unquantifiablx

[unquantifiablx]

wakingwanda:

All her life, whether it be long or short, she’d remember Pietro’s face as he realized she did not want him in that way; she’d remember the sound of his voice when he told her he loved her. It would forever be replayed in the film of her thoughts. She realized she’d sunk to the floor and was pulling her knees up to her chest, like a child. Though he was but a few feet away, she felt miserable and isolated. It was as if nothing of warmth and comfort would ever touch her again. 

She wishes she’d indulged him, for surely pretending would be easier than this. Was there still time? No, she realizes, eyeing him as he rips open the door. It would only insult him, and she could not bear the thought of hurting him further. Her lips part to speak, but no sound comes out. Say something, you fool! Anything! But she is suddenly mute in her misery, unsure what to say and whether any of it would matter in the end. 

She felt a sob rise in her, and her whole body is raked with it. Her guilt had grown harder and more nearly unbearable. She feared there was no coming back from this. Unlike the torment at the facility or even his death, this trauma felt all the more final. She had hurt him far more in her inaction than she ever did in her action.

Wanda was losing herself, and she was going to let it happen. Releasing her control over her mentality, her sanity, and let her emotions take the reigns. It felt like a fitting punishment, though exactly why she felt like punishing herself was beyond understanding. Her arms, slippery with his blood, wrap around her trembling frame. Her fingernails dig into the flesh on her back. She wants to die. She wants to sleep. She thinks on their childhood then, sudden and vivid, of how he let her hug him on cold nights. So much hope in their youth. How had it all led up to this?

She wondered briefly where he would go once he walked out that door. How long would it be until she saw him again? If she was not already feeling so hopeless, the question would terrify her. Now she’s almost willing him to leave. Willing him to walk out on her like she had done to him. It would be fitting, and certainly she deserved it. But before that, before she would fully wallow in her aloneness, she knew she had to say something. Her voice came out low and sincere between her sobs. “And I love you.” 

Pietro has one foot out the door when he hears the sob wrack her body. Through the despair, he feels that oh so natural instinct to pick her up off the floor. To cradle her in his arms like a child, whisper how much he loves her into her hair until she drifts into a dreamless sleep. How did she not know before now? Even if it was all fake, even if it never happened. How did she not know his heart? There would be no other woman for him, no one he could love like her. It was the only pure thing about him, his love for her and he’d dirtied it.

She wasn’t to blame. He couldn’t let her believe that. He rests his forehead against the door again, nearly shutting it but he knows he can’t stay. Now wasn’t the time. “I will always love you. I will always adore you.” The words are shaky, pushed through a chest too tight. You have to look at her, you have to. But he can’t, looking to her would only make it more real. “I cannot live without you, you’re everything. You’re all that I have.” A clenched fist raises to the wall beside the door, but there’s no force behind it. A soft thunk as he leans his weight into it. 

My Wanda, my sweet girl. My whole life.

“Do you understand?” It’s his turn to sob, frustrated with himself. So inarticulate, so stupid. So unworthy of the affections he’d somehow believed he’d attained. Trembling he reaches for his back pocket, pulling out a folded up paper. He’d meant to give it to her when he got back, but there was never a right time and truthfully he was a bit ashamed of it. His writing was just as crooked as it had been before he left, even with Lorna’s help he knows it must have errors. But he also knows her name is written with the most care, the wings of the ‘W’ looped with adoration. He tosses it now, onto her dresser as he straightens up. “Yeah, you do. Don’t you, sora?” 

Without waiting for an answer, he forces himself from her room. The door frame rattles as he lets the door swing shut behind him. My Wanda, my sweet girl. He feels that voice creeping back in, jaw ticking. Not yours, it says with a devilish laugh. She’ll always be mine, and he says it with such conviction that he feels the misery bleed from his bones. I will always be hers, and we will always be. 

