#travelling trauma centre | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hardlyinteresting · 3 months

Text

Personal

Aaron Hotchner x reader

A case hits a little too close to home for the reader. Hotch makes sure she knows she not alone even as they struggle to decide if they're colleagues, friends, or something more.

Warnings: female reader, (I've given her the nickname Sweets), No physical description of reader, mildly graphic descriptions of injuries, cannon-compliant themes of violence, themes of past domestic violence, mild hurt/comfort, I am not a profiler so there are likely mistakes in the profile (please let me know if there are any warnings you'd like me to add. Aaron Hotchner Masterlist | Send Requests

Word count: 3.2K

"Hope is a gift. You can't choose to have it. To believe and yet to have no hope is to thirst beside a fountain" Ann-Marie MacDonald

The case comes in early in the morning. Aaron has hardly managed a sip of his coffee when the phone rings with a call from a local P.D. in Aberdeen, Virginia. It's urgent. It always is. He cannot begrudge the haste with which his job forces him to chug down the scalding liquid in his mug as he calls upon Garcia to prep the relevant files for the case. It's not the first time, and it certainly won't be the last. Sufficiently caffeinated (albeit with a burnt tongue), and briefed on the case, Hotch calls the team to meet him in the conference room.

His colleagues seem to be in good spirits today. With a passing glance around the room Hotch silently completes a behavioural checklist for each of them in his mind. No one on the team seems over-exhausted, overtly anxious, or withdrawn. They chat amongst themselves, teasing and joking like siblings as they wait for him to settle into the remaining seat at the table. He nods at Penelope, “Garcia, let's get started”. With a quick “yes, sir,” she presses a button on the remote to begin the briefing.

This morning the police in Aberdeen discovered the body of a woman left propped up against the wall outside a local medical clinic. Abigail Lawson. 27 years old. She had been badly beaten. A single stab wound. No sign of sexual assault.

“Cause of death?” Prentiss asks.

“Blunt force trauma to the head,” Garcia supplies the response.

“And she's the first?” Morgan follows up.

“Two weeks ago Stella Amos, twenty-five, was admitted to hospital with similar injuries. She passed away two hours later. A punctured lung”.

The photographs of the injuries are disturbing. After years on the job, the images never seem to get less brutal. A chill travels down his spine as he looks over the extent of the wounds on both of the women. A hush falls over the room as everyone else takes a moment to swallow down their own shock and compartmentalize their feelings of disgust. They train themselves, scanning the photographs and notes for the facts they can work with in hopes of saving anyone else from meeting the same fate.

“No stab wound. Are we sure these cases are connected?” Reid surveys the provided facts one more time.

“Similar age, hair colour. They were from the same neighbourhood. Steady jobs,” Rossi lists, “there's a pattern in victimology to be sure”.

“They could be unconnected acts of domestic violence,” Morgan posits before continuing, “but leaving these women at medical centres is unique. Could be remorse”.

“A man who beats women within an inch of their lives before dropping them off for medical attention. It's a big risk. Knowing they might survive to identify him”.

Hotch nods at the assessment. He had followed the same thought process himself when he got the call.

“Maybe he's banking on them being too afraid to talk if they do pull through,” another voice in the room speaks up for the first time this morning. Sweets, the team calls her. An affectionate nickname that’s stuck since her first week on the team. “the stabbing is an escalation and these are high-risk victims. This UNSUB isn't worried about getting caught. These attacks are personal to him somehow”. It's an important assertion, and something they'll need to consider as they build and expand their working profile.

He's glad to hear Sweets adding to the conversation. She's never been shy when contributing to the team's brainstorms, and he had begun to worry when it had taken her so long to speak up. He doesn't miss the wobble in her tone, or the way she now avoids eye contact. She’s a valuable team member, and despite being the most recent addition she’s settled herself flawlessly over the last year. Aaron is well aware of the poor retention rate for new team members in the BAU and has continued to be impressed by her ability to hang on to her brand of optimism and take their most difficult cases in stride. She’s worked hard to see the best in people, and unsurprisingly endeared herself to those around her; himself included.

At first, Hotch had been grateful for her unique perspective from her experience working for victim services. Then, he grew to appreciate her attention to detail, and the way his piles of paperwork seemed smaller and smaller at the end of each week. She quickly became a friend and a confidant after long nights in the office, and the field. Now, their relationship lies in limbo somewhere between friends and something more.

Lately, the tugging at his heartstrings has grown nearly painful. All the old cliches leave his heart racing and he feels like a teenager whenever her hand brushes against his own. A night out with the team had ended with her curled up in his bed the next morning, and he’s been a goner ever since. It's been weeks, she hasn’t mentioned it, so neither has he. The guise of professionalism makes it easy to shove down his insecurities, and recurring fears; his age; his scars, physical and metaphorical; the weight of his career; he pushes them to the back of his mind. He does not dare to hope. He does not allow himself to consider the reasons why she might want to keep him at arm's length. It hurts less that way. “Whatever the case we've got a week before he strikes again,” Hotch confirms, his mind focused on the case, “we should head out”.

It’s August, and the sun is nearly blinding; the heat and humidity are intolerable, but nobody complains as they split up between the most recent crime scene, the morgue, and the precinct. Hotch would never admit it, but he’s glad when the woman who occupies half his thoughts volunteers to head to the station with JJ. Not for his peace of mind, but hers. Driving into the town he had seen her hands fidgeting in the back seat of the Suburban. Something about this case is already weighing on her, and he doubts the discomfort of the summer calefaction will be much help. He tries not to think about it any more than that.

The crime scene doesn’t tell them much more than they already knew. There’s no security footage to help them identify the UNSUB. But, the way he leans the victims to sit against the way rather than just dumping them shows some kind of warped sense of concern for their well-being. The women are likely substitutes for someone else. He was likely raised in a violent home. He can only hope that the rest of the team has managed to learn more.

Sweets is glad that the station had the forethought to move a coffee maker into the room they’ve set up for the BAU team to work out of. In her short time on the team, she’s learned how essential caffeine is to the function of herself and her teammates. Not enjoying coffee is not an option. Cream and sugar make it tolerable to those who despise the bitter taste. As she preps her second cup of the day she watches Spencer dump 4 packets of sugar into his mug. Whatever gets you through the case. She reminds herself.

“Defensive wounds on her arms, but her manicure wasn't chipped. There was no blood or skin under her fingernails. No bruising on her knuckles,” Morgan shares what he and Rossi learned at the morgue, “She held her arms up to protect herself, but she didn't fight back. She didn't scratch, claw, or punch her assailant”.

“She probably knew him then,” Prentiss says, “He’s not sneaking up on these women. But, he has the advantage and control required to attack them head-on”.

The profile continues to build and Sweets pulls further in on herself. The personal nature of the attacks leaves her nauseous. Flickers of memories she’s fought hard to forget flash behind her eyes, but she forces herself to stay in the room. Reign it in, she wills herself. Without looking across the room she knows Aaron’s eyes are on her. Her cheeks warm though she can’t be sure if it’s his gaze or her anxiety to blame. She tries not to read into it, not wanting to feel too self-important. It’s his job to watch everyone on the team, she knows that. It doesn’t mean anything, she reminds herself the same way she has since she woke up next to him all those weeks ago. She doesn't want attention because she slept with him, and she'd be silly to think it meant anything to him anyway. It's easier to ignore it. He hasn't mentioned it, so she hasn't either.

Despite her best efforts, she does like him. More than she should. Normally, the attention would leave her with butterflies fluttering in her chest, like a schoolgirl with a crush. But today, she feels too seen, too exposed. she focuses her attention on controlling the unwanted emotions this case continues to dredge up. Aaron has seen her undressed, he’s seen her let down her walls and crack jokes. He knows her better than the rest of the team, but this is not a side of her he needs to see.

Under the table she plants her feet, pressing the soles of her boots hard against the linoleum. She reminds herself who she’s with and why she’s here. When she’s able to breathe without gagging she speaks up, “If it looks like domestic violence maybe that’s exactly what it is”. Hotch’s head tilts up, his eyes moving off of the files he’s been pretending to read for the hundredth time, “What do you mean?”

“This morning Morgan said these murders looked like cases of DV. Maybe that’s exactly what this is. We know he had some kind of relationship with the victims-- maybe they were dating him,” Sweets holds her breath waiting for a response.

“It would help to explain the gaps in our profile-- Prentiss, call Garcia and have her look into any recent purchases by the victims. New clothes, new shoes, restaurants, anything that might suggest they’ve been dating,” Hotch instructs, “Sweets, you and JJ should speak to their friends and family; ask if they’ve mentioned anyone new in their lives”.

Like with any case, she hopes her insight helps, that her perspective and thinking might get them one step closer to finding the UNSUB before anyone else gets hurt; and that they might be able to bring closure to the families of the victims.

She's learned that personal experience can help as much as it can hinder. Seeing things from an angle that no one else can is certainly an advantage, but it doesn't make it easy to live with either. But, her stomach churns. His face. His touch. The bruises he left behind. She tries to remember she has nothing to be ashamed of. She has nothing to hide. It's no secret everyone on the team struggles with different types of cases, JJ has always found it difficult working cases involving children, and Hotch becomes snappier when they're searching for family annihilators.

She can feel Aaron's eyes on her again. She prays the twisting in her gut and the scratching in her mind are worth it.

The next morning begins with news of a third victim. A Jane Doe was found outside the fire station. Aged between 22 and 25. Beaten beyond any kind of recognition. The M.E. will have to try to use dental records to ID her.

The crime scene photographs are a gruesome addition to the already horrific crime board in the conference room. “It would take an incredible amount of rage and power to beat someone to death like this,” Rossi points out.

Hotch’s fingers buzz. His usual ground method of rubbing his thumb and forefinger together isn't working. He clenches and unclenches his fist willing the memory of bone cracking, and blood splattering beneath his knuckles away. He hates that even years after his death George Foyet continues to find new ways to sink his teeth in; the mere memory of him is enough to leave bile rising in the back of Aaron's throat.

Their profile is ready. A white male, mid 20s to early 30s. Traditionally attractive. He's well-groomed and takes pride in his appearance. He more than likely works in an office setting. At work, his desk is neat and well-organized. He does everything by the book. He aspires to a role above his own and will talk about it often. In his eyes, he's overworked and under-appreciated; but, in reality, it's his quick temper and outward frustration that have kept him in his menial role. He may be flirtatious towards the women around him but likely won't pay them any attention when it comes to business matters. As a child he would have grown up in a working-class household, and more than likely faced abuse at the hands of his father. As a teenager, he learned to place blame on his mother for this abuse and began looking down on her the same way his father did. But no amount of hatred could ever win him his father's attention. This made him hate his mother more and allowed his misogynistic views to solidify in adulthood. He will have a history of violence throughout school and early adulthood, and more than likely charges for battery or assault.

A call from Garcia confirms that the first and second victims both had paid for dinners at restaurants within the same two-block stretch despite living and working on opposite sides of town. Their cards had been used at the restaurants only 25 minutes before their attacks.

“And he didn’t pay for their dinners either. Chivalry really is dead,” Prentiss dismisses. Predictably, their collective disdain for the UNSUB continues to grow as they learn more about him. Penelope manages to rustle up security footage from one of the restaurants, she's unable to get a facial ID on the man leaving with the first victim but promises to search for other footage from the area and call back when she has a new lead. One step closer, Hotch reminds himself.

