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#best penny stocks to buy now

capitaladda · 2 months

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5 Top Penny Stocks in the United States (2024)

Penny stocks, often priced below $5 per share, can be an intriguing avenue for investors seeking high returns. In this article, we leverage insights from the TipRanks Penny Stock Screener to bring you five top penny stocks in the United States. These stocks not only have received a Strong buy rating but also boast impressive Smart Scores, indicating their potential to outperform the market. 5…

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microcapsblog · 2 years

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If you're new to day trading, it appears like you must remember a lot. If you are cautious, you should stick to sound financial advice, and for the best results, it will help you in knowing which are the best penny stocks to buy now.

#best penny stocks to buy now

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aceinvestors · 5 months

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Right Time to Invest in Low Lying Crude Oil?

Factors to Consider:

Market Conditions: Assess the current market conditions and trends. Understand the factors influencing oil prices, such as global demand, geopolitical tensions, and production levels.

Supply and Demand: Changes in global oil supply and demand can significantly impact prices. Consider the current balance between supply and demand and any potential disruptions to the oil supply.

Geopolitical Factors: Geopolitical events, such as conflicts in oil-producing regions, can affect oil prices. Stay informed about geopolitical developments that may impact the oil market.

Economic Indicators: Monitor economic indicators, such as GDP growth, industrial production, and transportation trends. Economic conditions can influence oil consumption and, consequently, prices.

Technological Advances: Advances in technology, such as improvements in renewable energy sources, can impact the long-term demand for oil. Consider the potential effects of technological changes on the oil market.

Environmental Policies: Policies aimed at reducing carbon emissions and promoting clean energy can affect the long-term outlook for the oil industry. Stay informed about environmental regulations and their potential impact on oil demand.

Diversification: If you decide to invest in commodities like crude oil, consider diversifying your investment portfolio. Diversification helps spread risk and reduces the impact of poor performance in any single asset.

Risks and Challenges:

Volatility: Crude oil prices are highly volatile and can be influenced by sudden and unpredictable events. Investors should be prepared for price fluctuations.

Leverage and Derivatives: Some investors use leverage or derivatives to amplify their exposure to oil prices. While this can magnify gains, it also increases the risk of significant losses.

Timing the Market: Timing the market can be challenging. Even if oil prices are currently low, they could continue to decline. It's challenging to predict the bottom of a market.

Storage Costs: Investing in physical oil or oil-related financial instruments may involve storage costs. Consider these costs in your investment strategy.

Investment Vehicles:

Stocks of Oil Companies: Investing in stocks of established oil companies can provide exposure to the industry without directly dealing with the commodity.

Exchange-Traded Funds (ETFs): There are ETFs that track the performance of oil prices or oil-related indices, providing a way for investors to gain exposure to the oil market.

Futures and Options: Some investors trade oil futures or options contracts, but these are complex financial instruments that require a deep understanding of the market.

Before making any investment decisions, it's crucial to conduct thorough research, consider your risk tolerance, and, if needed, consult with a financial advisor. Investing in commodities like crude oil involves risks, and it's important to approach such investments with a clear understanding of the market dynamics and your own financial goals.

Right Time to Invest in Low Lying Crude Oil Prices? with Ace Investors | ACE Investors

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hmatrading · 1 year

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What are the top 5 penny stocks today?

Here are some tips that may help you make informed decisions while investing in penny stocks:

Do your research: Conduct thorough research on the company and the industry it operates in. Look for news and updates that could impact the company's financials or stock price.

Check financial statements: Review the company's financial statements to determine if it has a solid financial footing. Look for a strong balance sheet, revenue growth, and profitability.

Consider the management team: Evaluate the company's management team and their track record. Look for a team with experience in the industry and a history of successful business operations.

Beware of scams: Penny stocks are often targets for scammers who manipulate the stock price through false or misleading information. Be cautious of any stock with unrealistic growth potential or guaranteed returns.

Diversify your portfolio: Investing in penny stocks can be risky, and it's important to diversify your portfolio to minimize risk. Don't invest all your money in penny stocks, and consider investing in other asset classes as well.

It's important to note that investing in penny stocks can be highly risky and is not suitable for everyone. I would strongly advise consulting with a licensed financial advisor or conducting thorough research before making any investment decisions.

Penny Stocks to Buy Today

Top 5 penny stocks to buy right now are given below

YES Bank

Bank of Maharashtra

Central Bank of India

NHPC

Indian Railway Finance Corporation

Read more - hmatrading.in

Source - https://best-trading-platform-india.blogspot.com/2023/05/what-are-top-5-penny-stocks-today.html

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y0ur-loca1-lyr3 · 2 months

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Hey could we get your headcannons on Shane gaining a crush on the farmer? How Shane would feel about the whole scenario, how he would address it, the like

Shane getting a crush on the farmer hcs

A/N; omg I’m absolutely fangirling over this rn thank you so much for this request anon, hope you like it :D

As we all know, Shane isn’t really very fond of people

Actually it’s not that he’s not fond of people he just can’t see someone actually liking him as a person

So when he first realized he had a crush on the farmer he just sort of pushed it away, thus in turn probably also the farmer

At first he thought that there was no way someone like the farmer would remotely feel the same

The farmer talking to him, and giving him gifts was probably just out of pity, right?

No need to acknowledge that weird swirly feeling in his stomach, or the fact he always stumbled over his words around them

Not like they felt the same anyhow

But then they show some type of interest in the same way he feels

Maybe it’s a slip of the tongue, or maybe he says something on accident that makes them a little flustered

And now he’s freaking out

He can barely focus at his job

Probably dropped a few things while stocking shelves because he was so in thought he missed the shelves entirely

Internally freaking out in his room later

Cannot sleep. Like normally he’s too drunk or too exhausted to do anything but plop on his bed and sleep away his life, but now? Oh, no, no, no

He’s wide awake pondering what to do

Hell, he’s still having a hard time grasping the fact that someone is willing to talk to him, and now this?

The next day when they talk to him, he’s very nervous

Normally his response is something along the lines of ‘go away’ but now he’s trying to piece together a normal response to them

It wasn’t until that moment he realized how hard it was to simply speak English

He stumbled over his words a few times before finally getting out a “hey, what’s up?”

They’d respond kindly, and for the first time in a while he actually has a good conversation with someone

He had to admit it was nice to actually talk to someone he was fond of

This happened day after day until him and the farmer talking before his shift was just sorta daily

The days they couldn’t talk to him he found himself a little less happy

Of course he’d forgive them the next day and go on like normal

He’s pretty sure that the only time he really ever smiles anymore is around them

He’d begun to trust them a lot, and that little crush that he tried to snuff out only grew more and more

He started to see things at his work that would remind him of them

And he’ll, he had more than enough to buy that and some beer later, right?

They’d given him so many gifts it’s only fair to return the favor

He’d probably be all nervous and awkward while giving them the gift, but it’s still be worth it in his eyes to see them smile

Confessing his feelings would probably take a while

First he has to gain the courage to do so, and on top of that he has to figure out how to confess

After much ‘research’ (interrogating Marnie to see what the best way to confess is) he decides to invite them to share a beer over at the dock by Marnie’s ranch around nighttime

When they get there he gives them a flower he bought from Pierre’s that he knew was their favorite

Sure it cost him a pretty penny, but this was worth it, plus it looked nice in their hair either way

After sometime chatting and whatnot, he tells you how he feels while looking down at his reflection so he doesn’t have to look you in the eyes

He’s probably mumbling a bit but he’s doing his best

If they say no, he’d be heartbroken

He wouldn’t say anything about how bad he feels, but he does let out a small “oh.”