#there will be time #change the world #( if i could be king... i'd take you as my queen.. i'd have it no other way ) #tw incest #;end #WOW

[unquantifiablx]

wakingwanda:

She could not move as his mouth breaches the gap between them, shocked into stillness. She doesn’t understand. Had not anticipated this. Her mind races to piece together the events that led them to this point, every word and action. The perverseness of it was not lost on her, but she was not repulsed. She was not angry, nor afraid. There was only a shriveling stillness inside her. A switch was thrown in Wanda’s head. This is what he wants. And she could not give him that. No, for once she could not match him in need or desire. 

She lowered her head slightly and looked up at him from under her brows. She had not – could not – respond to the kiss. And why did she feel so horribly guilty? Her objective thought knew she had no reason to, and yet it was her most prominent emotion. The only feeling discernible to her in all this nothing. She wishes she could embrace the void, collapse into herself like a dying star. The guilt was almost too much. She had thought admitting to his resurrection would be the worst of it, but she had been horrifically wrong. 

Though she had not anticipated this sort of intimacy, she suddenly felt as though their whole lives had been crescendoing to this moment. Not human, not mutant. Maximoffs. Two strange children out of time and space. How had she been so blind to it? Why couldn’t she just accept it? After all, there would never be anyone else. She could not rationally see herself loving anyone the way she loved him, nor receive this love from any other. Yet somewhere deep inside her still longed, quite absurdly, for a normal life. A life where brothers did not kiss their sisters, in which death was irrevocable. But that line had been crossed the moment she called upon the mystical forces that brought him back to life. Perhaps the line had never existed at all, and they were foredoomed to misery from the moment of their conception, like characters out of a penny dreadful. 

Wanda’s face was the perfect picture of shame and confusion. The front of her blouse was drenched in his blood, and the smell of it was everywhere. It was agony, yes, pure agony that she could not give him what he wanted. She hated herself for it. “Pietro…” she said at last. It was the only thing she could say.

This was the closest to bliss he will ever get, skin to skin and muscle to muscle with her. Breathing her in like she’s life itself, and in some ways he now knew she was. But when his eyes focus on hers, he feels a stillness like no other. Not like the one in the forest when he’d come to her aid after years of separation, not like the one where she rushed to his side when he’d breached the barrier. Not the stillness of relief and comfort they so often shared. No, this stillness was like the death he’d never known.

He stares at her for what feels like too long a moment, the weight of realization too heavy for his bones to bear. He can’t move, frozen in his despair. She didn’t want him. She never did. That voice was back, the one who questioned him. The one who badgered him. It wasn’t his own, and it wasn’t hers. It was something dark, something unnatural. She never will, Pietro. A shuddered breath leaves him all at once, like he’s shattering from the inside out. She makes it safely to the floor, he makes sure of that even as he stumbles back like she’s hit him with one of her hex bolts. 

“Doamne, nu,” his voice is thin with lack of air as he turns from her, blood soaked fingers running through his hair, staining his silver strands. “Nu, nu.” The pain in his shoulder is nothing, nothing compared to the fall from the precipice as his memories are stripped from him. Her kisses, the loving words pressed to his skin by them. Her touch, tracing his scars and gripping his arms like anchors. These memories burn like gossamer, and through the flames he sees it. He sees his body in her arms, he sees her shouting at him through tears like a flood on her beautiful face. He sees his eyes, open and glassy. He is death, and she is a heaven he’ll never reach.

He won’t look at her, he can’t. He wouldn’t make her feel guilty for his own sickness, his and his alone. “It wasn’t real,” he speaks quietly, the foreign language for once feeling more comfortable than their own. Safer. Less intimate. He swears it was a laugh he thought was leaving his throat, not a strangled, pained noise as he pushes his hair back from his face with both hands. “Not real. Right. Why would it be real? Why would you...?” He can’t have this conversation, and he hurries to the door without another word. He can’t look back at the mess he’s created, her covered in his blood and his filth leaving her in shambles. Stopping with his hand on the doorknob, he knows he can’t leave without saying it. He doesn’t look at her still, eyes tightly clenched as he leans his forehead on the door. “Te iubesc, Wanda. Always.” He casts the last word over his shoulder before he’s pulling the door open like he’s ripping off a bandaid.