Twenty minutes later word from the M.E. Office arrives. A positive ID on Jane Doe. Grace McKinney, 24. Aaron watches as Sweets pins a photograph of Grace to the victims' board. Her hands shake as she takes a step back, and then she's rushing out of the room before he can ask if she's alright.

His body feels lead-heavy, his limbs so hebetudinous that he’d swear he was melting into the floor if it weren’t for his feet carrying him out of the room without instruction. Sweets is doubled over in the alleyway behind the station, remnants of her breakfast splashed across the ground. She has nothing left to bring up, but still she dry heaves as if trying to expel more than the contents of her stomach. He knows the feeling.

“Sweets?” his voice starles her, and Hotch is quick to hold his hands out in a surrendering motion as he approaches, “Are you alright?” He knows the real answer, and he knows that she’ll look right at him and lie; but he asks anyway. “Are you asking as my boss, or as my friend?” She asks. “Would it make a difference?” it’s his turn to wonder. Finally close enough to touch her, he places a hand on her back. It’s impossible to miss the shiver that runs up her spine. Sweets hides her face, angling herself away from her, shrinking in on herself. She tries to hide from him, as unwilling as ever to show any kind of weakness real or perceived. “I’m asking as someone who cares,” Hotch tries again, snuffing out the burning sensation that seems to grow in his chest; his fear of vulnerability fighting hard to shut him down. He won’t let it. “It’s me,” she tells him as if it’s obvious. “Yes”. He's confused. Of course, it's her, he can see her standing right in front of him. “It's me. I'm the Jane Doe; Grace. Abigail. Stella”. His heart stops. She continues, looking at him for the first time, her eyes tearing up, “Not literally-- I just mean…”

“The victimogy. I understand. Same age, hair colour, similar backgrounds--”

“Yes,” She admits, “but we see cases with women who look like me all the time”.

Aaron nods, taking her openness as an opportunity to guide her out of the alleyway, waiting patiently for her to continue in her own time. “I had a boyfriend a few years ago…I just-- I need some time to collect myself”.

Again, Aaron nods, understanding, “Would you like me to leave?”

She shakes her head, her hand shooting up to hold to his arm. She’s shaking less now than she was before. More than ever he wants to hold her, but he doesn’t want to overstep; and during a case, there are lines he cannot cross as her boss. It’s the crux of the predicament they’ve found themselves in. Their personal lives and feelings bleeding and blending to create this strait. Deep down, he’s sure that a line of open communication between them would ease this impasse, but he’s far too shy to suggest it. For now, he settles for being glad her breathing has slowed, and her tears have stopped. “Thank you,” Sweets breathes out. Her hand slips down to squeeze his before she lets go and steps away from him. “Anytime,” he swears. He means it.

They find their UNSUB three hours later. Garcia’s scanning of security footage gives them a few license plates from cars within a two-block radius of the restaurants the victims went to. Only one owner fits their profile. He’s at work when they find him. Sweets takes great pleasure in cuffing the man. Hotch has no complaints.

When they arrive back in Quantico it’s nearing midnight. The team takes their leaving swearing they’ll finish their paperwork tomorrow morning. Sweets takes advantage of the rare silence in the bullpen to complete her reports. She’s not ready to go home. Not yet. At work, she has a shield, a carefully crafted persona; as cracked as it may be at the moment, it holds back the onslaught of personal fallout she’s sure waits for her at home. Sure her apartment is warmer and cozier than the office ever is. Her bed is far more comfortable than any desk chair. But, at home, she has nothing to distract her. At home, she has no obligation to maintain a facade sewn up by professional self-preservation. At home, she’ll be alone without the steady presence of Aaron Hotchner working away in his office.

The room is bathed in warm lamplight, a comfortable difference from the overhead fluorescents down in the bullpen. Something like a moth, she’s drawn to it by an instinct stronger than her willpower. She knocks on the door frame before leaning into the room. “I finished my report,” she tells him when he looks up. “You didn’t have to finish that tonight,” he tells her with furrowed brows. He sets down his pen and shuts the file he was working on to give her his attention. She steps into the room, setting her report on the edge of his desk. “I didn’t want to go home yet”. She explains though she gets the feeling that he understands. If there’s anyone she knows with a mutual streak of using workplace responsibility to avoid personal turmoil, it’s Hotch. Still, he nods, validating her most simply. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Are you asking as my boss or something more?” she wonders.

“Would it make a difference?” He asks. “Yes,” She responds. Sweets watches as he swallows, his brows knitting together as he considers his answer carefully, “I’m asking as someone who cares about you very much, in whatever capacity you need me to right now”. It’s a diplomatic response. Gentle and inviting without being outright hopeful. Quintessentially Aaron Hotchner.

“Will you come home with me,” Sweets allows herself to be bold enough to ask.

“Yes,” he tells her simply.

In the morning he slips away only to return with two cups of coffee and a box of breakfast pastries. They don’t need to be in the office until 10:00 and he plans on taking advantage of the time they have together until then. Sweets accepts the cup he holds out to her with an eager smile, and a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner imagine #hotch x reader #criminal minds fic

291 notes · View notes

dotchannie · 17 days

Text

- 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍, 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚢 𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑. :: l.mh x reader (MDNI)

synopsis: minho stops you in your tracks when you try to move the relationship along to fast, easing your anxieties regarding your love life with some gentle loving.

a/n: repost from @/binniesbang i know i know, new content will happen eventually but i love this one too much not to give it a moment here too- inspired at 4am by slow hand by the pointer sisters. warnings below the cut !

wc: 1,201.

Warnings:implied bad past with sex(no descriptions), hints at self esteem issues and trauma on readers behalf, very brief stint of being home alone and not knowning who's in the house, teeny tiny talks of minho watching you in the shower :0, mentions of alcohol, again there is sex mentioned but no smut, lyrics scattered between the fic if that’s not your thing, petnames (reader refered to as sweetheart&my love:( ), reader crying, minho is soft and domestic as hellllll, i think that might be it.

Your intimate life has been very one note for as long as you can rememeber; rough and fast. Noone taking the time of day to stay beyond a one night stand.

But that was all you'd known.

you considered it to be expected in a relationship- a severe lack of love ultimately rearing it's ugly head in the form of self worth issues and trauma you didnt even known you carried.

Wednesday evening looked very much like a standard wednesday evening, the morning shift at your day job already worked and forgotten about- with a rough commute home thanks to the change in weather forcing the trains to be delayed and to reroute.

Your plan was to call at the nearby grocery store to grab something to cook dinner but that was now out the window. Instead, you figured you could most likely make something out of the left over ingredients in your fridge. Hopefully anyway because the only thought coursing through your mind right now was how badly you needed to be surround by hot water. To have it thaw out the cold and remove the sting from your skin.

You have absolutely no idea how long you stand beneathe the shower head, the warmth feeling to pleasant that you can't bare to get out and face the chill of your own apartment.

Finally do, braving the bite in the air to do a full body moisturise, before swamping yourself in plaid pajama pants and a giant hoodie-stomach beginning to churn and tighten with a need for food.

Momentarily rendered stiff, you leave your bedroom and hear clanging from behind the kitchen door- footsteps loud and clear as though they know what they're looking for, and then you catch it.

It's faint but if you focus, the sound of minho humming is detectable. A wave of guilt forms, feeling deflated that you'd stood so long in the warm water that minho had already returned from a long days practice and started making dinner before you could. Not to mention he'd travelled home in the same unforgiving weather as you and was most likely drenched and cold while you hogged the only shower in the house.

He must have opened the door to the kitchen whilst you we're mulling over your sins, hair damp at the temples, greeting you with a upbeat welcome home.

"I should be saying that to you!" you huff, "I was home first!"

He responds with a bright smile, eyes creasing at the corners. "It's okay. You looked comfortable, who am I to disturb you?" Your own smile mirrors his until your eyes and mouth winden in disbelief.

"MINHO!, you were watching me?", offering you no excuses as he shoots a wink in your direction as compensation.

Dinner goes by smoothly, to ease your mind Minho lets you help with the cooking after he repeatedly insisted he didn't mind- shower set away for the second time that evening.

However his time management is much better that your own and before you know it he's joined you to lounge on the sofa, two small glasses of wine placed on the centre table for the two of you as you tangle together in the plush cushions.

Maybe alcohol wasn't the best choice for tonight but that’s argueable. Light touches gradually getting heavier. Turning into neck kisses and squeezes of the thighs.

Minho isn't forceful, he’s not intiating sex- just loving on you a little, but from your past experience, you believe you know where this is headed.

Trying to jump the gun and get to the point, you lower yourself to your knees infront of his crotch- his face becoming hard to read, as it often is.

Reaching for the ties on his sweatpants, he places a soft hand upon yours, wordlessley collecting you off the floor and sitting you on his lap.

Darlin', don't say a word, 'cause I already heard. What your body's sayin' to mine.

Your face must say everything your mouth hasn't yet, too confused by him declining your offer, something that's never happened to you.

"what's wrong sweetheart? there's no rush we have plenty time."

His hand is trailing the side of your face, fingers gently curling behind your ear and spreading around the side of your head- gasping as he gently pulls you in for a kiss.

No tongue, no teeth. No hurry and so full of love you can't stop yourself from becoming teary.

"shh my love" he hushes you, “let it happen, im here, i'll look after you".

Guiding you back in for another kiss, he gives you the space and time to get comfortable with the idea of sex with some who loves you.

Sex with someone who reciprecates your feelings.

He wants you to feel good- it's not all about him but you've never discussed in detail your questionable love life with minho and so he has no idea, ignorant to the fact you've forever been left high and dry. It shocks you enough that he isn’t phased by your glassy eyes.

Continuing to let him coach you through timid kisses, the overwhelming need to hold his hand arises- placing one on top of his own that's cradling the side of your face, the other blindly sliding between the two of you, briefly running across his stomach before interlocking with his left hand that was slowly rubbing up and down your thigh- yet to take any steps beyond your currently level of intamacy.

I've got somebody who will spend some time. Not come and go in a heated rush.

When Minho declares in his mind that you're secure enough with the current pace he's taking, he encourages you to lay back on the sofa. Taking extra time to prop a pillow up against the arm of the sofa to rest your neck on.

Although it’s a small gesture, it becomes a little harder to stop your breathing from being so staggered.

The hold you have over yourself finally snaps when Minho hovers over the top of you, gaze so full of admiration you can't even make eye contact with him- opting to pull your hands up to your face as you begin to sob uncontrollably.

You expect him to pull away in disgust. Have a temper that he's most likely not going to get his dick wet anymore, but he doesn't.

Instead placing a kiss to the back of one hand. Then the other, before adjusting you to lie on your side facing him.

Minho doesn't think twice about squeezing himself infront of you, there's nowhere near enough room and he's moments away from slipping to the hard floor below but none of that matters when you need him like this.

So disoriented about the idea of someone loving you the way you deserve that you've burst into hysterics. He vows right then and there be the one to make you come to terms with it.

I found somebody who will understand. When it comes to love, I want a slow hand.

🏷️: @rose-tinted-kalopsia

𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚐 𝚘𝚛 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 !

