide two fingers into her, curling them expertly. Wanda's body arches off the bed, her inner walls instantly tightening around your digits, pulling them deeper. Every sound that spills from her lips, the way her body arches, trying to get closer, to feel more of you, tells you just how good you’re making her feel. 

Your thumb finds her clit, rubbing it in tight circles, while your fingers continue to piston in and out of her. The room is filled with the sound of Wanda's ragged breaths and the wet, slick noises of your fingers moving within her. As you feel her body tense further, you take a chance and slide a third finger into her, stretching her, filling her completely. The sensation of being so full sends Wanda over the edge.

“Oh, God!” she gasps, her back arching, eyes squeezed shut. Her hands grip your shoulders tightly, knuckles white from the intensity of her climax. Her inner walls spasm around your fingers, coating them with her release, her entire body trembling in the throes of ecstasy.

You keep up the pace, not wanting to stop until she's wrung out from pleasure. Each stroke of your fingers sends aftershocks rippling through her. When it finally becomes too much, Wanda grabs your wrist.

“Enough,” she breathes out, a sated smile curling her lips. 

You can't resist the allure of the taste she's left on your fingers. You raise them to your lips, deliberately and slowly, letting her watch as you savor her taste. The move earns a flustered gasp from her.

“You taste so good,” you murmur, your voice low and husky.

Wanda's cheeks redden, but her eyes darken once more, filled with a burning intensity. “Your turn,” she whispers, reaching for you.

-

Thirty minutes before she can call it a day, the sound of a knock on her office door sends a ripple of tension through Wanda. 

She knows that knock all too well.

Taking a deep breath, she calls out, “Yes?” even as she mentally braces herself for who might be on the other side. 

The person almost immediately steps in, and—unfortunately, she's correct about who she thinks it might be. Before she can utter a word, he says, “You know, I can't just come in without an appointment, right?”

“Exactly, Vision. You shouldn't be here without—” she starts to say, but he interrupts her by triumphantly holding up an appointment slip.

His cheeky grin widens. “Got one right here.”

Wanda eyes the slip, pursing her lips as she thinks of a retort, keeping her guard up. The game has changed, but Vision's audacity, it seems, remains the same.

“Alright, what do you want? And I wouldn’t entertain anything that doesn’t have to do with the course.”

“Just some clarification about our last lecture,” he says as he closes the door behind him, audibly locking it. Wanda maintains her composure, not letting it show that the small act alarms her in the slightest.

“Go on,” Wanda prompts, leaning back slightly against her desk, arms crossed defensively.

But Vision, without missing a beat, launches into something entirely different. “I miss you,” he starts, and Wanda's posture stiffens, her fingernails reactively digging into her arms rather painfully. “I realize I messed up, Wanda. I do. But I can change.”

“Vis—” she warns, trying to interrupt him, but he barrels on, his voice filled with desperation.

“And if, by any chance, you're pregnant, I'll step up. I promise. I'll be responsible,” he continues, his voice quivering slightly. “You have no idea how happy I’ll be if you are.”

“I'm not pregnant,” Wanda whispers, struggling to keep her emotions in check. It's one thing for him to disregard her boundaries and be reckless with his words, but to assume that she would continue a pregnancy, knowing he's the father? Even the thought of it is sickening. 

“And I would still choose not to be even if you were successful in your plans,” she adds, just to spite him.

Vision looks as if he might be sick, his complexion turning pallid, and a faint sheen of sweat forming on his forehead. Wanda has never seen him struck by her words this hard, and she realizes she doesn't have any idea what he might do next.

“I just... I thought…” he stammers, eyes glistening, “I just wanted to matter to you, b-by—”

“By what, Vision?” She cuts him off, her tone icy. “Hoping you'd lock me down by trying to knock me up?”

Vision’s face crumples further, tears spilling over. For all his stature—tall, lanky yet broad-shouldered—in this moment, he's stripped of that facade. His body shake as he tries to hold back sobs. “I didn't... I didn't think it through,” he manages to say between choked breaths.

Wanda almost pities him, but she shakes her head. “If you’re not here for school, you need to leave.” Her voice is cold, but inside, she's fighting a storm of guilt for the hurt she sees in him.

Just then, the shrill ring of Wanda's phone startles them both simultaneously. Vision's eyes dart to the screen as her caller ID lights up, displaying your name. In a split second, desperation and panic take hold of him. He lunges for the phone, but Wanda is quicker. She swiftly grabs it from her desk, tucking it safely into her purse.

“What the fuck are you doing?” she hisses, her back pressing against the desk.

Vision's eyes burn with an intensity that chills her. Taking slow, deliberate steps, he looms over her, his presence imposing in the small confines of her office. “That’s her, isn’t it?” he demands with barely suppressed jealousy. “She's coming to get you now?”

Wanda backs away slightly, her breathing erratic. “Vision, you need to think—”

“I am thinking.” His voice drops to a low, menacing growl. He tilts his head, eyes never leaving hers. “And maybe I'm thinking of doing something you won't like.”

“No!” Wanda pleads. “Look, Vision—okay, okay, let’s talk. Just not here. We can go to your place.”

His gaze narrows, considering her offer. “When?”

“Soon.”

Vision shakes his head. Not good enough. 

“Tomorrow,” he states without room for argument, his eyes drilling into hers. “Same time. Like we used to.” The allusion to their previous meetings isn't lost on her.

Wanda's throat constricts, “Fine,” she whispers, barely audible, a clear note of dread in her voice. She hates the familiarity of this situation. Most of all, she hates that she's put herself in this position to begin with.

Suddenly, Vision reaches out, his fingers nearly brushing the side of her face. Wanda instinctively shrinks back, but the space between the desk and Vision offers her little room to escape. Her back is to the wall, both literally and figuratively. She can feel the cold press of the desk behind her, contrasting with the heat emanating from Vision's body. It’s obvious what he's thinking, what he's restraining himself from doing.

Horrified and trapped, Wanda closes her eyes, waiting for the inevitable. But instead of the touch she anticipates, she hears Vision's harsh intake of breath. The realization that she's retreated from him seems to strike a nerve.

Without another word, Vision pulls away sharply, as if burnt. He turns on his heel, storming out of her office. As soon as he’s gone, her legs give out from under her and she slides down to the cold floor, clutching her chest as she struggles for air. The walls of her office seem to close in on her, trapping her in her own spiraling thoughts. 

As the room begins to blur, the sharp buzz of her phone breaks through her spiraling thoughts. Instinctively, she reaches into her purse, pulling out the phone. Your name illuminates the screen, and with it comes a flood of emotions—relief, safety, love. 

The mere thought of you—so close, just beyond these walls—stops a panic attack from consuming her.

-

“Would you like to go bowling?” Wanda asks you as soon as she fastens her seat belt.

The randomness of the suggestion takes you aback, and a hearty laugh escapes your lips. But as you glance over to see Wanda's reaction, expecting to see her sharing in the moment's levity, you're met with a pained expression.

Your smile fades immediately, replaced by concern. “Hey, are you okay?”

Wanda mentally curses herself, realizing just how easily you can read her, see past her defenses. Needing to come up with something plausible, she quickly blurts out, “I had something super spicy when you called earlier. Didn't handle it too well, it seems.”

The corners of her mouth quirk up in a weak attempt at a reassuring smile, hoping you'd buy the lie, or at least not press further.

You don’t. “Hmm… how about we take Sparky out for a stroll today?” you suggest.

“A walk sounds great,” Wanda replies, her voice softening.

“Good,” you say, starting the car. “Let's head to the park. A bit of nature might do us both some good.”

The engine rumbles softly as you shift the gears, transitioning smoothly from one to the next. And then, almost instinctively, you reach out to take Wanda's hand, your fingers lacing with hers in a gentle yet firm grip. You hold her hand throughout the entire ride home, giving her fingers a reassuring squeeze whenever you feel them tremble between yours.

That night, while you sleep soundly beside her, she finds herself unable to sleep. She spends the empty hours simply studying your peaceful face. There's a childlike innocence in the way your lips part slightly, a soft snore escaping occasionally. It's endearing, and it makes Wanda smile, even through her turmoil. She imagines traces of age on your face—the lines that will mark years of laughter, the silver that will streak through your hair. She tries to picture herself beside you, her own face carrying the weight of the years, both of you holding on to each other until the last breath. Her smile is teary as she hopes and hopes that this is where she's headed—to this future.

Because tomorrow, she will have to see Vision, and if everything goes well, she'll never have to see him again. Then she will finally express how she needs you to take her back to Manhattan or anywhere far from here, so she'll never have to relive this nightmare she’s created.

The next day comes like any regular day of the week. She kisses you goodbye as you head off to work, and she feeds Sparky to his heart's content before getting into a pinstripe blue blazer set. She fails to notice just how good she looks in this well-fitted ensemble, the fabric hugging her waist perfectly. Her focus is solely on feeling powerful, as she knows she'll need all the strength to finally put an end to things with Vision.

-

Wanda takes a deep breath, then another, and then two more, before she finally gathers enough courage to knock on the door. Vision answers almost immediately, as though he had been anticipating her knock down to the very second. 

The man before her now looks wholly different from the one she had encountered just yesterday. His blue eyes are bright and clear, his face clean shaven. The scent of a cologne she doesn't recognize wafts to her. New, she thinks. It's heady and distinctly masculine, unsettling her slightly.

“Wanda,” he greets with a charming smile, one that reaches his eyes, but doesn’t quite touch the soul behind them. For a moment, she's transported to the countless afternoons she spent here, entangled with him with nothing—not even air—separating their sweating, writhing bodies. His lips quirk into a sly, familiar smile, as if he too remembers those days and expects this visit to be a similar occasion. 

“Vision.” Gripping her shoulder bag tighter, almost using it as a shield, she quickly sidesteps him. “May I?” she asks, though it sounds more like a statement as she makes her way into his apartment.

He chuckles softly behind her, the sound dripping with memories she would rather forget. “Of course. After all, you've always felt at home here.”

Wanda's stride falters for a fraction of a second at his words, the implication threatening to pull her under. But she needed to keep her wits about her. If she wants this conversation to go her way.

“Let’s just get to the point, Vision,” she says curtly.

“I intend to,” he replies, closing the door behind them with an intentional finality. Wanda allows herself to glance around, seeking even a brief distraction from what's about to unfold. His apartment is in disarray, a stark contrast to his appearance. Her eyes are drawn to one particular piece amongst the chaos—the finished nude painting he had made of her. The realization catches in her throat. It appears he’s finished it.

Wanda shoots him an expectant look, urging him to speak first.

Vision clears his throat, attempting to sound casual but failing. “Wine? Or should we skip the formalities?”

Her eyes narrow, her patience waning. “We skip.”

“Alright.” 

He sighs and drops onto the couch. “Look, I've said sorry over and over, but I’ll say it again. I'm sorry, Wanda. I'm sorry for being careless that night.” His voice lowers, “But I don't regret it.”

Wanda's eyes flash with disbelief. “You don't regret it?”

“No,” he murmurs. “What I regret is that it didn't result in... well, you know.”

The implication is clear, and Wanda feels bile rise in her throat. How could he say something so audacious?

She opens her mouth to retort but he continues, raising a hand as if to hold off her words, “I want to keep seeing you. I can’t stop. Because, believe it or not, I'm in love with you.”

Wanda feels as though the ground has been pulled from under her feet. Every instinct tells her to run, but she knows that this won’t have an ending if she does. Wanda swallows dryly and closes her eyes, trying to piece together a strategy, a way to get through him, a way to get out of this unscathed, a way to ensure he won’t tell anyone about this when she leaves.

“I-I believe you,” she starts. “I think I’ve always known, no—felt, that you l-love me.” Vision nods to her words, his lips curling into a hopeful smile.

“But I have to be honest with you, too,” she continues, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “I took advantage of those feelings, Vision. I knew, deep down, that you felt this way and I still... I still let it happen. And for that, I'm deeply sorry.”

He stiffens at her words, a frown forming on his brow. “Wanda—”

She raises her hand, signaling for him to let her finish. “I don’t love you. It's Y/N. It's always been her. From the very start. What happened between us, it was a mistake, one that I haven't forgiven myself for. Especially because of what it means for Y/N.”