After that he asks if they can still at least be friends

The rest of the time is just rather awkward silence, before Shane gets up and goes home with his head hung low, feeling dejected

If they say yes, however he’s absolutely ecstatic

A part of him still kinda thought you would’ve still said no

So when you confirm that you feel the same way he can’t help but ramble a little, saying how great this is and how he’d love to go out somewhere with you sometime once he raises enough money

The rest of the night is spent chatting away with Shane while he held their hand looking up at the beautifully gleaming stars

And god, how he loves the way they reflect in your eyes <3

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wmarximoff · 1 year

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𝐝é𝐣à 𝐯𝐮 | 𝐰. 𝐦𝐚𝐱𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐟𝐟

summary: as you slowly reconnect with Wanda, you feel a familiar feeling of déjà vu.

warnings: making out, smut, strap-on sex (Wanda receiving) mentions of smoking, mentions of drinking, canon typical violence, angst.

pairing: Wanda x fem!reader

word count: 10k

main masterlist| series masterlist|

༺ᱬ༻

A carton of almond milk, a jar of peanut butter, a dozen eggs, a stick of butter, a can of peas, a bag of soft multigrain bread and a sizable bottle of wine are the components of the plastic basket that Wanda carries slung over her right arm. She doesn't know that she forgot to get a can of corn too. But the basket is kind of weighty and she might as well use her magic to levitate the items around her own silhouette, but she prefers that way, holding them down herself with her own arm strength.

Sometimes it's good to keep the sense of normality active. Even if normality just means carrying a basket full of groceries around the supermarket. She then looks at the face of the brown watch buttoned at the base of her left wrist and checks the time, blinking her greenish eyes after squeezing a long, full yawn in the back of her throat.

A gray-haired old lady (Mrs. Sharon Davis, an elderly widow, all wrapped in her pale blue cardigan) in front of her appears to be in a conflict with herself to find some of the change interred in the lowest of her silver wallet. And Wanda scrutinizes the establishment around herself, between the shelves stocked with groceries and the glossy linoleum floor; the weary gaze wavering absorbedly over her own white-fabric sneakers and contingently fixing on a dark, even smear on the floor between them.

Old Mrs. Davis still hasn't spotted her desired coins, and she's been digging into her wallet for the silver pennies for a good few minutes now. Wanda listens over her shoulder as someone pulls into a shopping cart right behind herself and lets out an audible groan, evidentially annoyed at the delay of the old lady with her change, but Wanda doesn't see the point in bothering to torment herself.

It's not yet six o'clock and she'll be peaceably walking home, for Westview is a small, undisturbed, reticent suburban town where everything is so close and easy to find. And she knows that, with her house being just a few blocks away from the locality of the modest market, she won't be long in coming to prepare dinner for her and her boys (whom she has left securely at the house, both doing their math homework). She smiles tenderly to herself when she thinks about Billy and Tommy.

After all, she knows she's never loved anyone as passionately as she loves those two little boys (the grace of her life, the reason for her morning smile and for the blaze of keenness pulsing within the fond fortifications of her warmish heart). For her they are everything, and that is why she would do anything for them – they are the epithet of the purest form of love that Y/N had ever gifted her with; the culmination of their love converted into two vulnerable little creatures that are made up of the best of the two of them.

She just knows, like a good mother who understands both her children so well, that at that moment, the twin boys are probably watching some silly cartoon on the television set beside the broad fireplace found in the corner of the commodious living room. And she is placid in a supermarket line, getting a whiff of the eccentric consequence of the odd combination of the full-bodied aromas of cleaning product and some sturdy feminine perfume – an even slightly nauseating aroma, kind of overpowering and suffocating. In some aisle away from her, a child is heatedly asking his mother to buy him some treats.

Wanda then ponders about making something a little special for dinner, and recalls about the delicious kugel recipethat her mother used to prepare in the length of her childhood days, back in devastated Sokovia, so many years in the remote past that encompasses the beginning of the disasters that marked her life.

The memory that gushes over her is sentimental and bittersweetly recurring to her core; she deliberates about the sporadic months of starveling and a small humble family of four, when her father was lucky with his sales and there was a sufficient amount of money left to buy the soldiers' leftover ingredients.

But then, she retrieves back to the years of her late youth, all lived in the restful caresses of the compound in upper Manhattan. She was still understanding about how to breathe without having Pietro to hold her hand. She was learning to live on her own. She was coming to terms with the truth that living didn't inevitably have to be a bad experience at all; not when Y/n showed her that there could still be delight in the little things in life.

And it was Y/n who used to marvelously praise the dish when Wanda found comfort in the act of cooking, and she always repeat a few slices every time Wanda cooked it so long ago, when they were just two teenage lovers (and eventually also young wives, both living in a small bubble of love and companionship on the edge of a comfortable wooden cottage surrounded by dozen of yards of apple orchards).

There was the sweet virtuousness of the warmth of two young girls' lives at that time. It was the first time that Wanda was really fond of being young (of breathing and having a beating heart, of having a life to live valuing every little detail of it).

She memorizes the exultant smile of her ex-wife, looking so light and beautiful even while talking with her mouth full (a half-crocken smirk drawn to her left-side, like the smirk also articulated in the innocuous characteristics of her little Tommy after he was born, which reminds her so much of the radiance that used to gleam in the sweet features of her former companion). Her ex-wife wasn't always a lonesome and distant creature creeping in the corners of her mind, and it genuinely aches inside her chest to remember that.

Y/n always devoured lavishly every traditional Sokovian dish she has ever prepared and promptly asked for more – and then thanked her with a chaste kiss placed on the pulp of her lips, which promptly evolved into the building of an intimate, sweaty moment with two bodies rubbing greedily against each other. But she soon lets out a crestfallen, rather disillusioned sigh, repressing herself for having gone back to those secluded memories amorously stored in the edge of her brain in the first place (of the concept of two adolescent girlfriends absorbed in love in the purest sense of the word, emulating the seriousness of a relationship with adult bearing, but never losing, at its core, the youthful sweetness worthy of teenage lovers). Two girls playing love in a world that was a little too hard on them.

She glares ruefully at the bulbous base of the red wine bottle and then lets out a sorrowful exhalation. Her relationship with Y/n felt like it was straight out of the old sitcoms that she always appreciated so much, where no problem was a genuine obstacle and that, by the end of the day, the two lovers would be in each other's affectionately secure arms again (and that perhaps she let have an effect on her a little too much, when dealing about decisions made early on in her adult life).

But then she reminisces that she was merely turning eighteen years old when she became a wanted on an international scale, and that, prior to that, she had also grown up in a war-torn country. She never knew how to behave like a normal person per se – whether that was before or after she became able to expel bolts of magical energy from her fingertips. She never quite knew how to fit into the role of a child or a young adult in the first place. Not by herself.

There was no time in Wanda’s life to understand precisely how to fit these labels (she was protesting with so much loathe constricted within her heart, volunteering to save her homeland, being made of little more than a lab rat by the clutches of a bunch of mad men, being used by the being that promised her greatness, but only ended up costing her the life of her darling brother).