#lee minho x reader fluff #lee know x reader #lee minho x reader #lee know x reader fluff #lee know fluff #lee know smut #lee minho smut #lee know stray kids #lee minho stray kids #minho stray kids #stray kids fluff #stray kids smut #stray kids x reader #stray kids x reader smut

102 notes · View notes

wndaswife · 1 year

Text

young fidelity

「 wanda maximoff x gn!reader 」

tags: smut, angst, fluff, mentions of trauma, depictions of violence, blowjobs, degradation, some slightly boring avenger mission details, sub!wanda maximoff, dom!reader. MINORS DNI.

word count: 10 872

summary: Even months after Ultron's death, you haven't forgiven Wanda despite her attempts to become close with you. You plan to get by with little interaction when you are partnered together for a mission, but she has other intentions.

“We’ve received signals of active HYDRA technology in northern and eastern Nunavut. There are approximately two bases north and two in the east,” Steve announced to the conference room. “But because of the nature of the province, it’ll be much easier to split up into pairs — take down each base together, separately.”

“Nature of the province?” asked Sam.

Steve pulled up an image of Nunavut’s map onto the projector. About a third of the province in the northeast was dispersed up into dozens of distinct sections of land.

“North can mean this,” he said and circled about twenty different patches of land before doing the same for the right-hand side of the province, “and East can mean this.”

He continued, “It would consume too much of our time to travel between each patch of land to the other. Fortunately, what we can tell for certain is that these bases are small. The signals they’re sending out are from HYDRA technology nonetheless, but the signals are weak and the technology is outdated.”

“A base of about ten or less,” Natasha noted, leaning back in her seat with her arms crossed and facing the projector screen.

Rhodes added, “Or much less.”

“Exactly,” Steve conceded. “We’ll head out in two days, give ourselves enough time to pack for the climate. Here are the pairs I’ve outlined…” He continued to announce the mission’s partnerships, but the back of your neck prickled with the feeling of being watched.

You looked over your shoulder to see Wanda’s eyes on you. She looked away quickly when your eyes met and she shifted in her seat, crossing a leg over the other and looking up to pay attention to Steve.

“Then lastly, Wanda and Y/N.”

At Steve's words, Wanda’s head lifted slightly in piqued interest and you looked back at him.

“Why do we have to pair up at all?” you questioned immediately. “Each of us could easily take ten or more on our own.”

“I know that’s right,” Rhodes agreed cockily before exchanging a nod with Tony, who considered your commentary comedic.

“These areas of Nunavut, of Canada, are unexplored territory,” Steve answered. “The weather conditions are extreme up there, and the terrain may not be safe or predictable enough for us to go out in it individually. This will be a quick mission, three days and no more, during which a portion of it will be trying to map out the province. The actual overtaking of the bases will take much less time.”

You weren’t able to find a way to object to that, so you sank down in your seat, something bitter brewing in you at the thought of having to work alone with Wanda.

“We’ll be picked back up the same way we’ll arrive — by the Quinjet in an isolated area at the edge of Nunavut where the land is much less dispersed, closer to the centre of the province but not nearly as populated,” Steve said, and with that, he concluded the meeting.

When Wanda stood from her seat, she spent a few extra moments tucking her hair behind her ear, adjusting her rings, and playing with her sleeves as an excuse to wait for you to walk ahead first so she could approach you.

But Vision met with her first and she looked over at you hesitantly, worried that she’d miss you leaving the room.

You began heading forward but instead of leaving, you started a conversation with Steve.

Now sure that she could spend a few moments talking with Vision without losing sight of you, she entertained his commentary on the upcoming mission despite not being included in the list of Avengers that were going.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” you told him, leaning back on your heels nonchalantly as you attempted at repressing what felt like a raging wildfire set ablaze in your chest.

Steve turned off the projector and started storing away some of the wires. “Two days isn’t enough to prepare, is it?” he questioned suddenly.

“No, two days is fine, I think,” you said.

You continued with a quiet tone, aware of Wanda and Vision conversing only a few feet away, “Wanda isn’t trained to go out with only one other person yet. She’s not ready for this.”

“She’s been doing just fine during training and other missions,” he reasoned.

“But she’s always supervised, and always with people who can support her if she screws up.”

With a smile of slight inexplicable amusement, he replied, “Then you can train her.”

Your fingers twitched at the mere suggestion.

Then, a voice chimed in from behind — Wanda’s. “No, I can fight. I’ve been training for months,” she insisted.

From the corner of your eye, you could see that she’d stepped away from Vision and was now standing by the edge of the table, only two or three feet away from you.

Wordlessly, you left the room, overcome by her very proximity.

Wanda followed after you, initially silent. She spun her rings around her fingers, watching the back of your head as she trailed behind you.

“So… when are we going to start training?” she eventually asked.

You walked through the hallways, heading straight to your room and avoiding having lunch until you were sure Wanda was no longer following you like an aimless puppy.

“I thought you said you didn’t need training.”

Suddenly filled with joy because you had actually answered her instead of ignoring her like you often did, Wanda sped up and joined your side.

“No, I never said I didn’t need training,” she corrected. “I just said that I could fight. But I would like to train with you. Before our mission. I think it would help. When can we start?”

“Not now,” you replied.

“Then when?”

You reiterated stubbornly, “Whenever I feel like it.”

Wanda bristled and she said wrapped her hand around your forearm. You tore it out of her hold and she looked at you, shocked at your resistance to be touched by her.

She swallowed and straightened in spite of herself then said, “I’m just trying to do my job”

“It’s not your job to bother me.”

“I’m not trying to bother you, I’m just trying-"

“To do your job,” you interrupted. “Right.”

She stared at you silently, unsure what to say yet not wanting to walk away from you.

“Is that how you rationalise things?” you inquired, your eyebrows furrowing together. “Is that how you rationalised what you did?”

Now feeling desperate for your validation and worn from the way you’d been avoiding her since the battle on Novi Grad, Wanda opposed, “I know that you’re angry, but everyone has forgiven me for what I have done. You are the only one who hasn’t.”

“You want to train?” you asked out of the blue.

It took a moment for Wanda to realise what you were asking and to decipher if you were being sincere in your question. When she supposed you were, she nodded cautiously.

“Then let’s go,” you muttered and turned to walk the other way, down to where the gymnasium and training room were.

When both of you changed into the proper clothes for training, you met Wanda in the middle of the holopad. You programmed a few rounds of holographic HYDRA members to attack her, and a few other adversaries the Avengers had previously fought to fill the time.

Wanda strapped on her sensory gloves, designed by Tony to signal to the holopad where she directed her powers and with what magic she used for the holograms. It had been helping her with her training to a great extent as it allowed her to use the technology in the training room as every other non-magic-wielder did.

She stepped onto the ten-by-seven metered platform and you set the tablet down by the staircase.

You noticed her looking over at you before the holopad flashed white once, signalling the beginning of the training session, and Wanda then looked away from you.

It began slowly at first, several scientists running at her from different directions and Wanda’s red magic flowing out of the centres of her palms and darting out from the tips of her fingers. Her magic made contact with the holographic foes, Wanda’s sensory gloves connecting the direction and intensity of her magic to the location of each moving hologram. They scattered into tiny pixelated squares when her magic came into contact with them, floating up and dividing into smaller geometric shapes before disappearing entirely.

The speed of the enemies quickened and with it Wanda’s reflexes.

This was the first time since the final battle against Ultron on Novi Grad that you’d seen Wanda’s fighting. Several months have passed since then, and she improved substantially. You’d never say it aloud, and you looked away from the brunette to avoid even admitting it to yourself, but she would be the perfect partner for the mission to Nunavut.

Eventually, the holopad flashed white, indicating the end of the training session when Wanda defeated the enemies you programmed her to fight.

She stepped off of the platform and stood in front of you, a glistening sheen of sweat on her body. She was panting softly and you blinked inquisitively for a moment at the grin on her face. “Come on,” she said and took your hand before pulling you up onto the holopad with her.

Wanda positioned you on one side of the platform and she stepped back from you. “So, what will you show me?” she asked.

“I don’t know how to train someone with magic.”

“We can go hand-to-hand,” Wanda suggested, running her palms down her sides. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”

When you did nothing but stare at her, perhaps out of scepticism or curiosity at her mood switch, she added with a laugh, “What? Are you scared?”

There was not a single person in the compound but you who knew this side of Wanda; a playful side of her, one that was presently unburdened by the weights of her losses and the solemn monotony that cast over her like a stagnant shadow when she was with anyone other than you.

There was a feeling of laxness that settled within her in your company, a freedom she felt with you that she hadn’t been familiar with since her time with Pietro.

You chose to think little of this lest you fall victim to Wanda’s deceptions as you had when you first met her. The very recollection of that moment of weakness awakened chills up your spine and formed a terribly large pit in the centre of your chest.

“Okay,” you said. “Fine. A quick skirmish, that’s all.”

If she was lucky, she’d sometimes walk in on you training and watch you for as long as possible while being as inconspicuous as she could manage. She’d watch the way you fought and moved your body, the confidence in your strikes and flexibility of your limbs. You were nothing less than inspiring.

In many ways, Wanda idolised you.

The corners of Wanda’s mouth tugged upwards before she made an attempt to repress her giddiness to have a serious one-on-one with you. She raised her fists and bent her knees, eyes darting down your form to correct her posture accordingly. She took notes from you where she could.

In training skirmishes, the objective was to take the other down, get them off their feet and cause them to lose balance.

You watched Wanda’s footing, the way she rounded and approached you by subtly cutting away at the inches of space that lay between the two of you.

Despite the sternness of her brow, there was a vague outline of a smile on her lips.

Your attention on her incomprehensible smile sullied your focus on the skirmish; Wanda extended her leg and in one swift movement, rounded your body so she stood outside your line of sight. Her knee lifted to nudge your thigh forward and throw you off balance but you turned quickly, a hand wrapping around her hip.

Before you could push her back and move your legs out of her range of contact, Wanda’s foot raised and she knocked the back of your knees forward with the length of her shin. You tumbled backwards, and with your hand gripping Wanda’s hip, you pulled her down with you.

Her arm extended past the side of your head, a wispy lock of red magic coursing out of her palm. The burst of magic slowed the speed at which you fell, breaking your fall and letting your back meet the ground softly.

It was only when the brief panic of falling backwards abated that you heard Wanda laughing. Stands of dark hair were falling in her face, her expression light and free of the burdens that normally followed her around like a shadow.

When her laughing settled into a fit of giggles, she opened her eyes and looked down at you, her gaze flickering between your eyes and your parted lips. She pushed her hair back and she lifted herself up with the heel of your hand placed on the platform by the side of your head.

Her chest parted from yours but her hips stayed pressed against your own, your legs intertwined and her other hand resting on your stomach.

You removed your hand from her hip and let it fall to the floor underneath you, damning yourself for the way you watched every movement of her soft lips.

“Come on, you’re not even trying,” Wanda teased. She used her hand by your head and the other on your stomach to prop herself up, slipping off of your body and getting on her knees by your hip. She then proposed, “Let’s go again.”

“I promise I’ll go easy on you this time,” she jested and extended a hand to you.

You sat up on your own, Wanda’s hand dropping into her lap. “I said we’d only do one,” you reminded her and stood up. “We’re done.”

Following you, Wanda got onto her feet. “You’re such a sore loser,” she joked with a laugh and trailed behind you as you stepped off the holopad. She unstrapped her gloves from around her hands and set them by the tablet.

“What will we do next?” she asked.

“Nothing,” you told her, picking up your things and heading to the gym exit.