She takes a shaky breath, looking into his eyes earnestly, “You deserve someone who can return your feelings, who can love you wholeheartedly. You're a handsome, intelligent, passionate young man. There are many out there who would consider themselves lucky to be with you—”

But Vision vehemently shakes his head, unwilling to accept it, refusing to acknowledge their end. “I want to keep seeing you.”

“You can't,” Wanda insists, a few tears slipping down her cheeks. “It's over.”

Vision's eyes flash dangerously, the calm veneer shattering in an instant. He takes a step forward, trapping Wanda with a threatening look.

“You think you can just fuck me and then discard me like nothing?!” he hisses.

Wanda backs up, startled. She feels her control starting to slip away. “Of course not. I… you were my friend. I cared—I care about you. But I shouldn't have let it get this far.”

He scoffs, not a word of hers reaching his ears. “So, it's all a game to you? You get to decide when to play and when to stop?”

“No, it's not a game,” she replies, desperate for him to understand. “But I can't keep lying to myself or to you. I can't keep hurting Y/N or you.”

His gaze snaps back to hers, and there's a glint of something dark and foreboding in his eyes. “Maybe you should've considered the consequences of your actions, Wanda.”

She swallows hard, sensing the danger in his voice. “What are you saying?”

“Maybe Y/N should know the truth,” he surmises, his voice dripping with malice. “Maybe she should know exactly who she's been sharing her bed with.”

Wanda feels like she might faint anytime. Panic rises, threatening to choke her. “Vision, please,” she pleads, “you can't do that.”

His eyes remain steely. “Why not? She deserves to know, doesn't she?”

Wanda takes a shaky breath, grappling for words, trying to appeal to his sense of reason. “Yes, she does. But not like this. Not from you. If anyone should tell her, it's me.”

“But you'll never tell her,” Vision says, his voice laced with accusation. “I see it in your eyes, Wanda. You don't have the balls to be honest with her. Because you're afraid. You're afraid she'll walk away.”

Both are poised in this high-stakes game, each waiting, anticipating, guessing what card the other will play next. For a heartbeat, Wanda feels disarmed, Vision's threat too sharp and too real. But as the seconds tick by, something shifts in her. She straightens up, pulling herself to her full height, and when she speaks, there’s no fear or hesitation in her voice.

“You’re not going to tell her,” she declares.

“And what makes you so sure?”

“Because you know I'll hate you,” she says. “And if there's even the slightest chance that I'll change my mind, then doing that wouldn't be it.”

Vision lets out a humorless laugh, but the look in his eyes betrays his indifference. “You think there's a chance you'll change your mind?” 

“No,” Wanda says firmly. “It's over.”

The defiant look that had been painted across Vision's face begins to crack. He looks smaller somehow, like he's shrinking back into himself. His shoulders slump, and the facade of control and confidence he'd donned earlier dissolves. The boy from yesterday, the one who seemed so heartbroken, returns in full force.

“Wanda,” his voice trembles, almost as if he's on the verge of tears. “Please, I’m all alone. I told you my life, I told you about my parents, nobody in this world cares about me! And I know I said I’m fine and I can survive without them, but why should I when I have you, Wanda—”

She can't help but pity him, his brokenness tugging at her heartstrings. But she knows that relenting now would mean drowning in the same cycle all over again.

“Vis, you will find someone. Someone who isn't me, someone better for you. Trust that.”

“How can I want someone else when I had you,” he insists with unwavering stubbornness, his eyes growing more frenzied, and Wanda shivers at the unsettling sight before her.

“Maybe you had me,” she says tearfully as she decides to finally drive a stake into his heart. “But not in every way like Y/N has me.”

Before she can register what's happening, Vision's hands are suddenly around her waist, pulling her forcefully against him. The initial shock and his assertiveness make her freeze for a split second. As he starts rubbing himself against her, she feels the unmistakable hardness growing between them.

“Vision, stop!” she protests, trying to wriggle free.

“Can you feel that?” he whispers hoarsely, clearly misinterpreting her struggle, mistaking it for their first time together and all the other times she eventually gave in to his advances. “That's how much I want you. Need you.”

Tears of frustration and fear spill from her eyes. “This isn't right, Vision. Let go,” she pleads, placing her hands against his chest and pushing with all her might.

“Wanda, just—maybe if we—you’ll see. You’ll see that you love me, just let me—”

Her fist connects with his cheek, causing him to stumble a few steps away. For a while, they both freeze in horror, the gravity of the situation sinking in. In his moment of delirium, Vision comprehends what he was about to do to the woman he claims to love, and guilt claws at his guts, wrenching his insides. 

On the other end, Wanda's chest heaves with shock and distress. She stands there momentarily paralyzed, the aftershocks of the ordeal still rippling through her. Tears blur her vision, but she refuses to let them fall, not now, not when she needs all her strength. Her gaze meets Vision's only briefly before she pulls herself together. She wraps her arms around herself, and then rushes to the front door.

He yells, “No, Wanda! I…please let’s just—”

But his pleas fall on deaf ears.

-

Wanda goes straight home after the whole fiasco with Vision. She locks herself in the bedroom, crying for hours, paying no attention to Sparky's worried barks from outside the door. She tells herself that it could be worse, trying to talk herself out of going to the police. If she goes to the authorities, she'll have to give a statement. This would inevitably lead to an investigation into their past, revealing things she doesn't want you to know.

Drained from crying, Wanda's eyelids grow heavy. As sleep overtakes her, vivid dreams flood her mind, each presenting an alternate reality. In one dream she’s back in Vision’s apartment, his arms wrapped around her like a chain, and every time she tries to pull away, the chains grow tighter, pulling her back into his prison. A cold dread settles in her heart, as she struggles and fights, desperate to wrench herself free from his grasp.

The next scenario places her in a world without Vision. It's a life untouched by his influence, where she walks unfamiliar streets and meets faces that do not recognize her. Then, in a sudden shift, she's back at her office on that fateful evening, but the events unfurl differently. The temptation of Vision never materializes. She leaves, unburdened by the weight of a choice she didn't make.

But the relief is short-lived. These dreams meld into a harrowing nightmare, saturated in hues of red and black, where you discover her secret. She tries to call out, to explain, to mend, but her voice is swallowed by the deafening silence of the dreamscape. 

In her seemingly endless silent screams, Wanda wakes up. The remnants of her haunting dreams still clutching at her, making her jolt upright. The fabric of the sheets sticks to her body, drenched in a cold sweat. Each breath comes in ragged gasps, as if she's been submerged underwater and has just broken the surface.

The bedside clock reads half past six and panic sets anew. You could be home in an hour, given that you haven't been extending your hours at the office lately. The realization pushes her into a frenzied urgency. Throwing off the sheets, Wanda rushes to the ensuite bathroom. The cold stream from the shower brings a semblance of clarity, washing away the residues of her nightmares. 

Wrapped in a towel, with droplets still cascading down her skin, she dashes to the kitchen. She pulls out ingredients, her hands working methodically, albeit with a haste that speaks of her need to keep busy, to keep the demons of her subconscious at bay. She manages to prepare a simple but appetizing meal, but the mere thought of taking a bite threatens to turn her stomach inside out.

The dining table is set, and she seats herself, her gaze distant once again. And she stays there, lost in her own head. 

It’s how you find her when you get home at 9:15 in the evening.

-

You’re quiet tonight. Alarmingly so.

She asks you how your day was, and you respond tersely with a simple, “Good.” She attempts to get you to elaborate, maybe share an anecdote like you usually do, but you dismiss her efforts, attributing your lack of interest in conversation to fatigue.

But Wanda can’t stand the silence. When it’s quiet, the voices in her head are even louder. 

So she decides to tell you about her day instead. She swears to herself this is the last day she’ll ever lie to you with a straight face. She talks about the final projects her students have begun submitting. As she describes her favorites, your interest particularly sharpens when she mentions the portrait projects. You pepper her with questions, mostly about who made which, and Wanda offers names that probably wouldn't mean much to you.

After you finish eating, you thank her with a small smile. It's only then that Wanda feels she can breathe again. She leans in, pressing her lips to yours, her longing evident. However, just as she tries to deepen the kiss, you pull away, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Showered without me?” you tease, but it lacks the usual lilt in your voice. She simply nods in response. You playfully tap her nose, whispering, “Naughty girl.” Then, without another word, you're on your feet and heading up the stairs to the bedroom.

She proceeds to clear the table and wash the dishes, all while the sound of the shower fills her ears. She allows herself a small smile, chiding herself for being overly affected by her dream.

By the time she makes her way up to join you, she discovers you've already drifted off, turned away from the vacant space beside you that's meant for her.

-

She’s positively shaking as she takes the short walk from the parking lot to the classroom, the dread building up inside her like a swelling storm. The thought of facing her class, and especially Vision, sends shivers down her spine. The recent events—the horrifically inappropriate advances and Vision's glaring sense of entitlement—play over and over in her mind.

Her feet eventually take her to her destination, but she remains outside for a full minute. The thought of facing Vision again is almost enough to turn her around. But another, stronger, voice reminds her of her duty, her commitment to her other students, and her own integrity. Moreover, she doesn't want to be alone today, here the haunting events with Vision could replay in her mind without any distractions. 

She pushes open the door. It appears to be a typical day, with her students clustered in small groups, engrossed in conversation and seemingly oblivious to her arrival. She swiftly surveys the room and, to her relief, doesn't spot the familiar blue eyes that usually fixate on her by this time.

When she starts her lecture on the final topic of the semester, it flows seamlessly. Still, the end of the course can't come soon enough; continuing here is untenable. She can’t keep teaching here, when these hallways keep reminding her of the mistake that almost cost her everything.

-

You've been leaving the side of your bed cold for almost two weeks now. Sometimes, your careful movements stir her awake, and she watches you, bleary-eyed, as you go through the motions of prepping for a run, a habit you've picked up quite recently. At first, Wanda would always ask where you’re headed and if she can accompany you. But you'd consistently dismiss her offer, always seeming in a rush to hit the pavement.

She thinks it’s good for you—the exercise. The only aspect of your new hobby that she dislikes is that you typically go before sunrise, where everywhere is still too dark and eerily quiet, and her imagination runs wild of all the worst things that could happen to you while you’re out on your run. 

And Wanda wouldn’t admit it, but she can't help but internalize the consistent rejection of her offers to join you.  She wonders if there's a deeper reason behind it. When you're out and she's left alone with her thoughts, Wanda can't help but let the guilt seep in. Has she become too transparent? Has something given her secret away? Did you find out about her affair? How would she even begin to explain?

But then you return after your run, with a sense of tranquility, as though the exercise had been a cathartic release of some pent-up tension. However, something still feels amiss. Perhaps it's because she hasn't slept with you since the night she discovered she wasn't pregnant with Vision's child, and all that has passed between you are brief, perfunctory kisses here and there. She wants to discuss it with you, but she doesn't want to appear too eager or guilty. Instead, she remains committed to being a good wife. And even though being a good wife was never about housework, Wanda ensures that every corner of the house sparkles and shines.

Meanwhile, you go about fulfilling your own household responsibilities seamlessly. From tending to minor repairs to ensuring that bills are paid on time, you continue with the routines that have always defined the dynamic of your relationship. There's no sign of resentment or dissatisfaction in your actions. It's almost as if everything is back to normal. This confounds Wanda even more. She starts to question her own memory, wondering if perhaps this distance, this new version of you, has always been present and she just never realized it. It's possible that you've become this way while she was preoccupied with her affair, and she didn't notice how you slowly adjusted to her unavailability. 

Of course, she only has herself to blame. She's determined, however, to rectify it and make it up to you.

Which is when the idea strikes her. The dream vacation to Hawaii that both of you often fantasized about but never took due to financial constraints and a tight schedule. With the money from her teaching job, she now has the means to turn that dream into a reality. A surprise trip might be the perfect remedy to rekindle the connection that has worn out due to your busy lives and... her unfaithfulness. 

She knows it doesn't atone for her sins, but it's a step in the right direction.