In the cramped confines of a bleak, sullied cell, with only a modest television in the corner to entertain her mind away from the needles and the brutality, there were not many allusions of love and passions that elapsed through her life outside a square screen.

Wanda was aware that she just mimicked other people's movements and transcribed them into her own actions, as if it was all just a show and she was its young star, trying to intomb in her core the path of catastrophe and violence that had always shadowed her closely; it was only the years of strict therapy, self-knowledge and self-care, right after being blipped and coming back, that edified her to be her own person in a truly healthy way. There would be no more extremes in her life.

Her cohabitation with Y/n at the time facilitated, of course – even though her wife had changed a lot in the time that followed since the blip, at first, things had worked out well between them. Or as well as possible under the anomalous circumstances. The two of them took care of the (still) newborn twins and of each other, always with great tenderness and affection while they did it. At least that's how it worked for the first year after their reunion – until Y/N got into alcohol's graces for good, that is.

Their relationship had always felt rather light and jovial before Thanos snapped his fingers. And after that she might even have come back, but it was indeed her marriage that had turned to dust in that remote dreary day in Wakanda. In all honestly, she's not quite sure what's changed in that meantime that she's been away (dead, she was dead). And it's uneasy to ponder about it, but sometimes she does – she can’t help it.

Her corporeal existence had disintegrated into a sift of life, crumbling into her own ashes. There was color, and then the dreadfully wide expanse of emptiness (death); she, as a self-aware being, ceased to exist with just a thought and a snap of two fingers.

Her consciousness faded before she could even realize she was doing it – the palms of both her hands constrained firmly against the wound in YN's stomach that was leaking bundles of fresh blood. And Wanda never relatively questioned her existence before that (she only questioned why she ceased to exist in the first place). Returning to dust, as people of faith would say. Five long years that slipped through her fingers and dripped onto the floor in the form of a veil of dust.

It still feels odd in her guts, even ten years later, to remember that there's a void somewhere in her life that would be filled with the time that was thieved from her by the Infinity Gauntlet. A void that had once been filled by the subtle presence of Y/n's love.

Once, when the twins were about a year old after the blip, Y/N drunkenly knelt down with her face defectively reclining on Wanda’s thighs and questioned her as to why Wanda and the babies where the ones erased from existence while she stayed behind, abandoned like an old piece of furniture that no one wants to use anymore. Wanda never knew how to answer it, but they got divorced about a month later or so.

But she imagines that it, the crumbliness of their relationship, has something to do with the fact that they were both a little precocious in getting married before their twenties properly speaking; maybe if they were older and more experienced before doing it, she thinks, standing in line at the supermarket, maybe then they wouldn't have had the sorrowful culmination that they did (the crying faces and the broken hearts).

Maybe they could have risen together, and not just drifted further and further away as the days passed. Maybe Y/n didn't feel guilt-ridden every time the twins cried in need to be held or fed. Maybe Wanda wouldn't have queried her for the love she no longer knew how to give – she is fully aware of the fact that she has always had a somewhat pushy nature, after all. Maybe this, maybe that.

She doesn't know why she's been thinking about maybe so much these past few days. But it's not her fault that her ex-wife happens to be so pleasing to the eye. The person behind her in line grumbles again, and there is a mischievous chuckle that reaches her ears with airs of grace. Wanda is sincerely considering summoning some coins with her magic for Mrs. Davis.

“Oh my God, this wine is divine!”

It is Sarah Proctor who addresses Wanda, the key to undeniably everything in this town. Wanda knows it's the other woman because a sudden pulsing urge to fade away takes over her nervous system as soon as the voice echoes behind herself.

She is the high-nose blonde woman who lives up the street, is a devoted member of the Westview Elementary School parent-teacher association (in the year before Wanda had witnessed her make a young teacher leave the room in tears after a meeting), proudly cultivates the most exquisite yellow roses in the neighborhood and wears a pair of classy yoga pants that would fit a young teenager with half of her age. A self-proclaimed wine mom.

Her daughter is a classmate of Billy and Tommy, and the children often attend both the Proctor and Maximoff residences – which occasioned in Sarah a vague idea of intimacy that only endures in the head of the blonde woman with bobbed hair.

She has already invited Wanda several times to Westview Pool Club girls' gatherings, but Wanda politely declined with an odd smile and a trivial wave of her hand, because she's never been the socially outgoing kind of type—and she's always been under the impression that every attempt Sarah made from approaching her were due to the fact that the other woman knew of her past as an Avenger (as did most of the small-town citizens), and so was trying to turn her into a kind of living-tourist-spot for the eyes of the rest of the world to witness.

Rumors had it that Sarah would run for mayor in the upcoming election, and having a former Avenger as the face of her campaign certainly sells well with the predilections of the American public. Little does she know that Wanda won't vote for her.

“Oh yes, it's one of my favorites,” Wanda retorts, talking about the dark tall bottle of red wine prudently deposited inside her plastic basket, “It's been a while since I've had a drink, so I decided to buy a bottle to open this weekend.”

“Some special occasion, I suppose?” Sarah articulates a suggestive grin, but Wanda just frowns uncertainly, half squinting at her neighbor, “Maybe some... special visitor? I always knew you had it in you, Wanda. You know what they say about the quiet ones...”

“What– no, no. No,” she flashes a half embarrassed, half awkward smile, chuckling nervously while doing so, “Y/n is staying with the boys for the weekend, so it's just a special little thing for me. All by myself. A quarantine-style staycation. A whole weekend... just to myself.”

“Y/n, huh?” Sarah raises a well-crafted eyebrow in a pique of curiosity, “Your ex-wife, right? I remember seeing her at the twins' birthday party. I mean, she's pretty, yes, but she's quite the quiet type, huh... just minding her own business with a cup of soda.”

“Yeah, she was never one to talk much in public, even when we were with our teammates… but neither am I, honestly.”

“A pair made in heaven, indeed,” Sarah then flashes a smile, but the taste that slides across Wanda's tongue is bitter and kind of hard to swallow. Wanda shifts her body weight uncomfortably from one leg to the other.

“But wait, she's also an Avenger, isn’t she? Yeah, she's the one in the black and white outfit! Oh my God! Who wore a jacket over it and had that kinda mean attitude, all punk rock and stuff?”

“Herself,” Wanda agrees, pressing her lips together in a long, clumsy line. She just wants to go home and cook her damn kugel.

“My my, how did I not notice this before? I remember seeing her in the news once, when I was in college. I also had quite a taste for delinquents back then, if you know what I mean. And, well... I explored a lot in college.”

Wanda feels a hot twinge high in her face and she bites the inside of her cheek in a rather timid act (but there's no denying that Y/n's somewhat rebellious attitude has always had a lewd effect on her legs as a young teenager with a schoolgirl’s heart).

“She and Black Widow, I think, saved the life of the mayor in that bombing on the Fourth of July in... ‘15, ‘16, maybe? Yeah, I remember that! She's the one who's super strong, isn't she? Who held up a scaffold once and saved those kids!”

“That's her, yes.”

The brunette muss in a limp voice, which seems to draw a slightly indecent laugh from the blonde woman with her shopping cart full of knick-knacks and silver hoops clicking in her earlobes. It is from her that the aroma of sturdy perfume comes.

“Well, I imagine that super strength of hers comes in handy in some… situations.”

“Situ–” but then she blinks just one time, “Oh,” Mmrtification hangs over Wanda like a bucket of paint spilled over her dark-haired head.