Wanda’s smile fell as she heard your stern tone. “But we’ve only just gotten here. There’s still so much I want you to show me before we leave,” she reasoned, speeding up and trying to get your attention as you walked ahead without regard for her trailing behind you.

You told her with finality, “Get someone else to show you.”

You exited the gym and Wanda decided to stop following after you. She watched you speed away, hands by her side as she stood alone in the training room.

Dejectedly, she wondered if she had done or said something wrong — something to drive you away. It seemed she couldn’t do anything right around you when it was you she desired companionship and intimacy from the most.

You exchanged not even a word with Wanda for the remainder of the day, though dinner was filled with yearning stares from her across the table and never any words, partially because Vision filled her time with endless conversation. He was fond of her, and you often wished she would’ve glommed onto him instead.

The following day, you saw Wanda for a short time during a meeting in which Tony outlined the rest of the mission.

Deliberation between Tony, Agent Ross, and the provincial officials of Nunavut resulted in the Avengers’ permission to enter and explore their grounds granted they limit any destruction of the land and would provide the required funding necessary to repair any damage otherwise caused.

After the events on Sokovia, it was also decided that it would be best if the mission went as smoothly and as covertly as possible. This meant that the Quinjet would only take them as far as the edge of the northeast to lessen chances of being seen in the air, and would be stationed in an isolated space until everyone returned from their respective missions.

Additionally, government action would be taken to set a seven-mile radius around the Quinjet prohibiting any public access and ensuring the mission stay entirely under wraps.

Comms would stay open during each individual operation and after three days or less, they’d all meet back up at the Quinjet to depart as simply as it had arrived.

Everyone was working on their preparations for the rest of the day — going over Nunavut’s map and geology, Tony refining communication technology to guarantee they work throughout the mission despite the distance that would be between the team throughout it.

The evening before the morning of departure, you were preparing for bed when a quiet knock came at your door.

Wanda was at the door holding a saran-wrapped dish of some type of pastry in both hands. “Hi,” she greeted with a tiny smile when you opened the door. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“No, I’m just getting ready for bed,” you answered.

“I made blinis,” Wanda said, holding up the plate of what looked like a small stack of thin pancakes.

You stared at the dish for a moment then questioned, “At eleven in the evening?”

“Ever since moving here I’ve developed a bit of a habit of cooking when I’m nervous,” she explained, fingers tapping against the rim of the plate.

Then she continued, “You can save these in the fridge if you aren’t hungry.” It was a kind gesture, though you were convinced she hadn’t made them with you in mind.

You hadn’t spoken with Wanda since her training session. You wondered how she was doing with her practice and wanted to ask what was making her anxious. But you withheld your questions, having learned from experience the faults of coming to Wanda’s aid.

“Thank you,” you uttered and took the plate from her. Wanda seemed grateful that you accepted her dish and smiled at you when she transferred the plate to your hands.

An awkward silent moment passed between both of you. Wanda inhaled, her shoulders raising as she readied herself before asking, “How are you feeling? Are you nervous?”

“No,” you answered. “I’m sure it’ll be like any other mission.”

There was a strange look of despondency that struck momentarily across Wanda’s face at your response. She smiled at you then nodded.

“You have always been so strong,” she said, her gaze softening as she ventured through your eyes with her own. “I knew it from the moment we met. You’re different from them. Strong-willed. That’s why it was harder for me to-”

She cut herself off, her mouth closing to ensure she doesn’t slip up and let the next few words out: ‘That’s why it was harder for me to take over your mind.’

You looked at the floor between the both of you and took in a breath, then nodded. “Thank you for these,” you told her, lifting the plate of blinis up.

“O-Of course,” she replied and tugged at the hem of one of her sleeves. “Then, goodnight.”

Wanda headed back to her room in deep remorseful thought, tugging at her necklace and going over her conversation with you. She hadn’t meant to bring up bad memories, let alone the one that caused the divide between you and her, one that could not be crossed or mended no matter how hard Wanda tried.

She had only intended to compliment you, to offer to you in her hands what she stored so close to her heart — an affection and admiration for you.

But she failed to reconcile things with you.

Again.

That night you dreamt about your time with Wanda, before the fight between Ultron, the twins, and the Avengers.

You met Wanda before the rest of the team had even heard of the twins, a few weeks before their retrieval of Loki’s sceptre.

It was a strange series of events.

As was typical before the sceptre’s retrieval, you monitored any signal of its usage, any similar waves of power or sighting reports. After detecting a faint ring of energy in a mountainous plain of isolated land in Sokovia, you chose to go out on your own. What you saw on the monitors was a completely empty plot of land, but upon arrival you discovered a heavily-guarded compound stationed at the foot of a mountain and reaching an astounding height, and a young girl sitting by the edge of it, near the still water and under the waxing moon.

You never told any of the team about her nor her twin brother whom you never saw before the Avengers travelled to the HYDRA research base to retrieve the sceptre.

Wanda knew little of Loki’s sceptre, only that it was kept in a heavily protected sector of the compound. Despite the time you spent together, which eventually ended up being every night after the base’s scientists retired for the night and you were on your own in the lab, you couldn’t avoid telling your team about the sceptre’s location.

Retrieving it was part of something larger than your budding friendship with Wanda, though you still refrained from telling them anything about her and Pietro and their enhanced capabilities.

When the Avengers breached the HYDRA research base, you held no ill will to Wanda. The both of you were simply on opposite sides of a conflict that was long-running and complicated. You continued seeing each other though things became largely difficult once Ultron found the twins.

Though for a moment before the Maximoffs teamed with the android mastermind and they were unsupervised and not experimented on for the first time in several years, everything was blissful with Wanda despite everything else that had been going on between Ultron and the discourse within the team.

You saw her for hours at a time instead of a few fleeting minutes. You could travel anywhere with her rather than having to stick to the research base for the entirety of your time with her. You talked about anything that came to mind, sitting by a remote riverbank or under an evening sky discussing everything from Wanda’s childhood to your time with the team.

You cared for her and Pietro where you could, organising for them to stay in an unoccupied safehouse the team owned and keeping their activity there off the monitors.

When you returned to visit her one morning, their place was cleaned out and you found no trace of either twin. It was only until the Avengers made contact with Ultron that you realised where they had gone, who they had aligned themselves with and on what side of the battle they chose to fight for.

The team took a hard hit, each one of them falling victim to Wanda’s mind tricks, yourself included. She knew what specific memories to conjure, what fears to incite, what nerves to press on. She knew it because you’d told her all of it. She asked you for the best way to take the Avengers down and you told her — willingly.

You could never forgive her nor yourself for becoming the weak and unsuspecting piece in her game.

None of your teammates blamed you for what happened and made an effort to convince you that you had no hand in the Avengers’ collective loss. But you blamed yourself in spite of that. It was your fault.

You skipped breakfast with the team in the morning, your dream weighing heavily on you and the recollection of your blunder from months ago eating at you again as you recalled you’d have to spend the next three days with Wanda. Your mistake did not bring you as much guilt as it had months ago, but rather it made you angry. It made you bitter.

Despite having missed breakfast, you met up with the rest of the team by the foot of the Quinjet as planned. You packed a single bag full of your things, making sure to pack light to make sure travel wouldn’t be so tiresome.

Natasha recapped everything that happened while you were gone in the morning, which wasn’t much. Steve took some of the bags into the Quinjet while everyone else buckled themselves in.

Wanda, who was yet to be seen, finally arrived.

“Y/N, I’ve been looking for you,” she said, slightly breathless when she stood beside you. “I thought you were still in your room, so I was going to get you.”

You weren’t sure what to answer her with and you considered ignoring her and boarding the jet. But if you wanted anything from the mission, it was to come back to the Quinjet successful and to have minimal conflict with her.

So you answered with an acknowledging nod, “No, I just got here.”

“Are you okay?” she asked, placing a hand on your upper arm. “You skipped breakfast.”

“I’m fine. I wanted time to myself.”

“But-”

Natasha intervened, beckoning the two of you over and saying it was time to leave.

Wanda looked over at you, concern still drawn across her expression. But you ignored it and walked ahead, boarding the Quinjet with Wanda following silently behind you.

The high speeds the jet could reach allowed for the trip to Nunavut to be no longer than three hours, which wasn’t all too strenuous as trips often were before the latest Quinjet models that now incorporated several rooms and even a kitchen.

Despite the room on the jet, Wanda stayed in one place for a majority of the journey. She got up twice for the kitchen, but largely sat around the main seating deck where you were. No conversation took place between the two of you though you did catch Wanda looking at you several times.

As planned, the Quinjet landed in its designated spot.

Comms were secured and designed to reach the very northern tip of Nunavut to the very east, though bases were expected to be no further than six-hundred kilometres out, allowing for the team to exchange updates throughout the mission.

After double-checking each other’s supplies and going over the mission plan once more, you each set out for the HYDRA bases.

High-speed snowmobiles charged for week-long usage were supplied for travel. You drove the vehicle while Wanda clung onto you from behind. You had the company of Rhodes and Tony for the first forty minutes before they branched off, following the signal of their assigned base.

Though it was snowing heavily and there was nothing but blinding white plains and mountainous terrain in the distance for as far as the eye could see, the tracker Wanda held grew stronger as you travelled further into the snowy Nunavut.

She fed you directions from behind every so often, arms wrapped snugly around your midriff.

You couldn’t see the way Wanda laid her head against your back, often forgetting to give you directions as she hugged herself close to you, feeling the most secure since the two of you last spoke before she partnered with Ultron, even if you didn’t converse very much. It’d been quite a while since the two of you spent so much time alone together.

“It’s ahead, Y/N,” Wanda told you after fiddling with the tracker and ensuring it was working properly.

“Ahead?” you repeated. “Already?”

Wanda replied after a moment, likely adjusting the antenna of the tracker and double-checking the screen wasn’t broken. “It seems like it,” she said finally.

You sped ahead, eager to get the mission over with and head back to the Quinjet.

“There’s something strange about the signal… It’s getting stronger. Stronger than the signal back at the compound.”

“I know visibility is pretty low right now, but I can’t even see it. How is the signal that strong?” you told her. “Are you sure it isn’t picking something else up?”

Wanda assured, “It has the same signal impression, so it’s definitely the same base they picked up. But the technology they’re using is a lot stronger than what the compound detected.”

“Stronger… So, modern technology?”

“Which means more scientists,” she figured. “And the signal is only getting stronger. There’s maybe a lot more than ten scientists, Y/N.”

You looked ahead, letting the sound of the blowing wind and snow null things out momentarily as you considered the options. “How many more?” you asked Wanda.

She estimated, “If I were to guess and assume that the signal was only to get stronger before we arrived, then maybe thirty of them. I think we should wait for one of the others to finish. I don’t want to go in without knowing what’s waiting.”

“You said thirty of them.”

“But that’s only what I think. I’m not Tony or Steve, I don’t know how to read this as well as them. I’m not as experienced either.”

You heard the twinge of self-criticism in her words but you kept quiet about it, looking ahead and focusing on driving forward when your mind couldn’t detangle itself.

When several more moments passed without a response from you, Wanda’s arms squeezed gently around your waist. You felt the reassuring pressure of her embrace through your layers of winter gear.

“What are we going to do, Y/N?” she asked.

You gnawed at your bottom lip. “It’s only been about two hours since we left the Quinjet,” you uttered, shouting above the noise of the wind. “Even if we waited for help, it’d probably be at least eight hours until even Stark and Rhodes could meet us, and they’re the closest to us right now.”