#stubborn love #( i don't blame you dear for running like you did all these years ) #story of my life #( she tells me in the morning she don't feel the same about us in her bones ) #( seems to me that when i die these words will be written on my stone #and i'll be gone gone tonight #the way i've been holding on too tight with nothing in between ) #tw incest

[unquantifiablx]

piotrasputin:

After Piotr is able to light his cigarette, he nods his head at Pietro. It wasn’t hard for Piotr to misunderstand people. Even though Pietro’s body language was so closed off and the laugh seemed choked, Piotr started digging around in his pockets for something to trade. Finally, he found a box of cigarettes and with a raised eyebrow he considered them for a moment. He’s unsure how he’d managed to get a whole new box, but he offered them none the less.

It’s almost as if Piotr has smoked before. It’s too natural the way he holds it between his lips. When he speaks again, smoke is steadily falling out of his nose and mouth, “Это все, что у меня есть сейчас, но я могу купить тебе выпить, когда мы вернемся?” (That’s all I have now, but can I buy you a drink when we get back?)

Pietro stares at the box of cigarettes in his hand, contemplating his options here. He could let it go, share a smoke and drink with the other man and push this towards the back of his mind. He could walk away now, and save this for another time. He could try just talking to him, for sure, but when did words do him any good? Picking a single cigarette from the pack rather than the whole thing, he places it between his lips. One hand reaches up to shield the cigarette as he lights it, all the while his eyes slide to Piotr’s. He chuckles as he pulls it from his lips and blows it up towards the night sky. “Right.”

He wonders how long it will take for Wanda to realize they were both missing. Not that it mattered, he’d be quick. Sticking the cigarette back in his mouth, he raised both brows at him before his fist collides with Piotr’s face. He hears a satisfying crunch and casts a thankful glance up to the sky that he got to hear that sound before Piotr armored up. Laughing, he shakes his hand and looks back towards Piotr. “Come on Sputnik, show me a good time,” he pleads, voice heavily accented around his cigarette.

#tw alcohol mention

[unquantifiablx]

wakingwanda:

“Even so,” she whispered, “It was not a risk I was willing to take.” Her secrets were out in the open. But Wanda could not shake the evil spell. Still it loomed over her as though it were part of the roof and even the sky itself. But, no, it was not part of any outside force. It was in her. In him. She supposed this would haunt them forever. A phantom of her own design. And yet she found an almost fiendish comfort in no longer having to face this torment alone. Here they were, back doing what they did best. Suffering together. Wanda had tried to sever this chain, but her efforts had been in vain. 

She was weeping now, though silent. The pain of it all was unbearable. If only there was a way to feel nothing, she thought, even for a second. It was in moments like these that Wanda wished she did not abstain from cigarettes and booze and other cheap, mind-numbing vices. But her’s was not a mind that could afford being numbed. She had taken considerable care to assure that she did not fall victim to madness, which seemed to always creep just outside the fabric of her mind. But with each passing day it felt like she was descending further into it, despite all her best efforts. She gazed at him through bleary eyes. Long had she considered him her anchor in this world. The only thing that made sense among infinite, malleable realities. It occurred to her again just how selfish her act of bring him back had been. She had done it as much for her sake, as his own. 

Her right hand rose to his face, fingers tracing over the stubble on his jaw. She can feel his blood, sticky and hot, dying her blouse from where he touched her. She wants nothing more than to heal him. But she hesitates. No more would she use her power without his consent. She had already surrounded him in enough illusion, and finally she tries to heed the old witch’s advice. “Vă rog,” she begs, “Let me help you now.” It seemed like the smallest thing she could do, a petty consolation, but she was unsure where to go from here. She would mend his wounds, and then what? Would they each other like they did as children? In his arms, it had always felt like the outside world did not exist. But it was only an illusion. Always illusions with her. 