-

It should have been the perfect day for her surprises. She has two of them—the surprise trip and the news of her resignation from the university. She had just handed you the box with all the Hawaii trip details, and you were about to dive in, when there was a knock at the door. 

Two men in dark suits have arrived at the house, looking for her. Detectives—Rogers and Barnes. Wanda uncovers the real reason behind Vision's absence from school, and it wasn't due to personal family matters or a decision to pursue education elsewhere.

He's been in an accident, and they suspect foul play.

Their questions start off simple, touching on the basics. But soon, they feel like piercing arrows as they delve into the phone calls between them, how close they were, and if she ever set foot in his apartment. Throughout the interrogation, Wanda manages to keep a straight face, though deep down she knows she probably can't fool detectives of their caliber. Yet, she silently prays that you don't see past her mask.

“That’s enough,” you interject firmly. “My wife has answered your questions. Unless there’s anything else directly related to your investigation, I believe we’ve covered everything.”

Your intervention when their questions grow more intrusive suggests she's managed to keep you in the dark. The realization that you're still on her side floods her with immense relief.

“Very well. Thank you both for your time,” Rogers says.

But Wanda isn’t done. She has her own questions. She needs to know if Vision's involvement with her is the reason they're here, probing. She wonders if he might have informed the authorities about their inappropriate relationship, and if that somehow relates to his current situation.

“Wait!” Wanda exclaims, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She contemplates asking her burning questions, but with you observing from the side, she suppresses her urge to do so. Instead, she conveys her worry—she is, after all, his teacher.

“Is he… is he okay?”

Wanda's complexion turns ashen upon catching the look on Barnes' face, instantly realizing he's fully aware of her and Vision's relationship. She can barely hear Roger's response, her blood rushing in her ears.

“…that he’s stable. However, he remains in a coma. It’s uncertain when or if he’ll wake up, but let's hold onto hope.”

Oh.

Her secret's safe—for now. But she... she has to be certain. She needs to tie up any loose ends, if there are any.

-

It's reckless to visit Vision's apartment in daylight, especially right after a visit from the police.

Exiting her car, Wanda's sandals softly scrape against the ground. She pauses to scan her surroundings, her gaze flitting from one building to another. The neighboring houses and apartment complexes stand silent, their stillness almost eerie, as if they've been forsaken. She knows that not many reside in this part of the town, a fact that had made Vision's apartment an ideal hideaway for their secret meetings. 

She cautiously approaches Vision's unit, her hand shaking slightly as it reaches for the door knob: locked. A memory surges—Vision handing her a spare key during one of their early encounters. Retrieving it from her bag, she hesitantly fits it into the lock, preparing herself for what she might find beyond the door.

It opens with a muted creak, and a blanket of darkness envelops her. Hesitating at the threshold, she fumbles for a light switch, her fingers brushing against the cool wall before finding it. She'd half-expected Vision's belongings to be packed up, perhaps by a landlord who wanted to move on from the situation. But everything appears untouched, as if frozen in time; dust hasn't settled, and the items scattered about give no indication that the place has been vacant for weeks. It occurs to her that the ongoing investigation might be the reason the apartment remains untouched.

Wanda moves quickly, knowing she shouldn’t linger. Heading straight to the bathroom, she swiftly gathers her toothbrush and a few other personal items she had left behind. As she emerges, her gaze is drawn to the corner where Vision's easel stands. It used to hold a portrait of her, a work he'd wanted to submit for his final project, capturing her in a light she had never seen herself. But now, it’s empty.

A cold rush of panic seizes her. She clutches the edge of a table, her breaths coming in short, ragged gasps. Had Vision decided to move the painting for some reason? Or worse, had the detectives seen it and taken it as evidence? The painting wasn’t just art; it was tangible evidence of their affair. 

But then, in the midst of her mounting fear, a memory jolts her—there was another painting, the one Vision had purchased from the gallery where she used to work. With a newfound urgency, she hurries to his bedroom. The scene is disarrayed, with sheets and pillows strewn about. Ignoring the mess, Wanda goes directly to the cabinet where she remembered he last stored it. She yanks open the doors, and her eyes dart around, searching, but the painting is nowhere to be found.

Desperation grips her. If the detectives come across either painting, they'd have more reasons to scrutinize her further than she's comfortable with. Such involvement would be near-impossible to hide from you. Wanda proceeds with caution, scanning the apartment for any lingering items that could connect her to Vision. Unexpectedly, she finds a piece of her lingerie nestled within his sock drawer. Swiftly, she snatches it up. Before departing, she meticulously wipes away any fingerprints from the surfaces she's touched, then dashes to her car. 

Once inside, she pauses to draw several deep, steadying breaths. It's overwhelming to think that this is now her reality, teetering on the brink of exposure.

-

She eventually finds herself falling off the edge when she discovers Natasha’s email on your laptop, mere moments after the crushing realization that you hadn’t bothered to open her gift.

Her instinct is to craft a lie. She searches her mind rapidly, trying to come up with a plausible excuse for the intimate handhold. Maybe she could say it was an old friend from the past, or perhaps a distressed student she was comforting. But one glance at the photo and she knows, deep down, that any excuse would fall flat. The way Vision looks at her, with such unmistakable affection and wonder, betrays any innocence she might claim. Trying to explain this to you or anyone else would be an exercise in futility. 

Wanda had played out various scenarios in her mind about how you might discover the truth, but she never imagined it would be through seeking the expertise of your best friend. It was perhaps naive, but she had hoped you wouldn’t notice anything or, if you did, that you'd confront her about it.

But why would you come to her? She's been pushing you away for months, and the only time she truly showed you how much you mean to her was when she was so relieved that she wouldn't be carrying the consequences of her indiscretions in her womb.

In case you need them, the subject of the email says. Need them for what? Wanda wonders. From the way Natasha worded the message accompanying the photos, it doesn't appear you're just discovering the truth now.

No, it seems that you’ve known for a while. Which means—

The pieces fall into place, a chilling realization creeping over her. Wanda's breath catches as she pushes the laptop away, her hand coming up to cover her mouth. The way you had carried yourself, especially around the police—it was far too serene, too measured. When they mentioned Vision's name, you didn't so much as flinch or even show a flicker of surprise.

Her heart beats painfully against her ribs. The calm demeanor, the calculated way you’d been moving about—it wasn't out of ignorance. You knew. And for how long? The thought terrifies her. How many days or weeks has she been living this lie while you watched, silently knowing everything?

Your silence, amplifying her betrayal, eats away at her conscience. The quiet before the storm, she thinks. And she's right in the middle of it.

-

“Wanda?”

She’s hiding in the bathroom, staring at her reflection in the mirror, practicing a smile and a thousand more expressions even though she's barely holding it together.

“Wanda.”

She couldn't shake the thought of you knowing. Did you have any involvement in Vision's accident? You've never intentionally hurt even the smallest creature, let alone another human being, right?

“Wanda!” 

She nearly leaps out of her skin as the bathroom door slams open, and you stare back at her, looking just as startled and taken aback.

“Hey,” she says, forcing a smile.

You narrow your eyes at her, and she shivers under your intense scrutiny.

“Are you okay? You’ve been in here for almost an hour.”

Wanda nods quickly. “I'm fine.”

You continue to watch her for a moment, before saying, “Alright.”

Just as you're about to step away, Wanda remembers the plans for later. “About the dinner tonight,” she starts hesitantly, “with your colleagues from the bank... should we cancel?”

She's desperately hoping you'd say yes. She can't bear not knowing what's going on in your mind. The way you act as if everything's normal is suffocating her. Does she even still know the real you? Every moment you're not cursing her out or confronting her betrayal feels like an eternity.

But you shake your head. “No, let's do it. We already promised them.”

Wanda's heart sinks a little, but she nods in understanding.

“I'll go grab some wine real quick,” you say before leaving the bathroom, leaving Wanda alone once again with her thoughts.

-

Later, as the last of the guests leave, she's certain you've picked up on her distress, noticing how you kept glancing at your watch and drifting out of conversations. She senses your gaze on her as she escorts Scott and his wife to the car, acutely aware you're observing her every move from the bedroom window. 

Though they're older than both you and Wanda, they've only been hitched for two years. Wanda can't help but wonder if maybe things are smoother for them because they waited to get married. But then a familiar warmth washes over her. The memory of how deeply in love she was with you surfaces. Even if you had waited six years to propose, she’s sure that had you suggested it within the first few months of dating, she would've said yes in a heartbeat. 

Truth be told, she doesn't regret it now, the timing of it, and everything in between.

All she's uncertain of is how tonight will unfold.

-

The house lies shrouded in an inky stillness, almost like it’s holding its breath. She carefully climbs the stairs to the bedroom you both share, one uncertain step at a time. The door is slightly open, and you're standing by the window, your silhouette thin and brittle. 

“What happened, Y/N?” she asks as she stops a few feet from you. Your eyes are closed, and your body trembles. Though she should be consumed by fear, her only desire is for you to open your eyes, hoping to find the person she fell in love with over a decade ago still there. 

“What did you do? Did you cause his ‘accident’?” she continues. But you remain silent, unmoving.  “Y/N?”

Still, nothing. Wanda is slowly but surely losing her sanity.

“Did you hurt him? You did, didn’t you? Jesus, Y/N. Talk to me,” Wanda pleads, and then out of desperation she screams, “Tell me what you did!”

“No!” You roar with a primal intensity, reminiscent of a wounded animal in the wild, and the sheer force of it makes Wanda recoil. But she doesn't move away from you. Not at this crucial moment, when she senses how close she is to losing you. “You tell me what you did!”

You stalk towards her menacingly, until you're mere breaths away, and Wanda wants to reach out and touch you, but she knows she'll be burned.

“How you fucked him over and over and over! How you lied to me… over and over and over,” you tell her brokenly.

“Y/N, please–” 

“Don’t. You don’t get to talk to me now,” you say, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes. “You didn’t think I’d know? I wouldn’t feel it? I knew from the very first night. Because I know you, Wanda. Every thought. Every look. Every fiber of your being. I know you and I fucking hate you! I didn’t want to hurt him, I wanted to hurt you!”

The confirmation she's been dreading, along with the murderous glint in your eyes, saps the color from Wanda’s face. “Oh my god,” she chokes out, hand clamping over her mouth in horror. “Y/N…”

You try to walk away, but your legs give out, and you crumple to the ground, knees first, like a puppet with its strings cut. The tears flow freely now, unburdened by pride or anger. A raw, guttural sob escapes your lips, echoing the pain in your chest. Wanda, too, collapses, a mirror reflection of your despair, her body shaking as sobs rack her frame.

How could she have ever been afraid of you, especially knowing what you've been through? Beneath it all, she sees the woman she deeply loves, now appearing so fragile and torn apart, all because of her own mistakes. “I'm so sorry...” she whispers, her apology a mere drop in the ocean of hurt between you.

“Was there anyone else aside from him?” you ask suddenly, looking at the carpeted floor before you.

“No,” Wanda answers earnestly.

You offer a wry smile. “He must be really special then.”

She frantically shakes her head. He's not. No one is. It's always been—

“Do you love him?”

“No,” Wanda responds hastily, almost too hastily for your taste. And by the look on your face, she's crushed by the realization that no matter what she says next, your trust in her words may be irrevocably broken. “I thought I did, but no,” she admits. She can't bear the thought of deceiving you further and aims to leave no question unanswered.

“Did you…” you start, staring intently at the ceiling, and Wanda knows exactly what you’re asking even before it comes out of your mouth. The fact that you have to ask leaves her utterly heartbroken. 

“...ever love me?”

This was her doing. The very second she acted on impulse and succumbed to temptation was when she truly lost you.

“I love you,” Wanda murmurs, her tear-filled eyes meeting yours, stubborn for her words to reach you. “I know how fucked up that sounds to you right now. But I do, I love you, Y/N.”

“You love me?” your voice falters, making you wince. “You have a truly unique way of showing it.”

How does she prove it? How can she make you believe? Wanda scrambles for tactics, for miracles, for a do-over.

“After all this,” you continue, “you might as well have killed me. Being dead might be painless compared to this.”

“Baby, please don't say that,” Wanda's voice breaks, choked by tears she can't hold back. She feels the urge to reach out, her fingers itching to touch you. 