“So we meet them instead? Come back together?”

“No,” you answered. “There’s not much else we can do but power forward for now. We’ll map out the base, try and get an estimate of how many scientists we have to deal with, and if things seem to be in our favour we’ll continue with the plan. If not, we’ll wait.”

There were several small safehouses scattered around northeast Nunavut built covertly by SHIELD decades ago. The plan was to clear out the HYDRA bases, avoid casualties if possible, rest in the nearby safehouses whose coordinates were also programmed into the tracking devices, then head back to the Quinjet as soon as the journey could be made. If you had to wait for help, you’d have to do it in one of the safehouses.

The both of you chose not to alert the team of the base you were approaching for fear that it might distract them and take them away from their respective missions. They would be updated only in the case that the base would be too much to handle without help. There was nothing to gain in telling them what wasn’t absolutely necessary.

Wanda guided you forward for the next thirty minutes, her arm squeezed even tighter around your waist then it previously was. “We’re approaching,” she told you then looked past your shoulder.

You squinted through the thick blanket of snow, looking for a light or an outline of a building, anything for you to pinpoint where the base was visually.

“Can you see it?” Wanda asked.

“No, I can’t. Are you sure we’re close? Maybe we’re still a few miles out.”

Then in an urgent demand that made you break the snowmobile so hard that you nearly fell out of it, Wanda blurted out, “Stop, stop!”

After catching your breath to calm your thumping heart, you looked back at her. “Holy shit, what?” you gasped.

“The HYDRA base should be right here,” she said. At the sight of your mistrusting expression, she lifted up the tracker and showed you the blinking red dot representing the base and the smaller blue dot that represented the snowmobile. They overlapped each other, meaning that it should’ve been right in front of you.

You got off of the vehicle and walked ahead, squinting and looking around at the snowy plain. Greys and whites stretched on for as long as you could see, and it was all you had been seeing for the last three hours.

Wanda got off of the snowmobile too, wrapped up in a heavy layer of winter gear and walking up to you as a circular ball of jackets and scarves. “Do you think it’s really out here? Maybe the tracker got water damaged or something.”

“I don’t think so,” you replied, stepping through the blinding white sheets of blowing snow.

The young witch ran up beside you, afraid to lose you in the hurricane-like winter. She buried her face further into the shelter of the scarf, leaving her eyes uncovered to allow herself to follow you closely.

“The signal and… now this,” you continued apprehensively. “There’s something that isn’t right with this base, and not just because we can’t see it.”

In the white expanse of snow that went on for kilometres more and mountains that lined the horizon, there was a single outlier.

You approached what looked like a metal pipe coming out from the ground, uncovered by the snow despite the way it had been coming down for the last three hours. A steady release of steam bellowed out from the pipe. You removed your glove and steadied your hand on top of the steam, only for it to be warmed. The snow that fell on your hand melted on-contact.

“Look how strong the signal is now,” Wanda mentioned, pointing to the edge of the screen.

You lifted the tracker up again, looking back down to those overlapping red and blue dots.

“The base is underground,” you told her, your eyes running across the snow you were standing on, then further down where you were sure the building stretched out below.

Eventually, an entrance was found after wandering through the shadowed tundra — a snowy stone walkway and a metal door rusted from years of usage and neglect.

“Should we… go in?” Wanda asked you, clinging to the sleeve of your jacket with both hands. “Is it safe?”

In concealed irritation, you took your arm away from her and opened the door. A warm burst of air hit your face and you kicked away the inches of snow behind the door to allow yourself enough space to step inside.

Wanda followed after you, her cheeks tinting a soft pink when the door closed behind her and the two of you were immediately developed in the warmth of the underground bunker. She pushed her hood back and removed her gloves.

The entrance den was small, giving off the illusion that one had found a storm cellar instead of a research base of an underground terrorist organisation.

You walked forward despite Wanda’s quiet whispers of forewarning, across the slotted floors that made visible piping from below and a leaky cement foundation that made you wonder how old this base must be.

As you walked deeper into the bunker, the tracker’s coordinates of the technology that was sending out signals became more precise. It was stronger, quicker, and indicative of transmitting hundreds of gigabytes of data every few minutes. It wasn’t nearly as fast or efficient as the monitors Stark found in Sokovia’s research base where Wanda and Pietro were stationed, but perhaps only a few models behind.

Voices could be heard from around the corner, and the tracker specified that their primary monitor was but a few metres away.

Wispy tendrils snaked around Wanda’s fingers as she readied herself for any sudden attacks.

Carefully, you unzipped your jacket and pulled out a thermal camera. The base didn’t seem to be well insulated, which was likely why they had to make up for it with the amount of heating they used. Fortunately, this meant that the thermal camera could detect individuals through the wall you were hidden behind with ease.

They were positioned poorly around the lab, as if not under any suspicion that someone might intrude their base. There were six people walking on a levelled platform a few metres up by the ceiling, rounding the room’s perimeter and doing nothing in particular. Five people circled around the southern area of the large room, and there were seven in the centre where the lab monitors were.

You expanded the thermal camera’s range until it reached the outer borders of the bunker and found no outliers.

“Eighteen of them?” Wanda whispered, looking over your shoulder as she stayed close to the wall. “Why so few of them for such advanced technology?”

“For somewhere so far out and underground, maybe they had to overcompensate,” you supposed.

Wanda looked around, then at the details of the ceilings and elevated levels. “It looks like this used to be a bomb shelter repurposed for HYDRA,” she observed. “Pietro and I were experimented on in something similar.”

You bristled at the mention of their experimentation. You recalled the hours spent with Wanda as she talked about what Strucker did to her and her brother, the inhumane treatment and the trauma she received from it.

“If I go from up top and bring them down, we can move in on them in the middle of the lab,” you proposed, fidgeting with the thermal camera and looking up at the elevated floor above the staircase ahead.

“Wh- We’re going to separate?” Wanda whispered.

You reasoned, “We’re not going to take on eighteen of them coming in from one direction.”

“But where will you go?”

“Stay here and wait until you see me come through right there,” you said and pointed at the wall wherein the entrance to the lab’s elevated walkway could be seen beyond it.

Wanda stared at you as if to survey whether you were being sincere and looked away when you met her gaze. “Okay. I’ll wait here,” she uttered and stepped back, away from the view of anyone in the next room while having a clear view of the walkway.

Without another word, you turned and went back up the staircase you descended. You took a left and followed the path down to where the other side of the room became visible.

Wanda watched you intently, ready to come to your aid if you were to suddenly need her help. Her eyes darted between you and the walkway in the other room.

You weren’t much for combat, so you helped Tony design weapons similar to Natasha’s Widow’s Bites. Vial-like ammo were ejected from small silent guns, attaching to a target’s exposed skin, preferably the neck, before releasing a toxin and attacking and incapacitating a target’s nervous system for up to an hour. From complete stupefaction to a remarkable loss of one’s senses, they were perfect for a swift in and out.

The first four people went down quickly with the other two fleeing for the stairs. They made to escape through the exit Wanda was waiting in but were quickly paralyzed with a wave of her fingers.

At the sight of you jumping down from the walkway, Wanda kept the scientists in the lab from escaping while you stunned four of the ones by the corridor and knocked the fifth unconscious.

You quickly disposed of the empty gun and switched to the other, landed two vials on two different scientists while Wanda clouded the minds of the last five.

You eyed them when they dropped to the floor.

“They’re just in a trance,” Wanda explained suddenly when she saw you looking at them. “I haven’t done anything to their minds.”

She hadn’t used her magic to brainwash anyone since her and Pietro’s fight with the Avengers, and certainly not after her argument with you.

Ignoring her, you moved to the monitors and took out a USB before extracting data from the primary console. The parts were easier to navigate because they were older, but there was a lot of data to extract. You’d get data out first then corrupt what the base had left.

Wanda was flipping through their files as you did your own work, looking up at you occasionally and eyeing your body for any sustained injury.

The monitor screen flickered on when you moved the mouse accidentally, and on it was a file that caught your eye. Though it was in Cyrillic, it was easy to read — The Enhanced.

A gasp came from Wanda that startled you and you looked over to her to see she was holding a file in two hands.

“What is that?” you asked.

Her words were firstly a jumble of stutters, but she eventually answered you. “It’s information on me and Pietro. They were studying the experiments on us.”

You looked at the file on the monitor.

The Enhanced.

She read from the file and thought out loud, “Underground and in an old bunker like this, they were trying to replicate the experiments, make new weapons and reuse the progress that Ultron made with the Mind Stone.”

After making the connection, Wanda looked around at the research base then at the scientists on the ground. Her hands trembled and she dropped the file, running her fingers through her hair and scratching at her palms to ground herself.

“I cannot be here. We have to leave,” she told you.

“Just a few more moments, Wanda, this is almost finished.”

But she insisted angrily, “No, we have to go now! You do not understand the kinds of things these people do. I cannot be an experiment again. You cannot.”

She suddenly reached her hand out and placed it on top of the USB. The progress percentage on the console boosted up rapidly. Its internal wires glowed a dim red, an advanced version of Wanda’s neuroelectrical manipulation.

Within seconds, the data finished extracting and Wanda ejected the drive and placed it in your hand.

“Let’s go now,” Wanda told you hurriedly and took your hand, rushing the two of you up the stairs and down the walkway.

You left the way you came, but when you turned to get onto the snowmobile parked just outside, Wanda was still standing by the exit.

“Wanda, what are you doing?” you called down to her, the loud blowing wind encapsulating the two of you once again.

“We need to get rid of this base. Forever.”

You walked back over to her and put a hand on her shoulder. “Limited casualties,” you reminded her.

When she turned to you, her eyes were filled with tearful fury. “Let me do this,” she said sternly.

You stared at her for a few moments before nodding and letting go of her.

A gas pipe was snapped in half, so it blew out into the bunker.

With shaky hands, Wanda sped up the release from the heating pipes, bundling them up into a focused ball of hot steam so its temperature rose.

It continued to rise until the metal from the pipes and walls distorted from the heat, and you were sure Wanda’s wrath on its own contributed to that ball of heat’s temperature.

At the first sight of a spark and a quick lick of a flame, Wanda shot the ball to the side at the expelling gas without warning.

It happened within seconds; the bunker filled with purple flame and rushed right up to Wanda’s face.

You reached over her shoulder and shut the bunker door before wrapping your arms around Wanda and moving her away. Her back made harsh contact with the stone wall adjacent to the door when you pushed yourself against her body, protecting her from the explosion.

The purple flames cooled into orange, bursting out from the frames of the door and turning the snow on the ground to water.

“Holy shit,” you breathed out, your heart racing.

You looked back over to Wanda, whose face was flushed pink with parted lips. She was no longer crying but her eyeliner was smudged beneath her waterline. She was looking at you though you could see the reflection of the flames in her green eyes.

“Are you okay?” you asked.

Her mouth closed and she swallowed. She blinked and simply nodded in response.

You nodded and said, “Okay. Good, okay.”

You stepped back from her and zipped your jacket up then put your gloves back on.

“We should head to the safehouse now,” you advised. “Update the team then get some rest, and we can leave for the Quinjet tomorrow morning.”

Wanda only nodded again. She watched you as you ascended the steps and mounted the snowmobile. She fitted her hat back on and then her gloves, and caught her breath as she followed after you.

She took her seat behind you on the snowmobile and wrapped her arms around your waist.