Pietro can’t take her begging, normally he’d suck his teeth at her and tell her not to act like a child, all the while giving in to her desires. But what she was asking, to let her alter him even more than she already had... A shaky breath as he drags his hands down her sides, over her hips until they slip behind her and hold onto the backs of her thighs. There wasn’t a part of her body that wasn’t familiar to him, that didn’t feel right in his hands. It wasn’t normal, to be this comfortable within someone else’s body as if they were never two people but one. If that were true, then their life together would make a lot more sense. This aching, insatiable need to be together would have a purpose.

“No,” his voice is rough, but it’s not because he’s angry with her. The emotion running through him as he gazed up at her was too complex to be called anger. It was an entirely different animal, much like him. “Nu sunt o păpușă,” he mutters, as he stands slowly. His hands stay where they are, peering down at her as they tighten to lift her. As her back drags along the closet, he continues, “You can’t just stitch me back together as you see fit, copilul meu.” He should set her down and leave, probably should have left once she’d admitted to her sin but it only reminded him of his own.

Once her eyes are level with his, he raises a hand to push her hair away from her face. He keeps it there, easily holding her up with his other, thumb rubbing over her brow bone. She couldn’t live without him, and he felt so stupid for believing the complete opposite all these years. “Copilul meu,” he repeats, and it may be the steady blood loss, but he feels like she glows under the low light of her lamp. “Îți voi ierta mereu. Întotdeauna voi sângera pentru tine.” Devotion overshadows any conflicting emotions battling inside his chest, and it was ridiculous that the only competition she had was herself. “Nu voi iubi niciodată pe nimeni ca și cum te iubesc.” 

It didn’t matter to him that this wasn’t right when their entire lives had been wrong. He couldn’t make a case for himself, but she deserved better. She deserved everything she desired, and everything he couldn’t give her. But love? He could give her that, there would be no better love than he could give her. He’d proved that, night after night in that cabin hidden in the woods. Nu vom vorbi despre asta. Esti al meu. Sunt a ta. If he had to stand before Saint Peter one day and plead his case, he wouldn’t bother. He’d tell him what he told her before he tasted her lips the first time. Ești singurul cer pe care îl voi avea.

Laying his forehead against hers, his lips part to taste the breath leaving her mouth. Years, it’d been years. Every day since he’d arrived watching her laugh, watching her smile, watching her tuck her bottom lip between her teeth as her eyes glinted with mischief. He couldn’t handle it anymore. His lips line up perfectly to hers, peering into her eyes as his head tilts back just enough. The direct hit of her taste has his hand tightening around her thigh, softly uttering her name against her mouth like it was the most important word in any spoken language. 

#there will be time #( why do I keep falling? ) #work song #( in the low lamp light i was free... heaven and hell were words to me ) #( there's nothing sweeter than my baby i'd never want once from the cherry tree ) #( i'll crawl home to her ) #tw implied incest #tw incest #i saved that gif as 'going ta hell'

[unquantifiablx]

@moreweaponthangirl

buffyverse meme: [3/6] friendships Spike/Dawn

#;the daylight that found where I was hiding

[unquantifiablx]

wakingwanda:

Salty tears prickled her eyes, threatening to spill over. She did not let them. His words cut through her like a hot knife, and she’s left bare before him. No longer able to hid behind a smokescreen of spells and lies. She went to Agatha Harkness for a number of reasons. Some of which would be difficult to admit, but what did she have to lose? It was all out in the open now. This ugly and festering truth. She stared into his intense blue gaze, and it seemed to wait anxiously for her explanation. The deeper she looked, the more evident was the emptiness behind the eyes. Looking only at his pupils was like gazing into the hollow eyes of a taxidermied animal. Yes, he was breathing. He was walking. But was he alive, truly? Was this living?