“You don’t get to call me that anymore. Even hearing you say my name makes me sick.” Your voice is steady, each word dripping with cold resentment.

“You can stay,” you say after a while. Wanda senses a fragile hint of hope blossoming within her. But it's quickly crushed when you add, “Stay in this house, for as long as you need. But I'm leaving.”

And it’s here where the panic sets in. The realization that she's on the brink of losing you entirely, not just emotionally but physically as well, hits Wanda like a freight train. The walls of the room seem to close in on her, and the weight of her decisions and mistakes press heavily on her shoulders, making her feel as if she's sinking.

“No,” she whispers. “Please, don't go.”

You start to slide your wedding ring off, and that’s when Wanda loses it. She launches herself at you, capturing your lips into a heated kiss. In the split-second it takes for the golden loop to slip off your finger, a flood of memories rushes over Wanda—the scent of rain as it patters on the roof of the reception, the song playing in the background as you and Wanda sway to your first dance as a married couple, the warmth of your hand intertwined with hers. Those fragments play in a demented, rapid slideshow, and time stretches and contracts, maddeningly so.

For Wanda, it feels like someone's drilled a hole in the base of her skull, letting all the sorrow rush in like a merciless flood. Everything else is white noise. For that brief instant when her lips slot against yours, you don’t push her away. Wanda pours everything she has into this kiss, hoping you'll feel her truth in it. But then, before she even has the chance to deepen it, you’re pulling away and it’s—

It’s over.

Stubborn as always, Wanda tries to hide in your neck, and you feel her tears sliding down your throat. She clings to you with all her might, holding on for as long as she can. But when she feels you gently place your wedding ring into her palm, her face crumples with a pain so profound, she knows she may never recover from it. And then you begin to rise, lifting yourself from the floor. As she instinctively clings to your leg, you take another step, causing Wanda to stumble forward from the sudden loss of support.

“This can't be the end. It just can't,” Wanda murmurs to herself like a mantra, as if repeating it will change the course of reality. She's almost certain you hear her, but it doesn't change your stride; you just keep walking away.

The ring burns in her palm, a searing reminder that her promise of loving and cherishing you always means nothing to you now.

-

Wanda can't quite figure out how, but you've chosen to remain in the guest bedroom for the evening. She'd heard the engine of your car roar to life, but then it fell silent after just a few moments. Peering out, she’d seen you stepping out of the car, phone pressed to your ear.

Who had you been talking to? An intense curiosity had consumed Wanda, making her wonder who had been on the other end of that call. In the short window they'd been estranged—no, just temporarily separated, because Wanda refused to believe that you'd entirely lost your affection for her—could there have been someone else? Someone waiting in line for their turn?

Now, she stands hesitantly in front of the guest bedroom door, hands clenched in her sides,  torn between giving you space and continuing to fight for her marriage. She's torn, but not clueless. It's not just about barging in or holding back; it's about the aftermath. She stands there, frozen, trying to figure out which move won't blow everything to smithereens. Because the time she has with you is running out and there might not be a tomorrow. 

Or a you and her. Ever again.

Wanda finally sinks to the floor, her back flush against the cold, indifferent wood of the door. Sparky, pads over, his little claws making almost no sound against the floor. He nestles himself on her lap, making his bed there for the night. She wraps her fingers around his soft fur, his warmth seeping into her, but his presence is a double-edged sword. As much as she adores him, he's going to be the only thing of you she gets to keep, and it's going to be a painful reminder from here on out.

In an act of despair, she presses an ear flat against the door, searching for the tiniest murmur, the faintest shuffle. Anything to tell her what's happening on the other side of this barrier. A barrier that was never there before. She's on the outside, and the thought that you're moving on, building a life sans her, is terrifying.

It's a cruel irony, she realizes.  Here she is, just a few inches from you, yet completely and utterly in the dark. And so, she sits, hoping against hope, that at some point during the night, she'd hear the door creak open, and you’d scoop her in your arms and take her back.

She waits, because that's what love does—it waits, even in the darkest of times.

-

The next morning, Wanda wakes up, surprised to find herself in a bed instead of on the hard, cold floor. She doesn't recall making the trip, but the idea that you cared enough to ensure she slept on something warm and comfortable almost makes her heart leap out of her chest. 

However, her happiness is short-lived as she opens the closet and discovers that some of your things are missing. To a stranger, the differences wouldn't be obvious, but she knows which shirt and trousers you chose, and she understands the implication. It means you won't be returning tonight, and perhaps not tomorrow either. When she goes to the bathroom, she finds only one toothbrush, and that's enough to make tears well up in her swollen eyes once more.

-

“Thanks for picking up,” Wanda says, her fingers gripping the phone tight, holding onto it like she’s drowning and it’s her only lifeline.

“Well, you've called enough times. Figured I'd give you a break,” Natasha's voice, though distant, is biting, as frigid as the coldness that Wanda has been feeling in her bones these past days.

“I need to know where she is. Please.”

A sigh on the other end, followed by a chilling silence. “You think after everything, you still have the right to know her whereabouts?”

“She's still my wife,” Wanda counters, but it’s weak.

“She was your wife,” Natasha fires back, unrelenting. “The last I checked, people who love their partners don't sleep with college kids.”

The words hit Wanda harder than any physical blow could. She's taken aback, gasping for air as if she's been sucker-punched.

“I—”

“She loved you,” Natasha continues ruthlessly, “more than you ever deserved. And you threw it away, for what? Some fleeting thrill?”

Loved? Past tense? Had Natasha just assumed—

Or was that word coming directly from you?

Pushing down the slightest twinge of sympathy that threatens to surface, Natasha picks up on Wanda's faint, broken breaths on the other end. She can tell Wanda's on the verge, and it's familiar, too familiar.  It's almost exactly the sound she caught when she was on the phone with you the other night.

“I never meant for this to happen,” Wanda barely manages to say.

“Well, it did,” Natasha snaps, her voice cold. “Intentions don’t change actions. And actions have consequences.”

Wanda’s voice comes off a little strong this time, thick with conviction. “Maybe I deserve this, Natasha. Maybe it’s my time to pay for all the wrongs I’ve done.”

“You think?” Natasha scoffs.

“But you... you’ll never get it. You’ll never understand why I can’t just let go, why I can’t give up on her,” Wanda says.

“And why’s that?”

Wanda's voice trembles with the knowledge that what she's about to say is a cheap blow.  “Because you've never been married. You've never committed yourself to someone in the way I have with her.”

That stings, and Natasha can feel her own anger rising.

“Don’t think for a second that just because I’m not married, I don’t understand commitment, pain, or betrayal,” she says, voice low and measured.

Wanda swallows hard. “I didn't mean to—”

“Of course you didn't. But here we are, yet again,” Natasha cuts her off. She sighs, leaning back in her chair, “I’m not telling you where she is. She needs time, Wanda. Time away from you. If she wants to talk, she’ll find you.”

That's the last thing Wanda wants. She worries that distance will solidify your resolve, turning her from an immediate regret to a distant afterthought.

“I need to see her, Natasha,” Wanda pleads, “Just tell me where she is.”

“Why? So you can make things even worse?”

After a tense pause, Wanda plays her last card, “Remember that night after we all went out? The night you and Bruce...” she trails off, not needing to complete the sentence.

Natasha stiffens, instantly knowing where this is headed. “Don’t you dare, Wanda.”

Wanda forges on, “I never told anyone, never used it against you. I kept your secret. You owe me, Natasha.”

The feeling of Bruce's hand against her cheek, the humiliation, the denial—all of it comes rushing back. She never thought Wanda would throw that night back in her face.

“You're really going there?” Natasha laughs hollowly. 

“I’m desperate, Natasha. I love her. I can’t lose her,” Wanda’s voice breaks.

The line goes quiet, stretching seconds into what seems like hours. Finally, Natasha exhales heavily, the weight of the decision clear in her tone. “I'll give you an address. Show up, try to talk to her, but if she asks you to leave, you respect her wishes. Understand?”

Wanda swallows dryly. She knows Natasha can enforce her terms if she wants, which means she has no other choice but to comply. “Understood.”

Natasha's parting words would later linger in her mind for hours.

“This doesn't mean I've forgiven you or that she ever will. But you get your shot. Make it count.”

-

Wanda’s been standing outside the diner for what feels like a long time. She hopes her outfit—a parka over a crisp white v-neck and high-waisted jeans—makes a good impression. A glance in the reflection of the diner’s window confirms her red hair looks glossy and radiant, cascading in waves down her back.

Time and time again, Wanda had turned over every conceivable strategy to win you back. But in the end, they all hinged on the one thing she feared most: agreeing to a divorce. The very thought threatened to break her from the inside, but her desperation to make things right, to show you that she's changed, made this painful decision a necessary one. Wanda had taken so much from you, taken everything you had to offer and discarded it carelessly. Now, it was her turn to give something back, even if it meant letting you go, legally.

She tells herself, repeatedly, that their love story isn't defined by a marriage certificate. They won't end just because their marriage does.  She had to believe this; it was the only way she could find the strength to move forward. 

Steeling herself, Wanda takes one step forward. Another. Until finally, she’s there.

“Hey,” Wanda greets, doing her best to sound casual as she slides into the booth opposite you.

You give a nonchalant nod, mouth full of your Reuben sandwich. “Hi, Wanda.”

The scent of your cologne is the first thing that hits her, and it’s... different. This one's sharper, crisper, with a hint of citrus, perhaps. It's as if you're purposely shedding parts of yourself that she's grown accustomed to, distancing yourself in the most elemental ways. There's a new watch on your wrist, sleeker than the one she gifted you on your last anniversary. Even the way you hold yourself seems altered, shoulders squared and posture more rigid. Every detail screams of a transformation, a conscious effort to morph into someone she wouldn't recognize. 

But why? To hurt her? To move on? To forget? All of the above? It's been just a week, yet the differences are already evident. Wanda dreads to think how much more will change if she goes months without seeing you.

This isn’t going to be easy, and that’s putting it mildly. “Sorry for cornering you like this. You rarely return my calls and it’s been almost impossible to match our schedules,” Wanda admits.

You concentrate on chewing your food, trying to appear perfectly disinterested in what she’s saying. As you take another bite of your sandwich, Wanda studies her intently, looking for any fleeting sign of emotion, but there’s nothing there but a chilling detachment.

“Natasha told me you’re already talking to divorce lawyers,” she continues. She's woken up next to you for more than a decade; she’s not easily deterred by the display of indifference. “If you’re decided that it’s what you really want, then I’ll give it to you. I’ll cooperate.”

“Okay.” 

Wanda notices the fleeting moment your eyes dart to her left ring finger before you quickly look away.

“I, uh, got something for you,” she says. 

“No, thanks.” 

Wanda’s heart sinks as you dismiss her before even knowing what it is. Determined, she pulls out the small ring box and places it on the table, feeling a pang in her chest. “But it belongs to you,” she murmurs.

“What’s this?”

“It’s your wedding ring,” she says, pointing out what you already know. Your expression darkens, frustrated that she misses the underlying meaning of your question—not about the ring itself, but rather its significance right now.

For a split second, Wanda harbored a fragile hope that seeing the ring might stir something within you. 

But then you're shaking your head, beginning to say, “I don’t want—”

“I understand,” she says, her shoulders sagging as she leans back into the booth. “But I'm returning it to you, and I’m keeping mine. What you decide to do with it is up to you. However, holding onto it on your behalf isn't something I can do.”

The ring she slipped onto your finger five years ago held all her promises, all her devotion to you. So it hurt that you no longer accepted that, no longer recognized it as yours. And she didn't want to be the guardian of that pain anymore.

“Fine,” you say, reaching for the tiny box and Wanda releases a heavy sigh of relief.

“So, you've got your ring back, and I'll sign the divorce papers once they're drawn up,” she says, mustering all her courage for what she's going to say next. “And then, I'll come for you.”

She watches in surprise as you nearly spit out your coffee, a few droplets escaping past your lips. As you hurriedly reach for a napkin, Wanda can't help but offer a gentle smile, always finding your occasional clumsiness endearing even in the middle of breaking her heart.