She opens and closes her mouth like a golden fish, frowning, and her cheeks don't take long to reach strong shades of scarlet, glowing red like one of the tomatoes inside Sarah's cart.

It's inappropriate, and she knows it, but she can't help but feel a certain tingle in her breasts as lapses of memory enlighten her thoughts with the ghost of touches coursing along her body. Then she thinks of Y/N's warm, measured breath against her earlobe (of strong hands pinning her wrists above her head, of a tense, impassive hip against her own hip, of the cracked headboard and the broken bedframe). A movement and a moan. An electrical discharge in her bowels. And then, fuck... just Y/n tearing her insides apart.

The other woman smiles viciously, and Wanda suddenly wishes she hadn't put on a sweater before leaving the house, because she can actually feel herself starting to perspire at the expectant look her neighbor bestows on her.

She's never been one to deal with such intimacies with anyone other than her ex-wife (merely some casual, unsuccessful and sporadic blind dates that's never been more than a few kisses and a few touches here and there, by no means ending up in her or anyone else's bed). But she permits herself only to flash a wan grin towards the other woman when she realizes that, in front of her, the old lady has lastly found her damn change. Fucking finally.

And then, with the memory still boiling hungrily in her innards, like a hungry beast devouring her from the inside out, she takes a large step in the other direction, trying to walk away from Sarah as humanly possible, as if the other woman carries with her a toxic cloud that sickens everything that comes in contact with her. If Wanda couldn't probably get a nice lawsuit for that (or worst), she'd turn Sarah into a disgusting slimy frog.

“Well, I, I, I need to go, Sarah, but it was really nice meeting you around here. Bye,” the enchantress raises her wrist, bidding the blonde woman goodbye with a wave of her hand and a small, introverted (half-awkward) grin.

There is barely time for an answer to be formulated on the part of the housewife. Wanda's cheeks are still red hot as she (virtually) dashes through the small supermarket's automatic double doors like a fugitive on the run. Mrs. Davis drops a coin on the floor on her way out.

ᗢ

You don't know exactly how long you've been raising and lowering the joint of your bent elbow above your head. It doesn't feel right to do it, just as it doesn't do it if it feels wrong. It's just necessary – it’s like cracking some eggs if you're in the mood for an omelet for breakfast. You just have the fullest conception that a few good minutes have passed since the beginning of all the activity, and as in the rehearsal of a play, you are repeating the gestures until you overcome them with great proficiency and your culmination comes out perfect, from your liking.

And you don't bother to intend to stop doing it anytime soon – such a guttural, animalistic and barbaric action. At this point, the movement is already instinctive after being recorded in at the core of your memory, an automatic message engraved between the ligaments of your neurons. You've done it innumerable times before, and you know you'll do it a few more times after this one.

You lift your right arm, lowers your implacable fist constricted like a steel ball, the resonance of smashed cartilage and wrecked bones echoing in your eardrums, all instructed by the figure of a bloodthirsty invisible conductor within the ramparts of your own cranium. The face of the bewildered guy lying beneath you looks like a loaf of raw, misshapen meat as you repeat a cadence of sequentially delivered punches against his facial bones. And he, who is at least twice as big as you, lets out a piercing howl of pain from the cavernous depths of his throat, as even a wild bear would do if attacked deep in a forest.

But in that alley on Long Island there is not a soul available to help him to get rid of your uncomplacent fists – not at the end of a passage that is unpopulated, far from prying eyes that could creep in your direction during the action which takes place there, a beacon of environment squeezed between two amorphous walls of scorched bricks, which gives the illusion of a single long, damp, narrow street.

A sphere of blood is clotted on your face, like an eccentric gemstone, a dark red pearl splattered under the arch of your left eyebrow. And you pant heavily, your veins stiffening.

You've never been one to refuse punching a motherfucker in the face – your forte has always been pounding up things, whether on the countless missions conveyed alongside your teammates or at work during your teenage years, taking advantage of your inhuman gifts to have something to eat at the end of the week.

You've never had a dilemma in whacking someone’s ass. Even more so when that said someone had committed a hate crime against a racial minority and got away with the trial, because that's the way it is in New York City. The recurring metallic scent of fresh blood squirts in a jet of reddish color, thick and gleaming across your rigid, compact knuckles. The gruesome fragrance is no stranger to your sense of smell, and you're not quite sure whether you want it to be or not.

But it is what you are; as an inherent component of your biological chemistry (like the serum gushing through Steve's veins, altering him from inside out, or the magic pulsing within Wanda's core, changing the structure of her brainwaves), you know that hostility is a primeval part of your nature longer than the placid ends of an ordinary, quiet life.

The peaceable domestic life lived alongside Wanda is long gone, and desolation and wrath are your only roommates within the walls of your morbidly valueless apartment. You've been living like a cornered animal for fifteen years in programmed mode, always exposing your fangs and your claws at any sign of danger, just self-destructing, dying little by little, not craving to exist for one more day after laying your head on the blandishments of your pillow and staring blankly at the ceiling, whirling through your usual drunken state. Just desiring to somehow wreck your imperishable body that can't be cut or torn by human hands or tools.

People much well-intentioned than you are long gone, and you, by some implausible probabilities, were (cursed) fortunate to have endured thorough all the catastrophes that life directed at you. The car accident as a child. The blip as a mother and as a wife, as a friend.

The damn journey by the mountain of Vormir, in which three of you went in the grip of that appallingly isolated planet, and only two came back with a chest full of oxygen and life pumping through your nervures. The avid combat for proprietorship of all the six Infinity Stones, and the provenance of the final snap that brought back peace to the equilibrium of the universe by eliminating the existence of its greatest known threat at the time.

You just seem to live confined in this unbearable cycle of misfortune, and it's not fair to others that you are the person left to tell the story of those who are gone. If only you could, you would swap places with the true heroes who gave their lives for the greater good. You would even be honored to do so yourself.

Your chest heaves and deflates severely within the molds of your leather jacket fitted around your shoulders over a short-sleeved plain shirt, your veins bulging with rushing blood, and you rise to your feet, setting up your knees, and step back to inspect the big man who lies defeated to the floor of the alley, amidst a pool of his own blood and filth typical of places like this — your jacket sleeve shimmering with bundles of fresh blood, a coat of gleaming sweat limping glistening on the beam of skin on your forehead, near your hairline.

He is still alive, groaning in a vital position, and is severely battered. And it was never your intention to kill anyone. He probably learned his lesson. Maybe you should break his legs, just in case. A tremor rolls under your black sneaker feet as a loud motorcycle passes by in the distance. Sirens also pass presently afterwards, coming and going with their blue and red outcome.

But there, squeezed inside the claustrophobic walls of the dim alley, you are far from any possible intervention. You then register a single shake that travels along the outline of your left leg as your cellphone pulses inside the back pocket of your old jeans, shivering against your hip bone.

You take an elongated gulp of air before diving into your flickering pocket and hooking the device through your fuming, blooded finger length. You know your pupils are dilated and dark. Your gaze is empty and brittle as you scrutinize between the digitally formed words before your motionless eyes. Frequent bursts of oxygen are a method of neutralizing the pulses of adrenaline throbbing in the artery inside your neck. But the taste that slips between your teeth is acid and sour, and you lock your jawbone at the information that is cognitive to you.

Hey, Y/n. Are you really going to come get the boys tonight? I saw somewhere that it will rain later, so I wanted to check with you just to make sure.