The magic she used to resurrect him was turbulent, unnatural. The feeling of it coursing through her body was like nothing she’d felt before. It was power beyond her imagination, but with it came an unyielding anxiety. This anxiety stuck with her long after the deed was done. Months had passed since she forced the life back into her brother’s body, and yet the unease followed her like a shadow. A bad omen. Something was coming. But what? It became evident that these were forces that shouldn’t have been dipped into, and surely the witch would pay for this. Pay for playing God. 

Agatha Harkness came to her in a vision. An astral projection, she’d later discover. She called to her; she knew of what she’d done, knew the immense toll it took on her. Come to me, child. And Wanda went. She sought knowledge. Solace in the old witch’s hearth. She wanted to learn about her powers, of the chaos magic that flowed through her and the magic that flowed through all else. She wanted to know if what she’d done would haunt her forever. “Yes,” Agatha had answered, quite simply. “I’m afraid you will never be the same. Nor will he.” Then the elder witch put a hand to Wanda’s hair, tender as a mother. “But I know your heart, and it is true. You are not doomed.” Agatha had been a most gracious teacher, and Wanda owed a lot to the old woman. 

On one warm summer night, the two witches walked under great myrtle trees. Wanda brushed her fingers over the frothy blooms. “He cannot live in your illusions forever, girl.” Agatha suddenly warned, the rubber tip of her cane thumping on the concrete. Wanda grimaced; the old witch was reading her mind again. This was the first they’d spoken of Pietro since that first conversation. “The truth will come out. It always does. And you’ll find it best to get ahead of it, my child.” If only Agatha could see her now. How disappointed she’d be. 

She had let down her teacher, her brother. These were simply the facts. She unfolded her arms from around her frame, as if giving herself up to him. “I know. I know.” She said, doing her best to keep her voice steady. “I’m not trying to say that what I did was right. I was afraid and weak and it clouded my judgement. I shouldn’t have left you. I know this. I knew this the moment I stepped foot in New Orleans, but I needed to answers. I had to find out what I did to you, Pietro, and perhaps I went about it in all the wrong ways, but… I had to know.” Her eyes grazed over the blood now blotting his shirt, making horrible Rorschach designs. The sight filled her with sorrow. She wanted nothing more than to comfort him. Fix him. The tears finally escaped, tracking down her flushed cheeks. “I’m sorry. That doesn’t begin to cover it, I know, but please… please know that I was trying to do good. I never wanted you to suffer.”

Pietro nearly gives in at the way she opens up her body to him, nothing comforted them more than to hold onto each other until they didn’t know whose limbs belonged to who. He wants to smack himself silly, he shouldn’t feel the need to comfort her. He shouldn’t feel the need to get down on his knees before her, sift through the betrayal and hurt to worship in awe of her. Wanda had battled life itself, the laws of the universe, and won. But the burning pain in his shoulder, his hand drifts to it as if he could hide the bloody mess of his shirt from her, reminds him that this wasn’t winning at all. 

Her laugh comes from deep within the belly he tickles as she tries to fall asleep. She is batting him away, turning her face into the pillows as if they could hide her from him. He’s just as sleepy as she is, eyes nearly closed as he rests his face in the nest of her curls, but he loves that sound. He wants to fall asleep to it, drift into oblivion surrounded by the only person in the world who mattered. Surrounded by the scent of cinnamon and cloves, by dark hair that makes his nose itch but he refuses to pull away from it, by sharp little elbows digging into his stomach to get him to stop harassing her. But they’re quickly followed by her soft hands, half the size of his own, yanking his arms back around her until he’s more on top of her than beside her.