Your wide-eyed stare meets hers, speechless.

Her smile fades slightly, replaced by a melancholic self-awareness. “I didn’t want to believe you when you told me that night that you hated me. But I guess that’s better than indifference.” 

“I don't hate you, Wanda,” you say. She can tell you're telling the truth, and she smiles a little at that.

“You have no idea how much that means to me,” she laments. “Thank you.”

She takes a deep breath, knowing she needs to be clear, to lay everything on the table. “I’m not going to give up on you, Y/N. On us. What we have, and I’ve thought a lot about it, is something I’ll never find in another.”

“I’m not telling you this to get a reaction out of you,” she continues, “I know you’re not exactly thrilled at the idea of me pursuing you, but,” she falters, the first sign of her vulnerability. “This time, I want you to know everything. I don’t want you to be blindsided by my intentions, so I’m giving you a heads-up.” 

“Wands,” you say, the nickname slipping effortlessly from your lips, and she has to fight the instinctual urge to reach for your hand across the table. “You can’t torture yourself like this.” 

“I’m not,” she assures you. “I just refuse to give up on my dream.” She senses the skepticism in your eyes, and she can't blame you, not after everything that happened in the recent weeks. You’re my dream, Wanda had confidently and lovingly written in her vows. The memory of that day, with the weight of those words, is as vivid in your mind as it is in hers.

She's always been the type to hold onto what she loves, never letting go without a fight. But seeing the dark circles under your eyes, the sunken weight of your cheeks, she knows the very sight of her is taking a toll on you. And so, she’s leaving, for your sake. 

“I'll see you soon,” Wanda says, getting up to leave. She hesitates for a moment, considering whether to go for your cheek, if you'll allow her. However, the lack of response from you pushes her to take small, shaky steps toward the door and out of the restaurant.

It isn’t over. Wanda’s made up her mind: she won't give up on you. Maybe she's the villain in this story; and hell, there's probably someone out there, all primed and polished, perfectly poised to love you without the scars and rough edges. Except, she doesn’t care, even if she knows she’ll be diving headfirst into the storm. 

She swears that someday she'll be on her knees, asking you to marry her again.

[citruslullabies]

Oii bom dia!

So, I don't know if you remember me, I'm the girl who said that loved the Catnap x Fox!Reader fic and wanted a part two!

So, here I am, with all my glory (wich it's not much) to make this little request, with some angst if you get me

You've been giving us too much sugar, I don't want to be diabetic/j

(Also, sorry for my terrible english, I'm not using a translator this time, and I suck at writing, I really need to practice it)

I'm a little rusty with writing full blown gore, so apologies!

Trigger warnings: blood, HEAVY gore, all that stuff again‼️DO NOT INTERACT IF EASILY DISTURBED‼️

Romantic/platonic?: unspecified

Requested by: liznarfox (@liznarfox look what you made me do)

Category: heavy angst boysssss

Ship (romantic or platonic): Catnap x fox smiling critter!reader

Word count: 1029 (my longest yet)

A Helping Paw: Severed Hands

You had been made to be of help to Catnap, made to be his best friend and his guide through it all.

That's all the more motivation for him to follow the prototype, to save himself and to save you. A part of him wanted to let you in on the plans but he knew you too well, and knew you'd be far too fearful to go through with them unless thrown in the action. Countless nights he'd stay locked away with only you by his side, tricked by your own feelings to check on your friend growing more and more distant only to fall asleep by his side as he stroked your fur lovingly.

He began to grow incredibly thin, his smile growing larger and his face somewhat distorted with wide disturbing eyes. They scared you, but he knew it'd all make sense to you one day.

The hour of joy was finally here, and all hell broke loose. You were panting and running through your sobs, trying to find the others and a way out. You wanted to throw up at how violent everyone had become, it was sickening. At each twist and turn you saw someone get torn apart, nearly vomiting once you stepped on something squishy and wet looking down to realize it was a tongue still twitching from being freshly ripped out of someone's skull.

Your ears were flat as you ran fast on your feet, tears rolling down your fluffy face as you breathed raggedly. But a glint of hope shined through your eyes when you saw Catnap in the distance. “Catnap-! There you are, we have to go!” You said, running over to him and fast but soon slowing down when seeing how he behaved.

Catnap's jaw unhinged like a snake, his paw down his throat as he pulled out remnants of bones. Your eyes locked on him before they slowly trailed down to the bodies of children torn apart In front of him, one of them still barely alive and trying to play dead but it would only be a matter of time before they were. They were too far gone, with their body practically torn in two and their eye closest to the ground burst like a cracked egg just left on the counter with the yolk spilling out.

The room stunk heavily of blood and tears, the blood in the carpet soaking into your feet and squelching with every step you took away. Your feline friend looked up and over at you, his once friendly face vile and terrifying, with his chin red as if he just finished eating a pomegranate.

“(Your name)...” He purred out, suddenly approaching. The disgusting sound like a sponge being squeezed every time he took a heavy step on the ruined carpet made your stomach twist and churn, but all you could focus on was the horrifying figure approaching you. One you used to call a friend.

You gulped as you looked around, eyes darting the rather large room where orphans used to play but you eventually had to face him again. His eyes were wide and murderous, causing your tail to tuck between your legs. “C-catnap.. why did you do this?” You slowly asked, chest feeling heavy as if you were about to dry heave from the sight caused by your friend. It was a miracle you managed to stomach everything you had seen and smelled.

He was silent, just getting closer and stopping once he was close enough. He pressed his nose against yours, purring despite you having to swallow your own throw up from the smell escaping the hollow shell of your best friend. He looked at you with eyes so cold yet so warm. “I did it… for us… the prototype will save us…” He cooed, once again saying the same sentence he had been saying for months. The prototype will save us. And yet it never made sense, and it still didn't.

You gulped and pulled your face away, clenching your eyes shut as you felt queasy from the smell reeking from him as if the blood soaked into his fur and bones. “What do you mean by that?? Is this what you've been talking about?” You asked in disbelief, taking a step back. With a pur the feline responded. “Yes… isn't it wonderful?” He cooed, watching you shake your head in disbelief and disgust. Catnap fell silent before speaking up again, his voice no longer holding any affection for you as he began to understand that you didn't hold the same viewpoint as he did, that you didn't understand why he did all of this and would only see him as a monster.

“You're meant to help me. To understand me… I see I was wrong.” He said coldly, looking down at you with blank eyes but that same smile he could never seem to get rid. Not even in his most manic times. “Thank you for your care, fox. I will save you in the only other way I know how to.”

Suddenly, a red smoke filtered in the room. He watched as you tried to fight against it, tried to run to the door but you collapsed against the carpeted floor instead. At least this way would be painless for you, or so he hoped. He carefully picked you up in his paws, adoring you like how you once adored him before he carefully cut you open as if you were a frog in a science class. He emptied out everything you had inside, his paws shivering at the feeling of your squishy interior and the warmth that would have at one point comforted him when you were whole.

He left your insides and bones on the floor, but kept your heart. He swore he could still hear it beating, the sound driving him even further into insanity but he kept it close in your memory. With one last nuzzle, he left you there. You had betrayed him in his eyes, and he saved you the only way he could.

He killed you out of mercy, not wanting to see you suffer like any other heretics.

Thanks for requesting! And part one is here

[lovely-lavender-doll]

Tonight is the night that you meet your wolf.

You twist your wrists idly against the manacles, feeling pressure where the cool metal meets your skin. It was your idea to apply the bindings early, despite the protestations of your knight.You want to be prepared for the worst, despite all of her reassurances.

She has talked you through what it feels like for her, but even having her repeat it for you half a dozen times, there is still ice in your stomach. You do not know what your wolf will feel like, not really.

The sun set a little while earlier, its final rays casting your room in a dapple of oranges and reds before giving way to the purples and blues of the evening. The doors and windows have been barred and locked in preparation.

 You can hear nothing beyond your quickening breath and fluttering heart, your eyes locked with your knight’s. She is sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of you, and as she watches the rise and fall of your chest she cups your cheek in her palm, thumb tracing the line of your jaw in reassurance.

“I have you, Your Highness. Everything you will go through I have gone through many times now. You will be-” 

You assume her next word is ‘fine’, but you don’t register it. All you can smell is the sweat clinging to her palms, all you can hear is the thrum of blood through her fingers.With an involuntary motion, your eyes drift to the side, trying to take in the shape of her hand. She smells so sweet, a heady aroma like buttercream and iron. It sets your mouth almost to watering, and you swallow to keep yourself from drooling.

She notices the movement and squeezes your cheek, returning your gaze to hers. The edges of her irises look like broken yolks, bleeding yellow inwards across their normal brown. Her breath is careful and measured, and instinctively you sync yours to it, the pounding in your chest slowing a hair.

You itch. She warned you about this, how your body would bristle and burn as the fur forces its way outwards. She holds you steady, blinking slow as her own gray-black coat emerges; standing in sharp contrast to the mix of creams and oranges now covering your forearms. Your tongue feels heavy in your mouth as you roll it gingerly across your lengthening teeth.You hear a nightingale’s call from the courtyard and wonder how it would feel between your jaws. You strain forward with a gentle whine. Something cold and tight holds you in place, a cruelty whose purpose you cannot recall.

Some distant part of you remembers snatches of a conversation you must have had a lifetime ago. “Hold tight to any memories you can. They can pull you back if you feel like you’re losing yourself.” Memories. Easy things to find. Days upon days of courtly responsibilities, of tolerating veiled insults from nobles who you could tear to shreds without a second thought. The indignity of your mother assigning you a little spy. You wonder how her flesh might split beneath your claws, how her screams might sound to your sensitive ears. Days of locked doors and polite refusals and ‘this is not befitting of your station, Princess’ and ‘this is perhaps unwise, Princess’ and ‘thank you Princess, we will take it into consideration after we consult with your mother and father’. All the memories you grab hold of drip gobs of red through your mind like overripe plums, sticky and sweet and intoxicating and WHY can’t you move from this spot it is MADDENING and you open your jaws to scream as loud as your lungs can manage and-

You sputter out a choke as you feel claws at your throat, clamping your howl down before you can get it out. All of you burns as your eyes lock back to the wolf in front of you. This is your room. Who is she to be here, let alone to touch you like this? Your fur bristles, a low growl winds its way up from your strangled windpipe, and you lunge for her with every ounce of your strength. There is a terrible tearing sound and your nostrils fill with the tang of dust as whatever holds you to the wall snaps away, taking a chunk of the stone with it. You are on her in an instant, fangs sinking into her thick fur as she lets out a surprised yelp.

Her fur runs deeper than you think, and your fangs barely scratch the skin of her collar underneath, affording you just a drop or two of her sweet blood before she throws you from her with a low rumble of warning. You ignore it, of course. This is your room and she is an outsider. She may be bigger than you, but you are faster, at least at first. You dart around and at each other for a while, and you manage to score a few nips and scratches along her flanks before one of her paws catches you square alongside the head.

Your vision spins and you careen into the side of the bed frame with a thud. You stagger up but she is already in your face. The breath leaves you again as she slams a limb into the space below your ribs and you whimper. It is over now, you think. You feel her fangs clamp to the back of your neck. It is over. You will not expel her from here you will not escape it is over you are going to die now she is going to tear your throat away you are going to die here bile rises in your throat in fear but she is…she is not biting deeper. You cannot shake her, but all she does is growl low and hold you in place.

You yelp softly. She doesn’t move. You go limp in her jaws. She still does not move. You pant, willing your body to slow and to relax. Her smell is distantly familiar. You know this wolf, you think. You slow your breathing more and take in more of her scent. You love this wolf, you think. She stays unmoving as the tension drains from your muscles. Your hackles lower, your breath slows.After a few interminable minutes she relaxes her jaws and licks at your neck. You sag to the floor and she curls her body around yours as you tremble. You do not think your knight was ever in any real danger from you. After all, she is much more used to the wolf than you, made evident by how quickly she overpowered you. The thought you could have hurt her is upsetting though, and you give a soft whine as your eyes grow heavy.