“Ready?” you asked.

She nodded, feeling the back of your jacket against her cheek. “Ready.”

You held the tracker in your other hand as you drove to the nearest safehouse. Tony and Rhodes wouldn’t be there, for their nearest one was thirty miles south. But you didn’t dread being alone with Wanda as much as you did before.

A part of you that hadn’t been awoken since the last you spent those evening hours awake talking with Wanda sparked a modest flame. Recollections of your time with her spread out during the last few months came to you in the blinding white plains of the Nunavut tundra.

On the way back to the compound after a mission a few months ago, Wanda had stayed with you in one of the rooms and tended to your injuries. She was surprisingly proficient in bandaging you up and keeping you elevated, and while you sat in quiet disdain for her, she reminisced aloud about how she and Pietro had to care for themselves for most of their life on their own and how caring for someone else often made her think of him.

The journey to the safehouse was a twenty minute drive. The building was larger than you envisioned.

You dug through the depths of your jacket for a key safely stored for the safehouse and opened the garage. It was miraculous that it still worked.

The team was reassured that the buildings were safe from being built with any malicious intent during SHIELD's active operation, and were nearly forgotten until the exploration of Nunavut was proposed.

You stepped off of the snowmobile and had Wanda unlock the door and take the bags in while you pulled the vehicle into its proper storage inside so it wouldn’t be frozen outside by the time you left in the morning.

Locking the door behind you when you stepped into the house, you shedded off your layers and hung them from the hangers, moving your boots to the side beside Wanda’s.

The place felt brisk the moment your jacket came off so you wandered around looking for a thermostat. From what you were all told, each safehouse came with three bedrooms and bathrooms, a common room, and a kitchen.

You found the kitchen first, then a hungry Wanda who was standing by the counter with canned tuna and a glass of tap water.

“Are you hungry?” she asked you, offering you the can of tuna.

Looking around, you took the fork from her. “Where did you find this?” you inquired with a laugh.

“There’s some food here, but they’re all raw or canned. Made to last, I would think,” she noted and took out another can from the pantry before peeling the top open. She took a fork from the counter.

“I turned on the heat when I came in,” she told you. “It should get a bit warmer in a few minutes.”

You looked through the pantry and took out a box of macaroni and cheese, then turned on the oven, feeling the prongs heat up. “Do you want to share some pasta?”

“Yes, please.”

Within forty minutes, you’re sitting on the common area couch with Wanda in silence, eating cheesy boxed macaroni.

For the first time, you felt strange looking back at your history with Wanda before Ultron. It twisted something in your stomach and made your shoulders tense.

Looking at her docile expression, unsuspecting and delicate as she sat across from you, legs crossed on the couch as she ate with you. The dim lamp from the corner of the room beside the broken television cast the silhouettes on her face you often used to follow with your eyes when she laid beside you in the plot of grassy land in front of the hideout she and Pietro used for a period of time after Strucker vanished. It was warm – the last few weeks of summer.

It was March now, months since the battle on Sokovia and even longer since the last time you spent this kind of time with Wanda.

Wanda put her empty bowl down and took a sip of water. She wrapped her fingers around the cold glass, her thumb running over the ring on her index finger.

“I know you don’t like me,” she uttered suddenly, “so I would understand if you never forgave me for what I’ve done to you.”

You looked up from the bowl in your lap and at Wanda, who was looking down at her fingers avoidantly.

“But I will always look up to you,” she continued. “You are so brave and kind. You are what I had wished I was becoming when I worked with HYDRA, and when I allied with Ultron. But I made a mistake. And I keep making mistakes.”

“You’re doing okay,” you told her suddenly before you realised what you were saying.

Then you added, “Everyone thinks so.”

Wanda looked at you, studying your face for what felt to you like quite a while. “When I looked inside your mind,” she said, “I saw something pure. I feel the same for you as I did before, if not with more gravity. I want to know more about you and these things I can feel that you love.”

“What do you want to know?”

“This Shakespeare — I have read him and understand very little of what he writes about, or rather how he writes. I made my own way through several acts of Hamlet but found I could not pretend I found any sense of enjoyment in his writing. His works are enjoyable to you?”

And then you were laughing a kind of laugh that made you place your bowl on the coffee table to avoid spilling it over.

Wanda smiled as she watched you, the crinkling of your eyes that she found pleasing to look at and the unrestrained sound of sincere joy that came from you, especially when it was because of her and no one else. She laughed, quietly and with a few chuckles.

“That was funny?” she asked, still smiling.

You nodded and answered, “Yes.”

But she continued to look at you, anticipating an answer.

“He writes strangely, but because he lived from quite a while ago when the English language was different,” you said. “But also because he was an artist, and like any other artist, his work can be interpreted. Overtime, it’s become easier for me to understand his age of English, but the poetry of his works have become no less interesting to me.”

“What’s interesting about it?”

“There’s an eloquence to his style of writing, I think,” you thought aloud. “And for certain works like Hamlet, for example, it’s tragic and ironic, with beautifully written characters, all within a bound book of one of the most artistic styles of writing I’ve come across. He’s-”

Wanda leaned over, the sudden act making you halt your words and look over to her, only for her hand to find the side of your face. Her lips met yours in one swift movement and her eyes fluttered shut.

Her nose was decorated with freckles.

You stumbled back in your seat and Wanda’s hand lifted to your knee.

She parted from you, looking down at her hand on your knee and her fingers slowly retracting from your cheek.

“I-I’m sorry,” she stuttered, her cheeks flushing.

Carefully, you took the glass away from her and placed it beside her empty bowl. Wrapping your hand around her wrist, you pulled her closer to you until her other hand was forced to remove itself from your knee and lay itself down on the couch by your hip.

You kissed her with a sudden ferocity that made her breath hitch.

“Wanda,” you breathed.

She moved closer to you so she was sitting up on her knees in front of you.

Your hands moved down her body, arching her back with your fingers pressing into her sides so you could kiss up her stomach then between her clothed breasts.

With a pleasured sigh, Wanda’s hands came up to the sides of your head, her fingers playing with your hair and urging you to kiss her body.

Now irritated by the distance between you and her bare skin, your fingers hooked around the collar of her long-sleeved white shirt and yanked down.

Wanda hid a grin in your hair and kissed the top of your head.

You kissed the swells of her breasts, burying your face in her chest and nipping at her delicate skin. You craved more and your fingers pulled down her bra, exposing rosy nipples. Your tongue ran up one of them and they hardened at your contact.

“I like that,” Wanda said, an arm wrapping around your neck and pulling you closer to her.

“Yeah?” you answered, looking up at her from between her breasts. You kissed up her chest and neck, running your tongue up her pulse point and making her squirm. “What else do you like, pretty girl?”

She blushed at the pet name and hid her face against the side of your head.

“Anything, Y/N,” she answered. “Anything from you.”

You wrapped your arm around her ass and picked her up from the couch, making her giggle and wrap her legs around your hips. Your other arm was wrapped around her waist.

Wanda kissed your forehead and your temple while you peppered kisses against her throat.

You carried her up the stairs and towards one of the bedrooms Wanda pointed at. You flicked on the lamp on the nightstand and lowered Wanda onto the bed.

She pulled your shirt off when you leaned over her while you unbuttoned and slipped her jeans off. Her legs were smooth and you couldn’t help but run your hands up the sides of them, gripping at her soft thighs and her hips.

Her shirt was pulled off next while you took your pants off.

You tucked your hands under her ass and you lifted her further up the bed, which made her laugh. You leaned back down when she was laid in the middle and kissed her.

Her hands ran up your stomach and undressed you until you were bare on top of her. You unclipped her bra and wrapped your lips around one of her nipples, kneading her other with your hand.

Her back arched up against you and she wrapped a hand around the back of your neck, pulling you close.

“Gods, you’re beautiful, Wanda.”

She shuddered when your hand ran down her bare stomach and you grinned against her cheek when you realised how sensitive Wanda was.

Your free hand pinched one of her nipples between your thumb and index finger and she yelped before burying her face in your hair.

You slipped her panties off and dragged your fingers through her folds that were already slick with her anticipation.

Wanda’s cheek warmed your lips when you kissed them for she was flushed, overwhelmed and embarrassed being exposed for someone like you. She idolised you, regarded you with high praise and adoration.

To have you kiss breasts and call her beautiful, to touch her in a way she hadn’t been in years. But even her first time had been rushed, a decision made at the snap of her fingers.

Your fingers were brought to your lips and you licked her juices from them. Wanda’s eyes widened at the act and you grinned down at her. You ran a thumb over her bottom lip and kissed her, her flavour melding between your dancing tongues.

You reached down between your stomachs and jerked your hand around your stiff cock. Wanda’s eyes followed your hand and her lips parted at the sight of you. You pecked her lips, amused at her awe.

A hand ran up her cunt, collecting her slick and coating yourself in it.

“Are you ready, Wanda?” you asked, looking up at her.

She nodded eagerly, hugging her arms around your neck tightly. “I’m ready.”

You entered her with a long groan, feeling her soft walls squeeze around your cock. Her eyes were squeezed shut, shaky whimpers leaving her.

“Y/N,” Wanda groaned. “That hurts.”

“You’re so tight,” you told her. “I’ll be careful.”

She opened her eyes and pulled you down to her so she could kiss you. “No. I want you, please. Harder.”

You wrapped an arm around her waist, lifting the lower half of her body from the bed and angling her hips down against your thighs.

With two hands on either of her hips, you pulled her up and down, fucking her on your cock as Wanda’s mouth fell open, broken moans and cries of pleasure singing from her throat.

She reached a hand down to you and you took it, interlacing your fingers as you dug your other hand’s nails into the side of her ass.

Her ass slapped down against your thighs and you could only stare at her in admiration, watching her breasts bounce on her chest with every thrust into her, the sounds that came out of her that were for you, the sound of your name on her tongue that was moaned in a way that no one would ever have the pleasure of hearing for their own names.

Your hand moved between Wanda’s hips and you laid your hand flat against her lower stomach while your thumb began drawing circles around her clit.

“Oh my, Y/N!” Wanda cried. “Oh, I feel so strange.”

She was quite sensitive, nearing her climax so soon. You kissed up her stomach and let go of her hips, laying her flat down on the bed and mounting yourself over her. You kiss her and massage one of her breasts.

“Let me see you, Wanda. Come for me.”

Wanda buried her face in your neck, her hot breath panting against your chest while your thrusted into her and grasped harshly at her hip to maintain a strong hold on her delicate body while you fucked her.

She babbled out a mess of half-finished words and her walls tightened around you.

You lifted your head to see her and Wanda’s head was thrown back, her fingernails digging into your upper arms as she came. Her orgasm washed over her in heavy forceful waves, making her shudder and tighten her knees around your hips.

There was a certain pride in making Wanda come, a young girl so often taken by timidity and whose inner feelings were unshared with those she did not find solace in. To have her shudder under you, hands grasping desperately at your body while she cried out your name sent bursts of warmth up your chest.

She took your head between her hands and pressed shaky kisses to your face, up the bridge of your nose and against your cheekbones, to your forehead and finally back down to your lips. “Let me get you off,” she whispered.

You switched positions with you now laying on your back, Wanda on her knees by your ankles. You reached down and ran your fingers through her hair in admiration, then down her cheek. Wanda smiled at you and kissed your hip.