He’s staring at the ceiling as it trembles from the train passing overhead. It’s cold, but his blankets are piled on top of the blonde woman sleeping peacefully beside him. He holds one of his leather cords in his hands, pulling it through his fist and wrapping it around the opposite over and over. The charms land in his palm each time, and he swears they burn hot. Blinking slowly, he brings them to his lips and drags them across his mouth before lifting them up to look at them. They knock together, and he swears he hears her laugh.

“I never would have left you,” for just a moment he sounds like the boy who was more mirth and mischief than misery. Before the facility, before death, before Agatha, before defying death once more to come home to her. He steps closer now, and he knows he’s lost long before his first knee hit the floor. The second quickly follows, and usually he would find it comical that they were closer in height this way but right now he’s lost in her distraught gaze. “Even if you hadn’t brought me back,” his hands tremble by her waist, the one wet with his blood curling once, like he’s in supplication to her. “I would have found a way to get back to you, am promis că nu te voi lăsa singur în această lume.” He touches her finally, and it’s like laying his head down at the end of the day. A noise way too soft for him leaves his lips as his thumbs find the space where her shirt has risen, pressing against the skin that burned as hot as her charms. 

#polarize #( i think i lost my halo ) #story of my life #( i spend her love until she's broke inside ) #sedated #( so we're slaves to any semblance of touch... lord we should cool it but we love it too much ) #windows #( lost is my heart but my new soul stays ) #take me to church #( i'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies... good god let me give you my life ) #breezeblocks #( she's morphine queen of my vaccine... muscle to muscle and toe to toe ) #tw implied incest

[unquantifiablx]

wakingwanda:

She stay pressed up against the closet door, eyeing him wearily. How could she have made such an error? In thinking she could keep this from him, that she could somehow spare him the pain of his own death and resurrection, she had inadvertently made it worse. For the both of them. And yet, she’s not sure she’d change a thing. Never would she have let him die. No, she’d proven that her will could triumph over destiny. Proved that by drawing on dark and dangerous magic that went well beyond her understanding, challenging the very laws of nature. 

It had been so long since she’d faced this truth, head on. She had quite successfully stopped herself from ruminating on it, even after many sleepless nights. Pushed it to the very back of her mind along with all the great sorrows of her life, though this was certainly the greatest. She hugged her arms around her slender frame, a sudden cold creeping in. “You’d already suffered so much,” she said, her voice soft but meaningful. “I thought I was protecting you.” 

I was protecting myself too, she thought. It was far easier to ignore the harsh truth when she didn’t have to see it reflected on his face. The face of the only person she’d ever truly loved with her whole heart, for he was her heart. “Tu esti inima mea,” she said aloud. “Do you understand? I cannot live without you. And in my selfishness and vanity, I used my power to bring you back. God, it was horrible. It was the most horrible thing I’ve ever done, ever had to witness. Why should both of us be tortured by it? I thought…” she paused, hugging herself tighter, “I thought I could shoulder the pain on my own, and that maybe one day it would just stop hurting. Yes, it was stupid. But I would do it a thousand times over.”

Through everything they’d been through, the abuse and the neglect, the endless fighting and insufferable loneliness, through it all he had never felt this horrible. Felt so lost, so out of control. So terrified of hurting her. The memories of her he held so close to his heart, the ones that lulled him to sleep in her aching absence, they were slowly being tainted. Ripped from him like Laura’s claws were still pulverizing him. But like the witch she was, her words sickly sweet hexes, have him turning to her like a man possessed. Was he under her spell then? Is that what this was? This insatiable love. No, he tells himself, that’s been there since the start.

Tu esti inima mea. The look he gives her, he’s entirely aware, is full of an unmistakable longing. His eyebrows knit together tightly, nostrils flaring as his lips part slowly. She left him. The time they spent together... Did you? The cotton buzz that usually followed his doubt never comes, he’s starting to see it clearly now. And that thought breaks him. “Nu spune asta. Nu știi ce înseamnă ...” He wants to go to her, can feel her despair and distress despite the distance between them. He would always be more in tune to her feelings than his own, and it never bothered him until now. Until he was the endless source of her pain. 