You wake in the morning to find your knight still curled around you, an arm draped across your waist protectively. Your whole body aches, and even just yawning awake sends a pang through your jaw. The sun filtering in reveals the extent of your little misadventure last night. Claw marks all across your bed and dresser, torn blankets, shredded pillows, not to mention the manacles wrenched free from the wall. This is going to take a lot of obfuscation. Your knight murmurs in her sleep, pulling you tighter to her. You settle into her arms and let your eyes drift shut again. That can all come later. Your wolf needs rest, and lots of it.

[lionsongfr]

Crystalline Gala Cuisine

Been a bit since I made a festival cuisine, and since my old ones have been circulating, I guiltily figured I should make one for the Gala before it ends.  Gaolers and Tundras are both herbivores (though Gaolers also eat meat), but I headcanon that like most herbivores they will opportunistically eat fish, insects, and meat when given the chance. The dishes have a bit more mixing than the previous cuisine; in the Icefield you eat what you can and as much as you can to survive. Potato Onions are my replacement for potatos, because FR needs potatoes (and citrus and tomatoes and wheat and rice and spices).

Seeker Stew- originally a stew of necessity for traveling Seekers, it was made of dried Sea Grass, small Cragside Mussels, canned Common Minnows, Sour Elk milk, and spoiled Turnips. The dish was transformed back home, using fresh Spinach, meaty Olympia Oysters, Jumbo Shrimp, new Potato Onions, and…sour Snowfall Elk milk. Funk is flavor!

Shalefin in a Fur Coat- this uniquely named dish is a layered salad, like the layers of a Tundra fur coat. It is made of finely sliced pickled Shalefin fillets, grated Potato Onion, Gradish, and Honeycrisp Apple, and chopped hard-boiled Flecked Bushrunner eggs. The key binding ingredient is a flavorful mayonnaise made of Elk tallow, Dappled Clucker yolks, and dill.

Bear in a Cave Dumplings-a favorite of the Fae scholars of the Frozen Sanctum. It is a boiled or fried Potato Onion dumpling filled with fried Wooly Bear, Wild Onion, and Dryad's Saddle. It can be served with melted Elk milk butter and Winter’s Delight jam or a white sauce spiced with dried Dusky Mealworm and imported Golden Pepper.

Tundra Grub- a dish named after the main protein of the dish: a sausage filled with Tundra Grub meat, Longneck-grown oats, and Elk blood. The sausage is fried along with strips of Tundra Cactus before being added to an earthy brown sauce of Mycena Mushroom and Earthworms. It is typically served with an unleavened flatbread made of rye or Longneck oats, or a mash of Potato Onion.

Woodland Turkey Dinner- this was once a seasonal dish, but now is common year-round. While the star of the dinner is the roasted Woodland Turkey, the side dishes are just as essential. The most common is: Deep Sea Lobster and Jumbo Shrimp stuffing, roasted Winter Brussel Sprouts with a Superberry vinegarette, Tundra Grub and Potato Onion mash with Mycena Mushroom gravy, and Stonecorn rolls with Elk cheese and White Lace Honeybee honey. And last but not least, a Cinnamon and Honeycrisp Apple pie. A heavy dinner said to put even Sentinels to sleep!

Trunk Cheese- not actually cheese, but a cold meat dish made of fresh Bullephant Trunk (or Mammophant, though it is not as tasty).  The meat of the trunk is removed and cooked in a mix of spices and Wild Onion, and then poured and set with gelatin in the skin of the trunk. Slices are cut from the trunk and served upon rye bread with strong Wild Mustard and pickled Gradish.   

Edamame Soup and Pancakes- a popular yet odd combination of savory and sweet. This dish features a Chilled Edamame soup (heated of course, the chilled variety of plants grow better in the hot houses of Icefield) with large chunks of smokey Elk bacon, a sprinkle of thyme, and a dollop of Wild Mustard. The pancakes are made of nutty and mildly sweet Amaranth flour and served with Winter’s Delight jam. The soup is traditionally dished with a silver spoon, after a mighty Tundra king was poisoned by his favorite soup.

Warden’s Delight- a dessert, a snack, a spread upon rye bread, and a delight to every hatchie. It is a mix of Elk tallow, Spotted Seal or Wooly Walrus oil, fresh snow, and Winter’s Delight. As the mixture is whipped into fluffy peaks, it is traditional to sing “Warden’s Delight to fight off the night, no Shade or beast shall fill my sight. Drive away the hunger, drive away the cold, fill my belly and make me bold.”

Frozen Bouquet- flowers are rarity in the Southern Icefield, but this bouquet is made from flash-frozen flowers and fruits. After thawing they are quickly coated in a thin layer of crystalized maple syrup and then arranged into a bouquet. Often the bouquets have hidden meanings like Pretty Pink Mums for courting. Winterbelle for strength, and Wolfsbane for warning. But what every Tundra fears the most is a bouquet of Black Tulips.

 Crisp Morning Cider- Vodka is life to Ice Flight, the warmth in one’s chest in a land where winter never ends. And while most drink it “neat”, when rations are low then cocktails are the answer!  This drink is a common morning warmer and is a mix of White Lace Honeybee honey with hot water, Vodka, Honeycrisp Apple cider, and Cinnamon.

Boreal Brew-a tea made from the leaves of whatever green tree is available. Birch, Fir, Spruce, and Pine can all be brewed into an astringent tea with a citrus-y aftertaste. Unfortunately, Birch, Fir, and Spruce are typically harvested during Spring-Summer- but Pine is harvested during December. To help remove the bitter taste, Pine can be fermented with sugar for a week to a month (fermentation time depending on temperature) and then filtered and served as cold tea.

[weministertomonsters]

Werefox (Harcourt) x human female reader ~ part 1

You're twelve when you hear your mother yelling outside.

"Get out!"

You scamper into the backyard to see her shooing the scrawniest werefox you've ever seen away from the chicken coop. He's got egg yolk clinging to his chin. His sunset orange ears are pinned to his head as he deftly dodges your mother's flailing dishcloth and leaps over the fence, disappearing into the brush.

"But Ma!" You wail, "he's cute and hungry!"

"Such creatures are a pestilence. Besides, dear, you can't keep him as a pet. He'll grow just as big as you, and he's no true animal."

You pout for the rest of the week, but she doesn't budge, like any sensible mother. The little werefox had a den nearby, you figure, so you set out to find it, taking two eggs from the coop. His den isn't hard to find. You've seen fox dens before he looks like he hasn't learned how to create a proper and safe den. As you step on the crunchy leaves surrounding his home, his head pops out of his den like a jack-in-the-box and he stares at you.

"Hello," you say, tromping forward without much thought to your safety. "I brought you eggs!"

He cocks his head to the side. You put the eggs on a leaf close to him and watch him snap them up, crunching on the shells and licking his lips.

"Can you speak?" You ask him next.

He watched you silently, ears swiveling. You glimpse a worn, scruffy collar around his neck and reach out to hold the tag. He squirms and shivers, but lets you have a look.

"Harcourt? That's such a fancy name," you laugh.

"I was a circus pet," he blurts out, eyes widening like he can't believe he just spoke. "I-I ran away!"

"Well, nice to meet you," you say and give him a big hug, breathing in the dusty scent of his fur. "We're going to be best friends!"

So, that's how you made your unlikely friend. Nine years later, he's still runty and lanky, although he's almost as tall as you if he stands. You're still very good friends, even if he is a stubborn little shit and refuses to leave his den most of the time.

"I'm going to stop bringing you food," you tease one hazy afternoon as you watch him scarf down the ham and cheese sandwich you brought him.

"Then I'll steal your eggs," he says, licking his muzzle and then licking the taste of ham from your fingers, his sharp teeth nipping lightly at your skin.

"You already do that. You're lucky the hens are laying a surplus, otherwise, my mother would notice."

"I trade for the eggs though," he protests.

"The baskets of fruit that appear on our doorstep? I'm pretty sure you steal from the neighbor's orchard," you snicker.

He narrows his golden eyes at you and huffs.

"Never mind me, stolen fruit tastes sweeter." You tuck up your skirts and get on your hands and knees and crawl into his den uninvited, because you know he won't mind. "Oh, you enlarged it! And you took my advice and got some bedding- is that my spare quilt?!"

"Stop fussing already," he grumbles, squeezing in after you. "You don't need it. It gets cold out here."

"But you could have asked. Wait a second... No wonder I couldn't find these panties. You took these two!"

You burst into laughter and nudge him playfully with your foot. "You didn't even try to hide them. Shameless."

"You're not mad?" Harcourt curls up in a ball and tucks his nose into his tail, peering at you.

"No, but why did you take them?"

"They smelled good and they make me feel funny."

You slap a hand over your face. "Oh my god, it's almost like you grew up in the wild by yourself... Oh right, you did."

"What? Did I say something wrong?" He asks, perking his head up.

"Er, so what do you do with my panties? Just drape them over your nose and go to sleep?"

"First I chew on them."

"So I can see," you raise your eyebrows at the holes in your undergarments and drop them on the ground.

"I think there's something you're not telling me," Harcourt says.

"Definitely. You'll figure it out when your first mating season comes around," you reply and lie back against the quilt, staring up at the dirt ceiling.

A couple of roots are bared to the gaze. You learned long ago that it was best to keep your eyes closed in his den, otherwise, you'd get dirt in your eyes. You close your eyes now and Harcourt scoots closer, plopping his head on your stomach. You run your fingers through his fur, which is always silky now thanks to the brush you gifted him.

"Do humans have a mating season too?" He asks.

"Not really. But we are expected to pair off with another human and have babies. My mom has been talking about it since I turned eighteen. She's worried that I'm getting too old."

"Are you?" Harcourt sniffs. "You smell young to me."

"I have no idea what you mean, silly. I'm only twenty-one and I think there's plenty of time yet. I don't fancy any of the men in town because they're forceful with what they want. At this point, I need a stick to beat them off with."

"I can guard you," Harcourt offers.

"Oh no, don't do that. If you think my mother is bad, then you're not prepared for the men in town. Some of them might try to shoot you."

"Hmmm, it's why I stay away from humans," Harcourt murmurs sleepily. "They all want to shoot me or cage me up."

"A pity," you murmur back.

You end up dozing off with your hand still in his fur. Harcourt sleeps like he's still a kit, draping his body over you, then curling up at your side, and then nuzzling into his tail, constantly moving. You think nothing of it until you're completely woken up by his tongue rasping over your skin.

"Oi, I took a bath this week. I don't need another one," you grumble sleepily.

He purrs deep in his throat and licks your arm again, his body caged around you like he's a motherly cat.

"Hey," you cry in proper protest as he moves on to your hair. "Stop it."

"You always smell so nice," he purrs. "You smell nicer than your panties."

You huff out a laugh. "You're clueless, you overgrown fox-child. Release me, if I don't head home now, my mother will send someone to find me."

"Fine," he grumbles. "Don't take so long to visit next time."

"I won't," you promise as you scramble out of his den, shaking leaves and dirt out of your hair and clothes.

You look frightfully dirty and sneak back to your house and up the stairs to change before your mother catches you. For the next few days, you're incredibly busy. The harvest is in and all your time is spent preserving, canning, salting, drying, and pickling. You leave a few gifts tucked in a secret corner of the coop for Harcourt. The nights are becoming warm and the crickets sing. You wonder when the mating season begins for foxes, and when you'll see any more of them.

You know they're there, but they just don't live so close to human towns. In that way, Harcourt is a bit of an anomaly.

The next morning, you're taking in the morning eggs when you notice something strange. The chickens are milling around their coop, staring at something underneath. You crouch down to have a look and come face to face with a slender female werefox. She's crammed into the tiny space, which doesn't look very comfortable.

"Hi," you say. "Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you."

"I know," she replies, and with a grunt of effort, she crawls out. "I was hiding from a male. I did not want to mate with him and he chased me all the way here. He did not dare to come close to the house so I have been hiding here until he goes away."

She lifts her muzzle and sniffs the air. "He is gone now," she says in satisfaction.

Her golden eyes fall on you and she says,

"I do not scare you, human?"

"No, I have a werefox friend who lives nearby."

"Yes, the lonely one. I have scented him around your house," she says. "He must like you to guard your property like this."

"I guess," you smile and glance back at your house. "I can't promise my mother will be happy to see you here, though."