(seen)

It’s Wanda.

(seen)

By the way.

(seen)

Yes, you know it's Wanda (your sweet Wanda, the trace of humanity lingering inside your icy chest), that she texted you. And it doesn't astonish you at all (not anymore), because not many people contact you lately during the sunny period of the day. You two have been keeping in touch the last few days, after all, you told her that you wanted to be more present in the twins' lives. And it's not an untruth at all, but your sly creaking anxiety makes you feel like it's a kind of uncertainty inside your throbbing stomach walls.

Maybe it's not the right decision, the voice inside your head spoke. Maybe at this point in life they don't need you anymore. Maybe this is a breakthrough, or even the commencement of a calamity worthy of a Greek novel, you're not quite sure yet. You turn on your heels and spin your back on the battered man, so you can send your reply to your ex-wife's number without looking at the ferocious outcome of your latent tantrum.

yup, your avid thumbs type along the digital keyboard provided on the screen of the small electronic device, i’ll be there in 1 hour or so. hope they like cheeseburgers.

And then you slide your upper teeth along the flesh of your lower lip, somewhat unsure of how to proceed.

try to enjoy your staycation btw. you deserve it

(seen)

You don't know why you sent her that stupid emoji. It's not like you're a teenager reproducing a failed flirtation attempt with the girl you have a crush on anymore.

But a lapse of realism is present as your vision aims on the blood folds on your stinging fingers folded around the cellphone, and you feel a heavy ball of constricted lamentation taking shape in the back of your throat when your sorrowful eyes scrutinize thorough the lines of your hands and find there only odious signs of a cavernous viciousness (a raw, physical cruelty also reflected within the mirror of your shattered soul).

In the background, the man is still groaning in pain. And you're not sorry you broke him in a beating. No, no. You're just sorry for yourself, because you didn't bat an eye when you did it. Vaguely the memory of Wanda placing chaste kisses along your hands invades you, and you realize you wouldn't want her to kiss your unseemly fingers right now (because you find her too pure to dwell on the filthiness of your touch).

The skin on your hands abruptly itches and feels dull, and you don't feel like having those plagued fingers around your children’s immaculate faces anymore.

ᗢ

The twilight of dusk breaks with the trepidation of an ingrained thunder, which rumbles all in a glow of white light that splits along the longitudinal path that comprised the pleasant suburb that is Westview. So, this is an opaque afternoon resulting from the middle of the rainy day, gray and hazy in its chilly essence, with tenuous threads of a torrential drizzle protecting the foundations of the two-story house on the slopes of the street, making the dewy ivy rustle on its ground, dripping slowly from the eaves of the ceramic tiles.

Standing on the porch of Wanda's house, you ponder that you should have listened to the weather forecast when it was said that during the afternoon there would be a period of rain. Your dark hoodie is really soaked through and your hair, pulled back in a high half ponytail, is damp against the skin of your own forehead. You feel kind of stupid.

Compact, opulent, slate-colored clouds were uneven against the emerald green of the panorama of howling houses, hills and trees, like the leaning of thick smoke from a desolate fire. A fierce storm, nevertheless, is not anomalous in the face of the oscillating spring climate of the state of New Jersey, which is not a real stranger to the rainy weather of the season. Thus, the nonstop drizzle is not the atypical episode of the day altogether.

The conquering event of such a rank happens when Wanda opens the door and finds you there, standing with your elbows dripping cold droplets water in the light wood entrance, and then pulls you into the cozy embrace of the pleasant climate established within that domestic environment of her own home.

“For God’s sake, Y/n, you're soaking wet!”

She reiterates, surveying you with an apprehensive gaze that runs the length of your head to toe, her slender ringless fingers still pressed worriedly around the outline of your right forearm tucked beneath the humid fabric of your damp blouse – but Wanda doesn't seem to realize as she's still carries with the action, and you kind of don't want her to let go of you anytime soon, so you say nothing about the warm touch tingling on your cold skin.

“Yeah, the rain started when I was halfway there and there was no way for me to avoid it, so I just went with it,” you mutter, with a certain lack of interest smoldering in your quiet voice “Sometimes I wish I still had a car...”

“But you didn't bring an umbrella?” Her gaze is accusatory in your direction, the tone of voice sounding dangerously concerned inside your ears, “Wait, you walk all the way over here?! I could have gone to get you!”

“Well,” you kind of sigh, shrugging your shoulders within your hoodie, without looking her straight in the eye “You see, I, hah… I didn’t think it was actually going to… you know… to rain. And technically I have some level of super speed in me, so...”

And then you look at her, and the exact facial expression you'd expect to find there makes its way until it slides all over her face. She’s pissed off.

“But I told you it was going to rain!” she then frowns at you, looking a little exasperated while doing it, her beautiful features drenched in an irritated tone of incredulity, “Seriously Y/n, you need to listen to what I say more! What if you get sick?”

You flick an eyelid at the grumpy figure of a very upset Wanda standing right in front of you, exhaling aromas of tea and crimson color. It's funny how the pique of nostalgia slips through your bones – there is an air of familiarity when a subtle sense of déjà vu settles into your cognitive system, like the feeling of coming home after a long trip. You feel at home. You feel belonging.

This image is very cherished to your spirit, and you can't help but to articulate a small grin that feels light in your heart in front of your ex-wife, who then aims towards your gaze with a gleam that is an assortment of misunderstanding and irritability flickering in the greenish irises, the color that look like two emerald stones embedded within her eyeballs, curving a single one of her sharp dark eyebrows in an high arching cut.

You feel married to her again for half a fraction of a second – it's like your remote newlywed routine all over again. And the feeling is actually good. She looks so pretty. It's like you could kiss her lips right there.

“What? What's so funny?”

Wanda questions you in an almost petulant way, and you let out a pleasant chuckle as she tilts her head slightly to the side of her right elbow, her chin pointing toward the tip of your nose – her typical irritating movement as the harbinger of an angry reaction to anything that troubles her spirit.

“You know I'm physically incapable of getting sick, don't you?” you declare, still with a smile carved along the outline of your own lips, and Wanda crosses her forearms close to her chest in an even vaguely embarrassed way in front of you. She was always a stubborn type anyways.

“It's that super durability mutant thing or some shit like that. At least that's what Banner told me once, and he's a smart guy y’know, so I believe him,” you casually shrug, “I haven't had a cold since I was, like, thirteen. Shit, I don't even know if I remember what it's like anymore. You don't have to worry about me, Wanda.”

“W-well,” she exasperated in a timidly cute way, even a little childish in essence, pressing her open palms against the sides of her hips well-guarded by a pair of pale mom jeans – the attire so far from the miniskirts and chains and torn clothes she used to wear when she was younger, at the apex of her mean girl phase.

Today isn't the first time you've noticed that her waist got wider as a result of the prudent ripening endowments of late adulthood blossoming into her beautiful body-type. It suits her well. You want to touch her skin through the fabric of those flimsy jeans and the thin white cotton blouse; your fingers itch to do it.

“Just because you don't get sick like other people it doesn’t mean you can walk around in the rain whenever you feel like it. You look like a wet dog right now, you know.”

“Alright, alright, I get it,” you raise both your hands to shoulder height in a placid gesture of surrender, “No more walks in the rain, I promise you.”

“You're impossible, Y/n,” she then rolls her green eyes into their sockets, but you just smirk jokily at her reaction.