“You left me,” he says suddenly as if he watches the puzzle pieces come together on the shadows of her face. “You made me into whatever the fuck I am, and you left me.” He shouldn’t have let go of the bed, because he’s nearly got her in his arms before he remembers that’s exactly what she wants. She will win him over again, like always, with her beautiful words and her tears. Letting go of her abruptly, he forces himself a couple steps back. “I thought it was because...” No, he can’t bring that up now, forcing his eyes anywhere else in the room. “Wanda, if I was your heart... You don’t tear your own heart from your body like you did to me. You don’t leave it halfway around the world to rot!” He realizes he’s yelling again, and his voice is past hoarse. The wound in his shoulder has re-opened, soaking through his shirt.

#just one yesterday #( anything you say can and will be held against you... so only say my name ) #do i wanna know #( do you want me crawling back to you? ) #not your fault #( she's a ten i'm a joke in my own mind ) #redbone #( you make it hard for a boy like that to go on... im wishing i could make this mine ) #tw implied incest

[unquantifiablx]

There were many things that kept Pietro up nights, things like memories of the facility he and Wanda had been stashed in. Or the sight of her waving goodbye from the train on her way to Agatha’s. Now there was his death, bits and pieces coming back to him every time he closed his eyes. With that, the sickening feeling that he never had what he thought he had gotten a taste of. A life where Wanda loved him like he loved her, his own personal heaven where she loved him in every way possible. But recently? The knowledge that she’d partaken in some comforting with the Sputnik while he’d been off helping Reyna acquire her sister. So maybe he’d followed the other man out here when he saw Piotr slip out for a smoke. Maybe he had to hide his shaking hands in his pockets, so clearly curling into fists like he was incapable of unfurling them. 

“Товарищ?” he repeats after him, a humorless chuckle following as he looks around them. But he’s pulling a lighter out of his pocket anyway, holding it up with a raised brow. “Конечно, у меня есть зажигалка. У вас есть что-то свое, товарищ?”

@unquantifiablx​ said: 🎶  last song ( starter meme || accepting ) [Do or Die by Flux Pavilion f. Childish Gambino]

“What kind of life is this?” he mumbled to himself as he leaned against the wall outside. The music was a dull beat of bass outside, but he wasn’t entirely sure how he even ended up with a cigarette in his mouth when he never smoked. After getting wasted in a club with his new friends, he came out here for some fresh air. Fresh air would soon turn to tobacco filled lungs, but only as soon as he got a lighter. Rubbing his forehead, he looked over at the closest person that he knew and sighed. He didn’t think Pietro actually liked him, or anyone really but for some reason especially him. Still, for some reason he absolutely needed this cigarette according to his intoxicated brain, “Эй товарищ, у тебя есть огонь?”

#tw implied incest #the peter fight is beginning

[unquantifiablx]

[upon seeing Wanda crying]

Vision: What's wrong, Wanda? Why are you crying? What happened?

Clint: Are you okay? Did someone make you cry? Who is it? I'll go talk to them if you want me to.

Pietro: WHERE ARE THEY? I'LL FUCKING KILL THEM.

#;musings #;heart outside my body #;my stupid sad and silver boy I cannot

[unquantifiablx]

yo u mind if i care about you 5000 times more than you will ever care about me

#THE MOST #;musings

[unquantifiablx]

Pietro takes way longer than usual to finish his burger. His chewing slow, eyes unfocused as he stared at the blank television set. He was exhausted, yes, but he knew sleep would evade him. It had every night since she told him the truth. Did he need sleep if he was dead? But he wasn't, dead men didn't have sex in motel showers. He eyes Reyna as she eyes the bottle, tutting at her like a grandmother. "Don't, the last thing you need to be tomorrow is hungover."