"I need a place to sleep and a reliable male to den with. This fox friend of yours, he is good?" She asks.

"I would say so, yes."

"Then take me to him," she says, placing the soft pads of her paws against your arm and squeezing. "I would rather choose a male than be forced to pick one."

"I understand how you feel. Let me put the eggs away, then I'll join you."

Together you take the secluded path through the forest. Your new werefox acquaintance flits around you like a butterfly, listening for danger and cocking her head to the sound of rabbits or squirrels. You've never seen a female werefox before and you can't help looking at her breasts. The six of them are much more obvious than they would be on a male werefox, with rosy pronounced nipples like she's already had a litter or two.

When you get close to Harcourt's den, she bumps into you and stops you with a paw on your arm.

"Be aware he is in a rut," she says. "He may bite us and chase us."

"This is his first one," you say. "Does that make it any better?"

"No," she said. "He might not even realize who you are. He will want to mate with you."

"But that's what you're here for," you say quickly. "Let me look at him."

"I will wait." She grabs your cheeks and holds your face still, rubbing her muzzle against your neck and giving you a little lick. "I cannot promise what he will do to you when he scents me on your skin," she says. "Be cautious."

You trudge towards the den and stop a few feet away from the entrance.

"Harcourt?" You call out.

The growl you receive in response is immediate and none too friendly.

"Someone is in a mood," you mumble.

You crouch and crawl into the den, praying he doesn't bite your face off. Harcourt is curled up in an aggravated ball, his nose pushed into his fluffy tail for comfort. He glares at you.

"Are you okay?" You ask, looking him over.

He looks scrawnier than usual like he hasn't been hunting.

"No," he growls. "You didn't come and visit me."

"I'm sorry, there's been so much work to do in the house that I couldn't find any time to steal away," you sigh. "You didn't come for any of the gifts I left you."

"I can't. I'm miserable," Harcourt huffs. "I'm hot all over and I'm leaking everywhere and I've wanted to bite you and do things I cannot fathom. I was afraid I'd hurt you."

"Oh," you smile. "You're precious."

"I don't know what is happening to me!" He snaps, his ears pinning back. "And I ask that you leave me be until I am myself again."

"I can't do that," you say. "If you don't get any help you're going to be like this for a long time."

Harcourt blinks and uncurls his slender body, tail whisking against the quilt.

"You mean, it's never going away?"

He looks mournfully down at himself, at his pink cock that has poked out of its sheath and rubs against his belly, plastering the fur there with precum.

"No," he whispers. "But I can't stay like this! I can't sleep, I can't hunt, I can't even groom myself properly because it hurts."

He turns to look at you with dilated pupils. "You have to help me," he whimpers.

Before you can answer, the female werefox crawls into the den, and Harcourt freaks out, hissing and ducking behind you.

"Woah, calm down, she's with me," you say.

"I come in peace, little one," she says. "You're much younger than I thought you would be. Inexperienced. My name is Nitaki."

She looks around the den and wrinkles her muzzle.

"Get out of my den," Harcourt huffs. "Leave me alone."

She crawls forward, brushing her muzzle against your cheek. "The human is a friend to you?" She hums.

"She's mine," he snaps.

"Um," you begin, but neither of them pays attention to you as they face each other with wrinkled noses and bared teeth.

Nitaki stares him down imperiously until he gives up and looks away with a whimper. Whining your name, he attempts to scoot back to your side, but she blocks him off.

"I want only one thing from you. To end this cycle of heat."

"I-I don't know how," Harcourt says anxiously, nostrils flaring as he takes in the cacophony of scents from both females, so different and yet so alike.

It makes him disoriented and dizzy.

"I will teach you," she says, prowling closer.

He leans away, even snapping when she gets too close. Frustrated at his rejection, she spins around and locks her eyes on you.

"It is your human female you truly want, is it not?"

Harcourt's pupils widen more than you had thought they could. His tongue lolls out of his mouth and his sides heave.

"Yes..." He says.

"Um, that's not-" You begin, but Nitaki flicks her ears and holds out a paw to you.

"Join us," she urges. "And we can all get what we want."

"But I..."

"Please?" Harcourt says, his claws digging into the quilt as his cock throbs against his belly. "I want you."

You're still hesitating when Nitaki pounces on Harcourt, knocking him onto his back. He growls and tries to push her off. But the Nitaki is stronger than him, a true alpha female. She keeps him down and ignores his squirming, leaning down and placing her teeth around his neck. He goes still immediately and his eyes roll wildly as he whimpers.

"What are you doing?" You ask.

"I want him to submit to me," she mumbles against his fur. "I do not have patience for teaching."

Once she's satisfied that Harcourt is subdued, she rolls off of him and gets on her hands and knees, displaying herself for him. Perhaps her pheromones finally penetrate his dumb skull or he finally realizes what he's meant to do. Either way, he crawls up to her, sniffing the air. He growls and bares his teeth, fumbling at her hips. She flicks her tail out of the way and shuffles her knees open wider, waiting.

You can see how wet she is.

"Human, help him," Nitaki commands. "Are we shall be here for the rest of the day."

Silently, you move over. Harcourt jumps a mile when you take his cock in your hand. It's different from a man's, pink and slippery and with a slightly flared head. It looks huge, throbbing menacingly in your palm. Harcourt whimpers, and his body trembles. You guide him to the female werewolf and feel her lubrication wet your fingers as you press him in.

It doesn't go exactly as you had imagined. Nitaki is content to drive her hips against him and does most of the work while he shivers and clutches her hips. When he cums, it startles him most of all. He tries to pull out, but she grabs his paws and pulls him against her back, unrelenting. He gives up and leans heavily against her, panting.

Finally, she pulls away and shakes herself off. Harcourt slumps onto the quilt, dazed. His cock is still throbbing and leaking cum lazily.

"Good luck with your little runt," Nitaki says to you. "I have what I needed."

With that, she scrambles out of the den and leaves the two of you to your own devices.

"Harcourt? Are you okay?" You lean over him.

His eyes open and he grunts. "I want to do it again," he says. "But with you this time."

─────────────── · · · · ✦

So stressed right now, ngl. Reblog/like if you want me to write part two of this crazy shit!

[imber-rose]

From The Branches pt. 1

Newt climbed the tree before him with no small amount of effort. It was a tall fir, needles heavy with snow. The lowest branches were a few feet off the ground, which meant Newt had to dig his claws in, sticky pine sap dripping from the wounds he inflicted upon the wood. It was going to be a pain to wash out his fur later but hopefully the treasure above him was worth it.

Once he was finally to the branches the climb became much easier. A natural ladder for Newt to take advantage of. Finally he reached the level he needed to be on. Before him, out on the end of a thick sturdy branch, was a nest. His mouth watered as he caught sight of the white eggshells, they almost seemed to glow, and Newt could swear he could taste the yolks already. He would eat like a king that day, if he could get them that is.

He started inching his way out towards the nest. He glanced nervously at the sky, making sure an unhappy mother wouldn’t swoop in to peck at him. The eggs were just almost in reach when a crack sounded from above. Suddenly a cascade of fresh snow slipped from the higher branches.

Newt yelped as the new weight shook the branch below his feet and he slipped. He scrabbled and clawed trying to catch another branch, but to no avail. He fell. And fell. Pine needles and twigs scratched at Newt’s face and body as he collided with the lower branches. He let out a yelp as he felt a hot pain sear through one of his legs before finally he landed unceremoniously in a pile of leaves.

He could feel his heart hammering in his chest. Of all the ways that climb could have ended, this was the worst. He needed to get up and move, he could feel the blood leaking from his wounds, and if he stayed here too long some predator would certainly sniff him out. And then Newt heard the only sound that could possibly make this whole situation worse.

“What in the world was that”a surprised voice boomed. A human voice.

——————————————————

I decided I needed to run with that whole lil cryptid meets cryptozoologist idea I had! I haven’t done much writing so I’m still a bit of a noob, but I’m trying to have more fun with it and be brave about sharing it too so I can improve, feel free to give me any feedback is your inclined 8)

I’m gonna draw art of the girlie soon, but in the meantime here’s Newts design!

[bit-odd-innit]

AO3 Down Post Uhhhhhhhhhh Brand New WIP That Wasn’t An Option On The WIP Poll Yet Inexplicably Is The Most Complete. First time writing Robin/Vickie!:

[Context is Steve cracked open a single egg with two yolks, Eddie told him that’s good luck and he needed to blow off work to spread his good fortune with the world because today is now EGG DAY. Steve is unconvinced but goes along with it anyway.]

They’re still arguing when they swing by the diner to meet Robin. “Back me up,” he says to her as he snags one of her fries. “The universe doesn’t guarantee you a good day just because one morning you decided to make an omelette.”

“You misrepresent me,” Eddie counters. “Egg Day is merely a positive portent. A good omen. A sign that emphatically declares there’s a pretty good chance today won’t suck.” “I don’t know, I think I’m with Eddie on this one.” Steve huffs indignantly. “I think it’s nice to believe there’s magic in the world.” She purses her lips. “Magic that’s not actively trying to kill us, that is.” 

They’d missed the lunch rush; the dining room is sparse. Its quiet enough that any clattering of noise, no matter how small, draws attention. The bell above the entrance sounds with a glittery tingtingting. And there, at the counter, resplendent in a bright yellow sundress, is—

“Oh my God.” Robin is already beneath the table. “She can’t see me like this, I look like I belong in a garbage can.”

“That wasn’t on purpose?” Eddie asks. 

“Steve, she hisses. "Do something.”

Steve raises one arm in the air and calls, “Vickie! Hey!”

“They’ll never find your body. I’m going to grind your bones to dust and use it to make mulch for my tomato garden hiiiiiiiii Vickie!” “Hi, guys!” She balances her takeout bag on her hip, gaze lingering on Robin. “Hi Robin.” ”Hi!” ”Hi.” Eddie opens his menu to shield the side of his face and mouths to Steve Jesus H Christ. Vickie, undeterred or oblivious, says, “Strange to see you outside of your post at Ye Olde Family Video.”

“I have off on Wednesdays.”

“Me too! I mean, I don’t have a job, so every day is kind of a day off.” Her smile dims. “It’s not like I’m doing nothing. I’ve been setting up some college visits, and band, you know band? You remember band?” “Yeah?” “So you remember what a total drill sergeant Stenman is.” She scrunches her nose, head twitching like a woodland creature trying to shake a dewdrop out of its fur. “Of course you do, you graduated like a month ago. I’m, uh, I’m also taking AP Calc with Bramowitz next year which is going to be absolute bear, but at present yeah I’m just fetching my lunch and bringing it back to my house to eat it which definitely seems like a whole lot of nothing now that I spell it out—“

“So you’re free.” Robin interjects. 

“What?”

“What? Robin seems equally surprised the suggestion came from her. She sits up a little straighter and says, “Right now. You’re free.”

“I-yeah. Yeah I’m free.”

“Do you…want to do something together?”

Vickie glows, but quickly tempers it.

“Oh, are you sure? I don’t want to break up your gang hang.”

“I’ve never seen these bozos in my life.”

Steve stares unblinking into the middle distance. Eddie waves. “Okay!” Vickie says brightly. “Well, despite the fact I have never finished one by myself in my life, my hubris has lead me to once again order the Bubba Burger.” She twists her body to showcase the take-out bag, grease darkening the paper. Her expression softens. “We could...split it? If you’re hungry?” “Starving,” Robin says as she shoves her untouched tuna melt into Steve’s awaiting, open hands.  Vickie beams, bouncing a little on her heels. “Great! There’s this park not too far from here, there’s like, a rose garden and a duck pond or whatever. But we don’t have to go there! We can eat anywhere! We can eat in the parking lot!—” “That sounds perfect,” Robin breathes. Vickie blinks. “The parking lot?” “No, the uh, the other thing.” “Right. Right.” She steps aside, gives Robin space to slide out of the booth, and turns toward the door. “Shall we?” Robin watches her for a beat, a gentle smile pulling at her lips. She opens her mouth to reply, and what comes out is, “I gotta use the wiz palace.” Steve smacks his palm to his forehead. “Cool. Cool cool cool. I’m parked out front, meet me at my car?” Robin, struck dumb by the incredibly stupid thing she just said, nods. “Cool.” She sets off, but not before glancing over her shoulder and adding, “I’m really glad I ran into you guys.” Robin stares after her and once the door closes, her head snaps to Steve.  “I blacked out. What did I just agree to?”