It only takes a nonchalant magical flutter of Wanda's wrist, with her right five fingers all enveloped in a fading mist of crimson steam, for the well-versed witch to make your garments still swell on your body, expelling from the bristles of fabric, as even in a chemical separation reaction, the water molecules that soaked them in the first place.

It's like a huge hair dryer blowing hot air the entire length of your body and then unexpectedly stopping as if pulled from the socket, making your skin temperature pleasant again like a sunny embrace all around your body. You find yourself dry in a matter of seconds, from your socks to your underwear, thanks to her remarkable magical gifts.

The tingles consequential from the scarlet mist touching your skin still slither down the length of your body. It is familiar and eccentrically comforting – it's like eating again a candy that you used to eat during the preludes of your childhood; tastes like home and happiness.

“You know what, your powers come in handy sometimes, I’ll give you that,” you say in a mocking tone of voice, and she raises a single eyebrow in response.

“You’re annoying. I'm still considering throwing you out back in the rain for dripping water all over my carpet, just so you know.”

“All right, mom, relax. I won’t do it again, girl scout word.”

“You were never a girl scout, Y/n.”

Wanda just casts a weary glance in your direction, but there's a slight lighthearted tone that resides in the green outline of her graceful irises, as if an inside joke has taken hold between you two. She smiles, and so do you, because you feel comfortable while doing it – a pair of complicit grins from someone whose chest is filled of joy and fullness. The atmosphere that sets in is comfortable, and you feel more relaxed being close to her.

You don't really do it, but it feels like your fingers are entwined with the fingers of her own hand – the specter of touch is written between the two of you, and it's as if your soul can really feel hers at its core, like two magnets that can't stop attracting each other instantaneously. You've always gravitated towards Wanda's overwhelming presence, and things won't be any different now.

“Come on, the boys are watching cartoons in the living room,” Wanda says, then turning her back on you so that you follow her lead to the intimates of the house, “You can stay until the rain stops.”

You follow after your ex-wife without further circumlocution, the two of you passing through the small and comfy entrance hall as you go after Wanda into the large rectangular living room, your hands always tucked inside the single pocket of your hoodie as you accompany her with phlegmatic steps in your essence. Your shoulders feel even lighter as she turns to you and casually offers you the sweetest smile you've ever seen in your life.

Torrential rain is still pouring down from the sky outside the house, and the boys Billy and Tommy can be seen wearing warm, comfortable clothes, both the twins snuggled up against the back of the gray linen sofa, their little smart eyes looking smilingly at each other’s faces and not towards the television screen, where some cartoon that seems unfamiliar to you is shown.

They seem to share some secret that only two people with some primal connection as to what unites them would be able to do it, but the sounds of banter irrigated in the air of childish shenanigans reveals the mockery between their giggles.

They are brothers and they are twins, yes, two parts of a whole, born of the same womb that they shared from the beginning of their existence as two living beings, but you were always a little happier to realize the closeness established in the friendship between your children. Billy and Tommy are each other's best friends.

The pair then seem to make themselves aware of the presence of their two mothers as they enter the room, and the smiles of both children scintillate in enthusiasm as the pairs of eyes look up and acknowledge your appearance a little further behind Wanda's still figure, following her very closely, ceasing the small section of chitchats they had between the two of them.

“Mom!”

“Mommy!”

From the sofa the boys joyfully call out to you, beaming in your direction. You can't help but do the same to them.

“Hey, my demons spawn. What are you up to there, huh?”

“We were preparing something! Okay, so, mom,” Billy speaks in response, barely seeming to be able to contain the glee of excitement inside his tiny body.

“Listen to this-!” Tommy complements his brother's phrase, in a tone of enthusiastic anticipation.

"Hey, I want to start it!" but the other twin intervenes promptly, almost indignantly.

Tommy frowns, turning up his freckled little nose towards a rather annoyed Billy, who is sitting next to his left elbow. The little boy briefly tilts his head to the left side towards his brother, and you know you've seen similar action in Wanda's characteristic mannerisms.

“No, I want to start it!”

"I want to start it!"

“But I want to start it!”

“I want to start it!”

“Why don't you both,” Wanda then promptly interferes with the small disagreement between the boys, increasing her mother's reproachful tone of voice a little, preventing, at the beginning, that the intrigue takes a somewhat bigger proportions, “Start it together?”

“Yeah,” you support her in a complacent tone of voice, “You two came up with the idea together, so the right thing would be to do it together too. Whatever it is, I mean.”

"Okay."

"Okay..."

The two of them mutter almost in almost defeated tune, fidgeting together on the couch. You think that they look cute while they're there, tiny and sitting like two baby rabbits.

"You ready?" Billy questions in a low voice, turning to the brother beside him.

“Yeah,” Tommy mussed back, nodding in agreement.

“Okay,” says Billy then, almost proudly, “Three, two, one, go.”

And then, you can barely contain a smirk when the boys, in different and discrepant voice tones, begin a silly chant in their thin children's voices. In the corner of your peripheral vision, you notice that Wanda also lets out an amorous smile, melting into a comfortable puddle of kindness, dying in love with her two singing little children sitting across from the two of you.

“We like ice cream like any child should,” they hum together, vocalizing playful tones as they proceed through the song's component words, “And if we get some ice cream, we pro-mise to be… good!”

Then they look towards the two of you, displaying expectant smiles written all over their childish faces. And you and Wanda exchange glances, and the smile she offers you is very similar to the one that graces the curve of Billy's lips.

"Nice try, smarty-pants, but you haven't even had dinner yet."

“But mama,” Tommy replies in a pleading tone of voice, “We really want ice cream!”

“Yes, we want ice cream!” exclaims Billy in agrément, "We can't wait!"

“Well, we can have dinner first, then ice cream. What do you guys think?" you offer them, your eyes darting towards Wanda's face, "But you need to have dinner first to grow to be strong and healthy, and ice cream is for dessert only. Right, mama?"

Wanda looks in your direction, and then smiles. And you smile back, because the situation is prone to do so. You, for the first time in so long, feel welcomed and hassle-free in the presence of others. The air inside the house is blissful and warm, so unlike your empty, disdainful apartment forgotten somewhere on the West Side of Midtown Manhattan. Wanda doesn't feel like your ex-wife right now – at least, that's not how she looks at you.

“Right,” her eyes flash pale green beams towards you “Let's have dinner first, mommy.”

ᗢ

You wake up in the middle of the night, but maybe you just haven't fallen asleep at all. The sheets that grace the bottom of your body are soft and comfortable, and the pajama set you wear is not your property. It's late in the course of the long night, and like so many that have passed before this one, you just know you wouldn't be able to rest your relaxation anytime soon.

How could you even do it? Perhaps you stayed longer than you realized detailing the gloomy ceiling of Wanda's guest room, counting in your mind as you scrutinized every passing second so that you still had control over something (time being something), so that you wouldn't go mad at being dismembered alive by each of your own inner demons.

If the beginning of the night was watered in jubilation and a serene comforting coziness on your part, the firstfruits of the dawn soon came to frustrate you in the form of intrusive thoughts quite harmful to your twisted mental health.

The torrential rain didn't stop anytime soon, and after having dinner with Wanda and the boys (in a very warm congregation, you were sitting at the table with your family, eating the same food as them and breathing the same oxygen, always supported by grins of pleasure as you chatted eagerly with each other), and the twins were slow to fall asleep after two generous mugs of chocolate mint ice cream each.