She firstly took your cock with both hands, flicking the tip of her tongue against your tip. She ran her tongue through your slit gently then wrapped her lips around you, hands jerking you slowly.

When she had you with your head thrown back and your cock stiff in her hands, Wanda let go of you and kissed up the length of your shaft.

“Y/N, you’re so beautiful,” she said, looking up at you from below. “The most beautiful person I’ve ever been lucky enough to know. I haven’t treated you as I should. I do not deserve your patience, and certainly not any permission to see you this way. But I hope to show you how much I adore you. Because I do. I truly do.”

“Wanda…” you uttered quietly, ready to protest before she wrapped her lips around your tip again and bobbed her head down.

She took a few inches at a time and you felt her throat open up for you as she moved her head down. One hand rubbed at your thigh and the other was placed atop your hip. She adjusted her position, kneeling and arching her back to get as low as she could, her ass stuck up in the air. She inched further down, relaxing her throat until her nose brushed your lower stomach.

She took your hand with hers and placed it against the back of your head.

You took hold of her hair and pulled her up along your cock and back down. You could hear Wanda’s mouth attempting to accommodate you with every entry into her mouth. She breathed through her nose, her grip tightening around your thigh as she drooled around your cock.

You pulled her up further occasionally so her lips reached only your tip, allowing her space to breathe before pushing her back down.

Wanda never protested, only looked up at you with sheer determination to bring you pleasure. She did gag at the depth you were fucking her throat in, though still that seemed to please you and Wanda was satisfied.

After ten minutes, you pulled Wanda off of your cock, wiping the drool from her chin and uttering, “Good, Wanda. That was good.”

But she was drunk on the taste of your cock, the pre-cum she was treated with occasionally when she curled her tongue around you a specific way and sucked at you with a certain velocity.

“I want more,” she objected and kissed up your cock again, her tongue running up your veins and kissing your tip, running it through her lips and sucking at it teasingly. She rubbed her cheek against your wet cock then ran her tongue up it.

So you took her head between both hands and positioned her over your cock. She parted her lips instinctively and you jutted your hips up into her face, thrusting her throat down onto your dick at a speed vastly different than before, your speed having increased tenfold.

Wanda grasped the blankets and scratched at your hips while she tried her best to take you as deep and fast as you wanted, using her for nothing but your own pleasure. Her eyes filled with tears and her saliva coated the base of your shaft.

Your hips bucked up into her face and Wanda looked up at you, studying intently the line that formed between your eyebrows and the way your eyes squeezed shut. She flattened her tongue and wrapped it around your cock, flicking it side to side where it could fit.

“Wanda- Fuck, I’m coming!”

You shot your cum down her throat, your hands on either side of her head pushing her back gradually to fill her mouth with your cream, then finally you pulled out altogether to cum onto her face.

With the tip of your cock, you rubbed your cum against her lips and cheeks. Wanda smiled and kissed your shaft proudly.

You wiped it off her face and ran your coated fingers through her messy hair while Wanda swallowed what she could, licking your cum from her fingers too.

“God, you’re fucking filthy.”

Wanda grinned and climbed up.

You wrapped your arms around her body, kissing each other’s tired faces.

She twirled your hair around her fingers and with her cheek pressed against yours lazily, she whispered, “I’m tired, Y/N.”

“Sleep,” you answered and put a hand to the back of her head, letting her rest her head on your chest. You kissed her hair damp with sweat, and rubbed her smooth bare back as she dozed off.

You muttered confessions of your adoration of her against her head, kissing her forehead in her sleep and eventually covering your bare bodies in thick blankets.

For now, she wouldn’t know how you admired her, her intelligence and her kindheartedness, her strength and her beauty. The green of her eyes and the softness of her smooth curves, the feeling of her lips and the smoothness of her skin.

But perhaps she would know at some point or another, and that brought you joy – a future you could imagine with her.

You pulled Wanda against your chest and kissed the top of her head.

A future with her.

The very thought comforted you, and you fell asleep soon after her.

#wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff smut #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x y/n #wanda x reader #wanda maximoff fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #marvel smut

681 notes · View notes

writingwithcolor · 2 years

Text

Working Through Identity Issues and Other Pitfalls With Representation

We get a lot of asks from people with lived experience in one aspect of marginalization— LGBTQIA+, neurodivergent, physically disabled, ex-religious people—and the asks boil down to, essentially: can I take all of my own trauma and put it on someone multiply marginalized?

This question has many facets, which this guide is set to outline.

Power Dynamics and Intersections

Within any space centred around a marginalized identity, white supremacy and colorism still play a very large part within those spaces. Imani Barbarin of Crutches and Spice observed that white disabled people can only exercise the full extent of their white privilege within disabled spaces, because white supremacy has ableism built in and views disabled white people as lesser; white people are denied the ability to be completely white in abled society. As a result, the only opportunity they have to exercise the full extent of white privilege is disabled spaces.

The same goes with LGBTQIA+ spaces; they can end up colonialist because of white people in those spaces assume that their methods of coming out and living in their identity are the only way that exist, when people of colour can (and often do) have totally different but still perfectly valid ways of living in their identity. Again, white supremacy has homophobia built in, so white LGBTQ+ people don’t have full access to white privilege unless they’re with other LGBTQ+ people.

As a result: if you pick an identity that you have power over, you are bringing all of those power dynamics to the table in your representation. Even if you share a marginalization with the character, one aspect of discrimination does not an understanding of all discrimination make. Identities are all intersectional.

Representing multiple axes of marginalization is much more difficult, because you will have to unpack your own power, realize how many other ways of existing there are, and leave your own ideas for how the story should go at the door in order to respect experiences you don’t have in full.

You have to listen to the people you’re representing, or else you won’t be writing representation for them.

The Bias Game of Telephone

Insiders to any given group are taught a lot of “truths” about outside groups without spending much time listening to those groups, which results in a lot of problems. What might have been said or observed once or twice travels around people in a game of telephone, fanning xenophobia because it’s so much easier to critique people over there than ourselves.

So yes, you heard that Over There, the practice is x. Apply some stereotypes, spread it around as a societal “everyone knows”, and suddenly you think you know a lot more than you do about any one group.

For example: the Public Religion Research Institute polled over a dozen religious groups in the United States on whether they support LGBTQ rights in 2019, and the results were that people who are Catholic, Protestant, Jewish, Muslim, Buddhist, Hindu, and basically every religious group you could think of except Jehovah’s Witnesses were in favour of legal LGBTQ+ protection. They even polled in Christian denominations separating out white, Hispanic, and Black—and all of them agreed: LGBTQ+ rights needed to be put into law. (Source: Broad Support for LGBT Rights Across all 50 States: Findings from the 2019 American Values Atlas )

Throws a wrench into “everyone knows that [insert group here] is homophobic”, doesn’t it?

The problem is, these biases are going to colour your initial research stage. If you “know” that x group believes y, then you’re going to “naturally” slot them into that role in the story, then come to us asking if that’s okay.

Instead, what you need to do is poke your own assumptions:

Why did you make this situation happen that way?

Do the numbers support this assumption?

Have you actually spent any time in groups with these individuals to see how they live?

Did you read even one multiply-marginalized person’s social media feed to see what they believe? Preferably multiple?

Once you’ve done those steps, you’ll be in a much better place to see if you’ve even made something realistic, or if you’re projecting your experience too much as a 1 to 1 in situations where it just wouldn’t happen that way.

White is Not Neutral

Any identity you have as a white person is going to look different for someone not white. Being queer, Muslim, and Black in America looks a lot different than being gay, white, and Protestant in America. Those combinations of identities will look different again if you’re in a Muslim-majority country vs Muslim-minority, Christian-majority vs Christian-minority.

The traumas of being a certain identity in a society that doesn’t like you are racialized. White is not the default experience of how life happens, and a Hindu person with a strong connection to their family and wants to maintain some connection, just with boundaries, will have a much different set of priorities than an exvangelical who wants to get away from their family the minute they turn 18.

Even if you get a Hindu person who wants to get away from their family the minute they turn 18, the logic for getting there and the hurdles to overcome will be different, because they’ll have been raised differently. If you start to assume that you know how they’ll reach that logic, then you’re probably playing a game of bias telephone, as detailed above.

Mental illness, gender, disability and basically any identity under the sun will have a different expression in different cultures. A cross-cultural study on schizophrenia’s auditory hallucinations showed that the voices people hear are shaped by culture. In Accra, Ghana and Chennai, India—people mostly reported their heard voices as a positive thing. Meanwhile in San Mateo, California, not one person did the same. (source: Hallucinatory 'voices' shaped by local culture, Stanford anthropologist says)

Different cultures will define “man” differently. Cultures might have third genders that are more widespread and accepted than non-binary people in North America and Europe. Expectations for a parent will be different. Expectations for children will be different. Expectations between friends will be different. Disability (physical and/or mental) accommodations that are built into culture will be wildly different depending on cultural values. Wealth and class struggles will also be different.

All of these things will deeply impact a majority* character from a marginalized group, let alone one multiply marginalized. If you can’t answer how a majority character would behave based off cultural practices, then answer that before you work on a multiply marginalized person from that group.

* majority= cis, het, pale, financially stable, aka, somebody who has the most institutional power within that group even if they are marginalized in broader society (if they’re in a society where they are the dominant group, then they are privileged)

Healing, Distance, and Diversity

I know many marginalized people use fictional stories to be seen on paper, especially in a society where the stories for us just don’t exist. And you’re also aware of how white the representation of otherwise-marginalized people is, so you want to do your part to change that.

There are three paths you can take with this:

1- You are writing a story primarily for others, and have worked through your own stuff enough that you can use it as an influence instead of a story basis.

You realize you might not know exactly how a Buddhist East Asian person in a supportive family feels, but you know what it’s like to feel supported growing up and want to pull from that experience to show a loving Buddhist East Asian family. Or maybe you know what it’s like to love your parents but never, ever, ever feel safe coming out to them, and you want to show other people stuck in that place it’s okay, and it just so happens that the character this time around is Black.

This is a place where you can put aside your own desires and really dig into the research. Because it will take a lot of research. There will be so many little things that you don’t know. It will be diversity on hard mode.

2- You are writing this story primarily for yourself, but it’s just so emotional to think of your own context you want to make it Different, somehow

If you are in this position, consider keeping the story private. Not a judgement, at all—we all need private stories. But until you’ve worked through your own pain, you’re going to be relying a little too heavily on assumptions and your own experience to do respectful research.

That emotional situation you want to write about is going to look so different once you change the racial demographic, you probably won’t get the catharsis you want while writing it. Which means the story and your healing will suffer, because you’re not able to do research and you’re not able to work through all of your feelings from running into cultural roadblocks.

Get catharsis first, then consider doing diversity once your emotions are less intense. You need to be able to put “you” aside, and when your feelings are too big, that just is not happening. That’s okay! Not all of your representation has to be perfectly done for others to consume.

But that also means, you don’t have to ask WWC about it. Because you’re not writing a story for public consumption—you’re writing a story to process your own trauma.

3- You are writing this story primarily for others, but you’re simply trying to toss as much diversity in to “fix” the “everyone is white” problem and haven’t really stepped back to ask yourself if you’re representing them, or if you’re trying to show off.

This is a place you can very quickly be accidentally hurtful, because you don’t know what you don’t know. Maybe you’re wanting to toss in some background flavour, have some experience with death, decide to change the character’s race because they’re a smaller background part… and then you don’t look at what grief norms are in their culture over yours.