He didn't blame her, being black out drunk was a happy alternative to what they both felt on a daily basis. "Trust me, feeling like you're on the brink of death is no way to reunite with your sister." He can't keep the bitterness out of his voice, and he honestly doesn't try very hard.

#tw alchohol mention #tw alcohol #mobile

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@wakingwanda

redbone // childish gambino

#;musings #;mixtape #;heart outside my body

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It doesn’t take long after his orgasm for reality to come crashing back in. A lot of things were still far out of his reach, like death and the love of the only woman he wanted. A few seconds of bliss didn’t erase that. Fearful of a reenactment of the crying fest on the bathroom floor with Yana, he sets her down and turns away to rinse off. He does it quickly, stepping out before her and wrapping a towel around his waist as he stares in the foggy mirror.

He doesn’t check to see if she’s still standing, though he does consider her a trooper for not needing to lean on the wall for a few seconds. Finding his burger outside in the room, he sits in his towel to eat in silence while she finishes up.

#mobile #tw implied incest

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Pietro had always been a controlling bastard, because much of his life had been so much out of his control that it left him feeling powerless. But this, making the tiny but mighty Reyna quake under his attention? Having his cake and eating it too. He can’t help a satisfied, albeit breathless, laugh at the way she orgasms around him. Whispers encouragements laced with filthy words beneath her ear. He picks up his pace again, enjoying how much more pliant her satisfied body is.

It doesn’t take much more, the taut ache of desire too overwhelming to hold off any longer. But even lost in his pleasure, he has the mind to let himself slip from her a few seconds before he comes. He spills against her thigh, which the shower’s spray rinses clean from her as he watches. He chuckles, smacking her ass lightly as he turns her around to face him. “Hey, back to earth, hmm?” he murmurs as he moves her beneath the water.

#nsfw #mobile

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Pietro always had a thing for smaller women, and he knew where it came from though he refused to acknowledge it. But his fascination came with advantages, he could hold her effortlessly even while injured. Position her however they both needed. He chuckles at the way she bounces, mouthing at her neck and shoulder through his pleasured haze. “You’re close aren’t you?” he taunts her, feeling the way she quivers around him. How hard could he get her to fall apart?

He noses her wet braids to the side so he can bite the back of her neck. Presses her to the shower wall as he stills inside her, buried within her as his hand drops to her center. His fingers find her clit easily, and his pace is nowhere near as teasing as he’d been earlier. Instead of thrusting, he grinds against her in sync with his fingers.

#nsfw #mobile #tw implied incest #minor mention but

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Pietro grins against her mouth, growling at the way she tugs his curls. It feels good, and has him pushing his hips into her harder. Thrusts speeding up as he lifts her under her ass with one arm while his free hand travels to her breast and gives it a firm squeeze. The dressing over his wounds are getting soaked and they’re beginning to itch, but he pays them no mind. A little pain was good, it kept him in the moment.

Abruptly, he pulls from her and turns her body around. Grips her around the backs of her thighs and keeps her in a seated position with her upper body pressed against his chest to keep her righted. “Hold on to something,” he grunts against her ear before slamming back into her.

#nsfw #mobile

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Enveloped in Reyna’s body, Pietro lets his mind go blank. Stops thinking of the ache in his chest and the longing in his fingertips for a love he never had. Instead he focuses on his desire, on the raw instinct of pleasure that he’s so easily lost to. He grips her hips tightly as she rocks them, holding them in place firmly so he can begin a hard but slow pace. He takes his time drawing back but when he settles his hips back into hers, it’s with enough force to make the shower bar she’s leant against rattle.

Her skin tastes like sweat from their long journey and he preferred it to perfume or anything artificial. The best part about sex was that bodies couldn’t lie, he didn’t only see her stripped bare, he could taste and smell and feel her in ways he never had before. A momentary and temporary connection that even he, the grumpiest of men, needed.

#nsfw #mobile