Your ex-wife insisted that you stay for the night after the two of you carried them upstairs and deposited them in their respective tidy beds, showering each of them with chaste kisses to the tops of their childish heads – Wanda's little staycation was long-forgotten by then. You let out a disturbed sigh, both palms of your hands polishing the length of the dull face of yours.

What the fuck, you think, what the fuck are you doing there? This may even be your family, but this is not your house. It's not your home. Not anymore. Reverberating through your insides you find the throttling need for a drag of a cigarette eating away at the bottom of your lungs like a harmful parasite sucking the life from its source, and then you get up to do it, because lying down feels like it consumes you from within in a profuse haze of bubbling anxiety that bursts from your stomach to your mouth, making you feel so weak inside.

It has always struck you as a somewhat ironic cynicism on the part of the universe that you, who are possessed of an impenetrable shell on the outside, suffer so much from the brittle fragility of your own interior – hard skin does nothing to protect a broken mind.

The lavender bedclothes had begun to tighten the muscle in your neck after a while, and in the room just down the hall, you assume Wanda sleeps comfortably cuddling in her bed. When searching inside the single pocket of your hoodie, the well-folded garment on top of a plain desk in the corner of the room, soaked in the darkness of the shadowy environment, the absconse pack of cigarettes from a brand that you are quite familiar with, that keeps you company in the acrimonious moments of solitude, you take a single cylindrical unit towards the spaces open to your drooping mouth and then you find the cold lighter with your fingertips, leaving for the entrance door of the room offered to you by your ex-wife.

After descending the stairs, stepping one step at a time with your bare feet, you are surprised that the door leading to the backyard is already open before you are even there, and the cold night wind has blown inside the house like a curious, invisible animal, installing an icy feeling of dysphoria within the broad walls.

But before you could search with your watchful eye for some intruder who went beyond the icy specter of the night, in avid state of alert, you notice an apollonian silhouette hunched outside, sitting on the step outside the door, with a long waterfall of soft hair in the color of a raven's down running halfway down her spine.

The restlessness that weighed heavily on your shoulders eased as the familiar full-bodied scent of hibiscus tea mixed with the sweetness of a mild strawberry shampoo slithered into your nostrils and filled your lungs thirsty for smoke and tobacco. As you approach, you see that Wanda, wearing a sheer silk robe over a red nightgown, is accompanied by a large cup that exhales small clouds of steam, with the tiny bundle that carries the tea herbs submerged into the hot water inside the dark container.

"You really have loud thoughts," Wanda's small, soft voice ripples through the air and then hugs your body as your ex-wife turns toward you with a lingering slowness that, to you, is as familiar as the taste of your unsmoked cigarette.

Her eyes glow an intoxicating green hue amid the darkness of the night, only supported by the silver light of the moonlight coming from outside the residence. You feel like a frog being studied on a silver platter in some high school biology class.

Wanda's diligent gaze always seemed to be able to penetrate through the cracks of your soul – she always understood you as if she were an expert when dealing with any subject concerning you. You let out an uneasy sigh, oddly scratching the inside of your throat as you do.

"Sorry if I woke you up, it wasn't... it wasn't my... intention."

“It’s okay,” she mumbles serenely over a sip of hot tea, the pulp of her nacarine lips being moistened by the hot liquid she's ingested, “I still haven't been able to sleep anyway.”

And it's no surprise to you, because you slept and woke up next to this woman for several of the component years of your life span, and it was always well known to you that Wanda is a woman quite affected by long sleepless nights, not being able to afford to actually close her eyes and be fortunate enough to have a good night's sleep.

Countless were the nights turned to morning dawns, when you both resided under the same roof in the compound back at the Avengers Tower, so many years before you were there, standing in the middle of her kitchen, silently watching her perform the simple act of drinking tea at her backyard door.

“Still having trouble sleeping?”

“Once in a while,” Wanda answers you, and with her eyes she indicates the empty space next to her right elbow so you can sit there, “Sometimes I need to relearn how to sleep all by myself. And... It's not easy, when I’m under the same roof as you again.”

Without saying a word, you cross the entire length of the kitchen, passing by the island and the marble sink, to be seated on the marble step that freezes your warm skin, next to the woman who smells of hibiscus with strawberries and deep scarlet tones.

Her eyes recognize the figure of the unsmoked cigarette between your fingers, unlit and forgotten like the insignificant little rolled-up tobacco paper that it is, and then she looks toward the profile of your silhouette, blinking once with her thick eyelashes as she does so.

“You start smoking again?”

“Yeah, it's been a while, actually. A couple of years to be honest. Not that I'm proud of it, but,” your gaze shifts to the small cylinder, turning it between the digits of your index and middle fingers of your tender right hand, “This little shit here helps me calm down, I guess. Or at least I like to think so. I don’t know."

Silence touches both of you shoulders, and there is a moment for Wanda to sip more of the tea that has spilled into her cup. When the drink is gone, then all the way into her stomach, she places the container on the floor, close to her left ankle like a tame kitten, safe from her company. You are still hesitating in the uncertainty of whether or not to light up that damned tempting cigarette.

“Earlier today,” she begins, immediately drawing your attention to her pretty face, and you're met with her pink lip as she clamps her upper teeth over the contour of her wet mouth.

“You and me and the boys... it was good. They like having you around. And I... I like it too, Y/n. It felt right.”

She hums in the sigh of the night. You feel a crackling feeling swelling inside your swollen chest, but you don't say anything in sequence, because it's Wanda who continues to talk in her silver moonlight monologue.

“I had forgotten what it was like to feel like this. Me and you acting like family with the boys the way we’re supposed to be. And it's good, Y/n. It’s… really good. I missed that, you. I missed you.”

You choke relatively. For Wanda, a heartbeat rumbled in her ears. And then she looks at you, and you look at her.

And suddenly, you don't want to light that cigarette anymore – because she leans her chin forward, leaning her head towards you, and you do the same when your body cries out for her, lips colliding in midair like the consolidation of a wish, a scarlet fever supernova bursting within your own chest.

And then, the full-bodied freshness of hibiscus darts into the half-open breach in the gap between your lips, pressing a velvety tongue against the slit between your teeth, discharging into your mouth a red-sour-sweet flavor, definitely good though, but rougher than usual as the two of you now share a needy, somewhat sloppy, even animalistic kiss.

Even if there is indeed a need on Wanda's part, and you just need someone to scare you away from the evil inside your head. Your ex-wife, in a thoughtless act, dives with her clever hands into the thin fabric of the tank top that clothes your impenetrable skin, grabbing the sides of your waist in a needy way, as if all she wanted at that moment was to feel you, as if her entire existence existed based on physically feeling you snuggled into her icy body.

She blinks, consenting to the overflow of her feelings, enraptured by the image of your cheeks burning and your chest heaving. And she does what she thinks is right to do, which seems to be the only option possible in this small moment of affection and dedication, filled with an ember that if she could name it, she would call it love - because she knows she love you, even if she didn't say it out loud yet. You are the love of her life, and she is the love of yours.

Wanda then hurls herself even farther forward, a nymph figure smitten with idolatry, and takes her prize, pressing the commission of her red lips against the outlined mouth with the flavor of melancholy that could belong to none other than you, so exotic, and never the same.