[oak-and-his-furbies]

just got this little fella off a friend, he doesnt work as he has been thrown down a flight of stairs and drop kicked (not by me) but his name is yolk and i love him - i wanna dye his fur, any suggestions?

[etirabys]

Some statements about penguins and antarctic dragons

// cw wild animal suffering

Antarctic dragons sleep on the shores that waves would otherwise crash violently on. They are too big to get all of their energy from predation, so they get the rest from wave/tidal energy, which propels their scales. There are large scales that need to turn a certain way, and smaller, less picky ones that catch the leftover turbulence. Sometimes they dive down deep to catch the more regular currents of the Antarctic Confluence (which is the world's strongest ocean current), gripping the seabed to not get swept away.

Some penguins (adelie) ride pack ice to forage, like boats.

There was a guy on the boat who had eaten a penguin egg (that was rejected by its parents, I think). When you cook it, the whites don't go white – they go a kind of translucent gray. And the yolk isn't yellow, it's a bright orange, almost red.

He also ate some penguin back before that was Very Illegal. He says it's quite polarizing among the people who have tried it, and might depend on the skill of the cook. Seabirds in general taste kind of fishy, apparently. Penguin is no exception, and the fat – which there's a lot of – tastes very fishy indeed. You'll have better luck if you remove it.

The dragons use their tails to smash ice into smaller crystals. This is what they build nests out of. Like emperor penguins, dragon eggs can hatch on (very cold) ice, but what they do need is insulation from the harsh winds.

We saw a dead penguin, mostly whole, floating in the water. Hunters, if they aren't very hungry, will sometimes take the breast meat and leave the rest alone.

Leopard seals, who hunt penguins and fur seals, eat their prey after shaking it so hard by the body part it's caught by that the skin everts off the meat. On the shore of South Georgia, I saw two different skeletons + whole skins attached by a single point.

Some dragons are willing to exchange their eggs for human children. A pregnant woman can make a deal. It has to be timed right – after the dragonet hatches, she'll crawl inside the egg to give birth, and leave the baby there. It's hard to believe it'll be fine, but it will be – if you cruise around Antarctica for a week, you'll probably see at least one or two human changeling standing among the penguins or dragons, standing just as still. Translucent skin flushed blue.

The guy who was leading the small boat cruise, who told us about the penguin egg colors, got a little quiet and bitter when this came up. I think he's always longed to make the swap and foster a dragon child. Some people get that way – something in their brain flips and they never get the yen for human children at all.

35 million years ago there was a penguin species that was 2 meters tall – the colossus penguin.

[streaminn]

Enid's in rut and surprisingly, this is not that sexual. Think if this as me delving deeper in Enid's thought process if she gad to go through it

Have my draft bc I'm redoing it rq!

-

I must be in hell, Enid thinks, tugging off her coat in hopes that it could help.

It didn't do a thing and now she's pulling at her tie, hating how suffocating it is around her throat.

Someone must've turned off the AC because there was no other explanation for this, for the sweat clinging onto her skin and the heat under her clothes. Someone is out to kill her and instead of going through the silver route like a normal person, they decided to cook her like some roast chicken.

The thought of food has her salivating for a moment before a wave of heat crashes over her so hard that she nearly bowls over. She doesn't, instead she kinda crashes onto a nearby pillar, left a bit breathless.

Oh god, this is how she dies.

"girl, are you okay?" yoko asks, raising a brow from the sweltering werewolf's side.

Enid was wholly tempted to open her mouth and pant like some dog. There must be a reason that doing so cools them down so if she were to do the same-

"Enid?" at the call, it's enough to snap the werewolf back to reality. She does however stumble a tad before straightening.

"fuckin' hot," Enid hisses, tugging at her tie once again and there's relief when her nail catches at a button and leaves a bit of her skin free with a pull. She pulls at her sleeves, uncaring as the buttons pops off the cuffs and pushes it up her arms. "I swear to god, I'm dyin' 'ere."

Yoko sniffs the air for a bit before her eyes go wide and Enid is being shoved through the quad. They tumble over students and the werewolf was left ignorant to the way the furs stilled as the two moved past the table.

"yoko," Enid whines, not surprised yet irate as she gets dragged indoors and through a bunch of stairs. The two were already used to one another pulling the other around but it didn't stop her from being annoyed. "I thought we're gonna eat."

"eni-" the vampire let's out a breath and oh! They're in front of Enid's dorm room. "I think it's better you eat here else you feast on something else."

The wolf scrunches her nose as she pulls her arm away from the vampire and untucks her shirt. There's a lil bit of relief after being tugged around, the wind is lovely against her face.

She does note that yoko only grabbed her by the vest though.

The vampire's insinuation flew right over her head. "you're such a weirdo, Yolks."

[bluebunnyears-08]

Writing prompt-Since sonic doesn’t exist in New yolk and any of the shatterspaces that means that Metal Sonic doesn’t exist.

So since sonic keeps getting thrown around different spaces -(Nine decides to just make a companion, a friend . . . A brother. You can already tell, yeah its Metal. Except its not the one we know as Nine tries to replicate sonics personality in ways. Not perfect but enough to get by.

-( He would also act as a body guard for him since while he is capable on his own it shows he does need support and since he’s a robot, he’s more like a tool for him to use.

-( So he’d still be alone and isolated but he’d still talk to it and Metal would talk back but in basic sonic speech. He’d enjoy it at least, makes him wish the original was still with him though but it suffices.

-( Metal doesn’t look exactly that accurate to the original design. Definitely has some menace but he’d want him to look closer to the original more softer perhaps a mouth. Like an older bro.

-( Near the end Sonic comes back and is majorly surprised to see metal and then realises who built him not sure how to really take it.

Let me know if its interesting, I want to hear your opinion

Hello! Thank you for the prompt! This is a very interesting idea and I'm so glad you decided to share it with me!

I've never written a story with metal before but I'll try!

================================================

Metal wasn't perfect.

He wasn't Sonic. But he was enough like him. It took a while to make Metal, but Nine found himself deeply satisfied that he finished the passion project. He had similar features to his only friend. The blue spikes, the green emerald eyes, the gloves and shoes, the speed, he even made some material to give a soft skin-like feel to metal.

He was almost exactly like Sonic. Nine made sure that he didn't stray far from the hero he admired, he even made sure that the robot talked like the blue blur. Metal protected him like Sonic did, he made sure to protect him from any threats.

Metal kept him company like Sonic did, speaking in the exact same gestures and mannerisms the fox made him memorize. The robot was even capable of speed like Sonic was.

Metal was almost exactly like Sonic.

But only almost. The eyes were still empty and robot-like, no thoughts behind that gaze, merely coding. His voice didn't sound genuine, not said with heart. Another thing was that Metal was, well, metal.

No soft, warm fur, merely metal was what met him when Nine tried once to hug.

So while Metal was finished, metal wasn't like Sonic. Metal wasn't Sonic. Merely a copy made by a lonely kid desperate for company since the blue speedster always disappeared out of existence.

He still found himself making more adjustments and improvements instead of dismantling the thing. He tried once, but couldn't go through with it due to those emerald orbs staring back at him.

So he kept the bot intact, and in turn, the bot provided the things he was made for. Protection, and company, but never friendship or love.

He was a robot, he could never feel those things. He was merely a tool to Nine.

That's when Sonic found him on the Grim, Metal was occupied building the base. Nine ran up to him, excited to present his new creation. The blue blur was enthusiastic in response, always eager and content when the normally stoic fox was happy.

"Sonic, I present to you, my newest and latest creation!"

Metal moved out in front, revealing himself. The hedgehog froze, eyes wide at his doppelganger. He originally was tense, moving in front of the fox protectively until he got a closer look at the different, more realistic design. It was almost like looking into a mirror.

Almost.

"Metal...?

[nyxnightshade1332]

Expectations When Expecting (Book 1)

Chapter 5

Chapter 6:

The boys didn't run for long, somehow managing to round Grim into a corner, allowing Yuu to manage to reach them.

"Mrrah! I've had it with these boring classes!" Grim yowled, his fur puffing out slightly.

"Grim, you're making a scene! Do you want to become a great mage or not?" She said sternly, eyes narrowing as she dared him to make a move against her.

Grim, noting her tone of voice and remembering how terrifying she could be when angered, backed down, with an irritated, "UGH! When did you get all bossy?"

Yuu raised an eyebrow at the cat before picking him up. Yuu gave a warning smile, her tone changing to a sickly sweet warning. "Hey. Run away like that again, and I'm buying you a fireproof leash, got it?"

Grim winced, giving the young woman a nod.

"Good!" She smiled, turning to the (slightly terrified) boys. "Now! What's our next class gonna be?"

.

.

.

About an hour later, the group made their way to the cafeteria, Grim suddenly bursting with excitement and Yuu practically starving.

"Wooo! Lunchtime at last!" Grim sniffed the air, his eyes scanning over the food. "Whoa!" Grim began to drool. "They got some good-lookin' grub!"

Yuu agreed, mouth watering at the sight of a steak with mashed potatoes and several ice-cream and fruit bowls. Hopefully, it's well done. Can't risk raw-ish meat.

"It actually looks good!" Yuu responded, before silently adding. "All my school ever gave was pizza and fruit."

"Look how fluffy those omelets are! Ooh, grilled chicken! And a bacon-and-egg tart!" Grim flitted between several different meals, while Yuu looked for dishes that she would deem as safe.

"Shhh! Dude, inside voices!" Ace said, watching Grim. "Where was this energy earlier today?"

"Yuu, grab me the grilled chicken! There's only one left!" He pointed, tail practically wagging. "Ooh! And an omelet too. And that jelly-filled bread. Just fill your whole tray with 'em!" Grim pointed, getting more carried away. Yuu piled quite a bit of food on the shared tray. Yuu reached the steak area where she had begun to ask if it was possible to get a well done steak when all of a sudden, Grim yelped.

"Ow!" Yuu turned to see Grim on the floor with three giants standing over him. She quickly confirmed her special order before dismissing herself to check on Grim.

"Hey! Watch where you're goin'!" One growled before looking at his food. "M-my carbonara! You broke the yolk!"

"Whoa, that's messed up! Pokin' the egg is the best part!" Second stared before sending a menacing glare at Grim. "You better make this right, pal!"

"I'm gonna need that grilled chicken of yours as compensation." The first one snarled, extending his hand while Grim clung to a piece of chicken.

"No way! Hands off the bird, chump! I need my protein, because I am HANGRY!" Grim hissed, his ears flashing as if giving a warning.

"Hey! That's no way to speak to an upperclassman! Catch me outside and I'll teach you some respect!" The boy growled, cracking his knuckles.

Yuu pushed past the growing crowd, stupidly placing herself between Grim and the guys. "What's happening here?" She asked, heart thumping loudly against her chest.

"I'll tell ya what happened. That fur-ball broke my yolk!" He snarled, getting increasingly close to her. She took a step back.

"Okay, first? Back the hell up." She said, "Second, food is food. It's still edible. However, if you're that bent out of shape about it, then I'll give you one of these." She said, offering one of Grim's jelly-breads.

Yuu yelped when she felt the bread get slapped out of her hand and a finger poked her collar bone harshly.

"You're gonna pay for that." She heard him snarl while he pulled out a magic pen. Yuu's eyes widened at the sudden escalation of events. She hadn't even been rude.

All of a sudden, someone was standing in front of her. "Um, excuse me, sir, but it said in the handbook that fighting with magic was prohibited..." A familiar voice was heard, Deuce, as Yuu recognized him.

"Fighting? You got it all wrong. This is just me helpin' an ignorant freshman know his place." The glare sent at herself and Grim sent shivers down her spine.

The second student gave a howling laugh, eyes glinting maliciously. "Now, let's see just how many ways there are to skin a cat, heh!" He lifted his pen, and all hell seemed to break loose.

Chapter 7