You could also find out that your experience has a lot of similarities and get lucky! Or you could get a few things wrong but at least you tried. Or, worst case, you could get it completely wrong and end up not representing anyone.

When in doubt, ask. If you’ve never seen x group handle y, then look it up before you go writing about it—same way you’d research any other component of your plot. Fear is not the place to write diversity from.

TL;DR

No matter how many marginalizations you have, it’ll still be different if you don’t share race

Marginalized spaces are often the only spaces where marginalized white people have full access to white privilege, so they can be extremely hostile to PoC

Groups grow, change, and evolve, as time goes on. Don’t assume that you know how they’ll actually handle any given marginalization unless you’ve listened to them at length.

Context matters; the same identity will have a different experience depending on their level of privilege within their society/group

There are limits to how much you can extrapolate your experience to relate with others who share an identity (chronically ill, LGBTQ+, etc) with you

If you’re just taking PoC to make the story different from your lived experience, keep the story private and heal before you start to write for others

Simply trying to avoid criticism of writing all white people is a poor place to start writing diversity, and you need some basic research before you polish things

~Mod Lesya

#guides #research #creator responsibility #stereotypes #representation #characters #intersectionality

2K notes · View notes

cinnamongorll · 4 months

Text

a fragile line - chapter 11

read on ao3! (111k words) | previous chapter | next chapter | masterlist

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female OC

Tags: extreme slow burn, age gap, older man/younger woman, protective joel, jealous joel, hurt/comfort, pov third person, mutual pining, angst, sexual tension, friends to lovers, canon-typical violence, feral joel, parental abuse, eventual smut.

Fic synopsis: three years ago, Juliet escaped her father's religious survivor camp, ending up in the Boston QZ. Juliet created a life for herself in Boston, desperate to forget the trauma of her upbringing. One day, Juliet arrives home to find a mysterious letter which forces her to return to her home town. Juliet can't travel the harsh post-apocalyptic landscape alone, so she enlists the help of the grumpy and, at times, frightening man she works alongside: Joel Miller.

Word count: 1.8k

some more pieces of Juliet's backstory...

Chapter 11: 'Tulsa Jesus Freak'

Five years ago, Iowa.

Juliet sat on her bed with her legs crossed, the mattress squeaking beneath her as she shifted forward to grab the book laid on the threadbare throw. Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë. Juliet’s fingers grazed over the cover, mystified by the rolling hills and ferocious dark blue sky painted on the front.

A smile overtook over her features as she flipped through the wrinkled pages and caught the name of the fictional man who often consumed her thoughts: Heathcliff. With his bad temper, quick wit, and undying love for Cathy, Juliet was captivated. She had found her copy behind a bookshelf in her town’s community centre, her hands had clutched around the scratched cover before she furiously stuffed it in her bag before anyone could see. Her father had ordered the burning of all books which did not follow his teachings a few years prior.

This would be her secret, she had thought, rebelliously.

Every evening when her father bolted the lock on her bedroom door and Juliet was confined within the four walls of her bedroom, Juliet dug her copy of Wuthering Heights from beneath her mattress and read those same words over and over again: “He’s more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”

The passion which passed between Cathy and Heathcliff only existed as words on yellowed paper. Juliet knew this, but she couldn’t help but feel like a knife had been plunged into her soul when she read about the devastation of their brutal longing. What it would feel like to share that connection with another human being, to wish the earth would swallow you whole so that you could remain forever with the one you love. Their hunger for each other was deadly, lethal.

Juliet knew that the love Cathy and Heathcliff shared could only exist in fiction, she was sure of it. A love like that could destroy someone. It didn’t exist in real life, especially in Juliet’s world.

Reading Wuthering Heights by candlelight was a typical evening for Juliet. What wasn’t typical, however, was the tapping on her window.

Juliet froze, her hands stilled on the page she was reading and she slowly closed over her book. She waited and listened, sure that the noise she heard was really just the wind, nothing else.

Another tap attacked her window and Juliet flew from her bed, almost tripping over the rug on her floor as she stumbled to the window and looked out. Her bedroom was on the second floor so her eyes dropped to the ground below for the source of the noise. A gasp left her lips when she saw who was waiting below with a bundle of stones in his hand: Ethan.

Panic struck Juliet, fierce and hot. She whipped her head around, desperately listening for any sign that her father had heard the tapping or her hurried movements. When she turned around, Ethan was at her window. Juliet jumped back, signalling with her hands for Ethan to climb back down, tears burning in her eyes as her fear took over her whole body.

Ethan used one hand to stabilise himself on the window ledge as he unlocked her window with the other. It was always locked from the outside, Juliet was not allowed access to fresh air.

When the window was propped open by Ethan’s steady hands Juliet became paralysed with fear, there was no way her father hadn’t heard that. She glanced down at the radiator below the window and the chain which puddled on the floor, a phantom pain attacked her ankle as she remembered the feeling of the cold metal against her skin. She couldn’t go through that again so soon. Ethan had to leave.

Her body kicked into action and she sprung forward, grabbing Ethan’s arms as he pulled himself through her window. Before she could beg him to leave, Ethan cradled her face within his warm hands, moving his fingers across her mouth to silence her protests.

“He’s not here,” Ethan murmured, his mouth so close to her shocked eyes.

Confusion must have been evident in her stare because Ethan clarified: “Your father, he’s not here. I spotted him at the mess hall only a couple minutes ago, he was giving a sermon.” His voice was slow and steady as he returned Juliet’s panicked glare with his reassuring smile.

Juliet’s eyelids closed, relief shuddering through her body. Ethan let go of her face and ran his hands down her shivering arms, tracing her elbows as he led her back over to her bed. They sat down together, Ethan’s leg pressed against her own.

Juliet finally opened her eyes, nodding slowly as her heart slowed to a normal pace. She looked up at Ethan, noting the way his gaze roamed across her face.

“What are you doing here?” she whispered, not fully trusting the idea that her father was not able to hear their conversation.

“I had to see you,” he responded, his voice low. “I was so worried,” he added with a wince.

“I’m fine, Ethan,” Juliet reassured him after a long pause.

Ethan coughed out a cold laugh. “Fine,” he said mockingly, then turned away.

“Nobody has seen you for days,” he continued. “Not after…” Ethan trailed off as he removed his arm from Juliet and wiped a hand down his face.

“I know what happened,” Juliet snapped, then shook her head, regret churning in her stomach. She wasn’t angry at Ethan for bringing it up, it was just that she had spent the past several days locked within these four walls, desperately trying to forget the slap that her father had given her in front of a whole hall of people. A whole hall of people who did nothing but stand there in shock as Juliet was punished for taking another piece of bread from the table without asking her father for permission.

Juliet reached down and rubbed her ankle without thinking, the redness had started to recede from her two day long extended punishment for ‘embarrassing’ her father in front of his followers, but it still stung.

Ethan followed her movement with his wide eyes before glancing across at the chain beside the radiator. He went entirely still. Juliet closed her eyes, cursing herself for her stupidity.

“What did he do to you?” Ethan asked and every word carved at another piece of Juliet’s remaining pride. She knew Ethan had already figured out her latest punishment, there was no point in denying it. So she responded with her usual silence. Ethan’s fists balled on his lap.

Without warning Ethan turned back towards her, his arms latched on her shoulders as he turned her whole body towards his strong chest. Juliet’s chin tilted upwards and Ethan rested his forehead against hers, his hot breath mingling with her own.

“We could leave right now,” he whispered against her mouth.

A breath rushed from Juliet’s lips, the urge to agree with him, to grab his hand and run was overwhelming, her heart was thundering in her chest again. But this was not a fairytale, Ethan had promised her the same fantasy again and again but they both knew it was impossible. They both knew it was a pipe dream. Ethan was the son of another prominent man in their community, the only difference was that his father wasn’t a psychopath. Ethan’s father was the town’s doctor who was training Ethan to take over his practice one day. Ethan loved the work, he was born to save people, to heal wounds and soothe trauma.

Sometimes Juliet wondered if that was all Ethan saw when he looked at her: another broken thing to mend.

Juliet shook her head in the tight space between them, her lips brushing Ethan’s. She didn’t need someone to save her, she didn’t need Ethan’s sorrow to mingle with her own.

Juliet just needed a distraction.

She moved forward, her chest pressing against Ethan’s as her lips crashed over his. She left no room for tenderness as her hands wrapped around his body and gripped the back of his t-shirt. Ethan responded immediately, his lips matching her brutal pace. Juliet could feel his heart hammering against her own. She parted her lips, her tongue met his and Ethan let out a shocked gasp, a moan rumbling in his chest.

Juliet’s mind fell into a blissful numbness, a veil had dropped over the swirling mess that lived in her head. She could still feel the fear and regret but it was like her thoughts were floating around her in a dark muddy water, she could see them but she couldn’t get a good grip. Juliet barely felt Ethan’s lips on her own, she knew that her hands were running through his hair, clutching at the thick strands, but she felt nothing.

Nothing was exactly what she wanted.

Juliet felt her hand reach down and tug at Ethan’s belt and a second later he pulled away, his breathing rough as he gripped her hand, stilling her movements.

“Juliet,” he breathed into her open mouth. “We need to slow down, I - I need you to slow down.”

Juliet nodded and her gaze dropped to Ethan’s lap before she averted her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Ethan laughed, reaching down to adjust his trousers. “Don’t be sorry,” he replied, his voice practically a growl. His stunned features twitched into warm amusement. “I just wasn’t expecting it.”

Juliet rolled her eyes and looked away, her gaze fell on her worn copy of Wuthering Heights. She flinched. Brontë’s deathly romantic prose mocked her: “My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary.”

To Cathy, Heathcliff was the weight that dragged her soul back to earth, he grounded her in a passion so vicious it caused genuine pain.

Juliet had just kissed Ethan and felt nothing at all.

She knew she loved Ethan, their friendship was forged over years of stolen meetings and kind favours. But he wasn’t her Heathcliff, as much as he wanted to be. Ethan was the knight in shining armour. He was safe, he was easy to love. Juliet didn’t have to guess how he felt about her, she could feel it in every sad look he sent her way.

Juliet’s heart was heavy as she lifted her faraway eyes to meet Ethan’s heated gaze. She forced a shy smile to slide across her face as her hand reached up and tugged Ethan’s chin down to meet her awaiting lips.

Heathcliff was a dream anyways and Ethan was right in front of her, real and tangible. His body was warm and his lips were eager, Juliet’s eyes closed as the sweet numbness surrounded her once more.

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

@ilovemybrown-eyedbabygirl @amyispxnk

#joel miller x original character #joel miller x reader #ao3 fanfic #joel miller #joel miller angst #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fic #joel miller hbo #joel miller x female oc #joel miller x oc #Spotify #pedro pascal

55 notes · View notes

adventure-showdown · 6 months

Text

What is your favourite Doctor Who story?

ROUND 1 MASTERPOST

synopses and propaganda under the cut

Time and the Rani

Synopsis

The First Rani has returned after her last encounter with the Doctor, with yet another malicious scientific scheme.

Taking advantage of the post-regenerative trauma the recently regenerated and unstable Doctor is going through, the Rani hopes to achieve control of an approaching asteroid composed entirely of strange matter.

Can the Doctor figure out he is being used for the Rani's evil experiment, and what is behind the door the Rani won't allow the Doctor past?