You feel the smart hands rest at the end of your spine with an almost practiced disregard, seeking nothing but feeling at first, far from the lascivious idea of consolidating the carnal act. Wanda just wants to feel you close, all to herself, comfortable in her grip. Between a set of pink lips, a tongue is present, and this tongue curls up in another in a not hasty and exaggerated way. It's elegant. It's careful. It is harmonious.

But a slow kiss unravels, and Wanda holds her breath and returns in search of more of her favorite flavor to keep in her mouth, only to be promptly reciprocated by a devoted you, a soft nostalgic familiarity edging your silhouettes connected by the lips beneath a star-studded sky, with an absorbed perfection that no one else but the two of you would be able to achieve.

Up and down, side and side; surrounded by genuine attunement, lips moved carefully, following an invisible line that dictates your not so reckless actions. A waltz of delicate, tangible lips that still fit together so perfectly, so neatly, that you might as well cry.

But the pacified kiss soon takes the form of a fervent kiss as you pant hot against your ex-wife's lips, and the fervent kiss becomes little kisses sprinkled around her neck that soon dissolve into a hollow moan, into a world where there didn't seem to be any more worries as long as you were in each other's arms.

In her own time, Wanda drags her teeth along the lower lip of your mouth, which groans deeply in response with a tingling in your throat, a tiny fraction of time passing until, like a buzz, quick, rough lips take refuge again in a tongue inside your mouth, and you feel an icy hand grasp your breast in a primitive way.

Clever fingers, soaked in crimson, traveled to your scalp, and a light mouth caresses yet another moan of yours. In a heartbeat, Wanda swings a leg over your knees and sits right on top of your lap, grabbing your wrists to put your hands around her waist.

“Please,” she cries against your lips, “Please, Y/n, touch me. Make me feel you again.”

The feeling is familiar. Toxically familiar. It is the red invading your senses, intoxicating you with dense doses of scarlet. You know very well that, even before the enticements of alcohol and cigarettes, your primary vice has always been the crimson sweetness of Wanda's body. And, well… you're not known for being resistant to the temptations of your addictions.

ᗢ

A crimson marble glow glistening under the palms of both your hands. Sweat glistened in the hollow of your groin across your burning hips. Wanda riding on your lap, naked as a Renaissance painting displayed in the dim light of a museum, her chest heavy like a marathon runner. The long, thick length of the red strap brushed against a specific spot on her inner walls that made her delirious and increasingly pivot her hips toward you, seeking more, brushing against each other like two animals in heat.

There was nothing rational in that animalistic act. The symphony in the room was that of skin beating wet against skin; of her lascivious wetness voraciously swallowing your cock.

You could see it from the single, retracted drop of sweat that poured into the valley between her own swollen breasts, the two mounds swaying just before your lascivious eyes; a delight modulated to your stormy gaze, profuse as sea water, which clouded your young girlfriend's body with a predatory look, immersed in illicit labor.

Your insides tingled in a white-hot tingle, both clits sliding through the material of the strap, the insides of your thighs strong and wet against Wanda's pulsing center.

Her tight pussy pressing against the erect silicone phallus between your legs, the red of the material buffed with the sticky juices from inside of her. That was her bed, her sheets wet beneath your sweaty bodies, the walls of her room reverberating the pornographic grunts and moans from deep in her throat.

“F-fuck-!” she clenched her teeth, her nails lacquered with black nail polish carving red paths in the muscles of your back, “Y/n, fuck, right there, ah-!”

Her thick Sokovian accent spilled into your ears, and something primal and cavernous rumbled inside you, like a spark that explodes in a raging fire. You wanted to own her. You wanted to consume her.

You wanted to eat her alive; fuck her until the mold of your strap was forever etched into the walls of her greedy cunt, which was increasingly squeezing the silicone phallus, a delicious pressure forming a red knot just below her belly button.

“Ah-! Ah-!, pozhaluysta, pozhaluysta-!” she gasped in her native dialect, loud and clear against your ear as you fucked her as hard as possible “Trakhni menya... ya pochti u tseli, ya po-pochti u tseli... Ugh, dorogaya!”

“Fuck, are you close?”

“M-mhmm! ” she kind of moaned, both eyes squinted two lewd lines “Please don't stop, don't stop Y/n, ah-!”

The scream was loud as you dropped her suddenly onto the sheets, her sweaty back slamming against the thick material of the mattress, her dark hair spilling across the pale material of the pillow.

You slipped your hands between the folds of both her knees and brought her lower back close, barely giving her time to miss your strap inside her dripping cunt before guiding the red material between her sticky folds, resuming the vigorous action of fucking your way against her cervix.

Your strong hand pressed itself (as did the bone of your jaw) against the upholstered headboard, and there a rip was deferred by your own touch – as it had done to a plucked pillow, and a lampshade shattered to the ground.

The lamp above your heads flashed white. Wanda's eyes glowed a profuse scarlet that swallowed the moss green of her irises, the darkening of her dilated pupils making her eyes look like two bottomless wells of lust. You buried your face against the beam of sweaty skin that joined her neck to her collarbone, and placed a generous, savage bite there.

“Fuck- I’m gonna cum, I'm gonna– fuck! Y/n! Oh, fuck!” she decreed, panting against your bare neck, pressing her fingers against your buttocks in an incitement to the act they so indomitably committed.

“Come for me Wanda,” you murmured against her ear, “Come on my cock, pretty girl, make a mess for me. I wanna hear you fucking scream my name.”

The bed hit the wall again. And again. And again. You didn't stop at the first orgasm. Nor in the second. Nor on the third. Until you abandoned her in the middle of the night.

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kirythestitchwitch · 7 months

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assassin!Klaus/fence!Caroline au - Girl, buy a clue: he is flirting!

He was taking too long. Caroline did her best not to fidget, a bad tell at the best of times, but he brought it out in her. His careful hands–hands that could have belonged to a musician or maybe a sculptor–kept touching things and despite the gloves he wore, she would have to take a Lysol wipe to the knives after he left.

That was hardly a logical response but Klaus Mikaelson brought that out in her.

Sliding a knife from the velvet cloth they were kept rolled in when tucked out of sight, Klaus tested the weight of it in his hand. “You always have such an eye for a well-crafted blade.” The blue of his eyes was warm as he looked at her sidelong across the knife. “I appreciate you opening your private stock to me on such short notice.”

Caroline crossed her arms. “Well, you did promise to make it worth my while. Where’s this chip?” She made her voice sound skeptical out of habit. Annoyingly, Klaus had always come through on a promise, and he wasn’t likely to start being flaky now.

A sly little smile lingered around his mouth as he slid two fingers into an inner pocket of his casual yet stylish coat and pulled on the ends of a loop of bright blue ribbon. Soon a necklace slipped free and Klaus held it out towards her, like a temptation. Caroline hesitated a moment, then put out her hand for him to drop the necklace into. It pooled in her hand, slightly warm from being next to his skin, ribbon a satin tease against her fingers.

It was a locket, blue and white enamel forget-me-nots on the lid studded with tiny diamonds. The ribbon ended in a necklace clasp. Victorian, excellently cared for, and worth a pretty penny all on its own, the necklace shown in the lights of her cozy outer showroom. She could think of several buyers in the jewelry market who would coo over this, despite the lack of original chain.

“It’s very pretty,” she allowed, prying it open to reveal a Micro SD card inside where a picture probably once resided. Gingerly, she plucked it out of the necklace. “Are you looking to sell it?” Snapping it closed, Caroline wiggled it in her hand, yes or no.

“Sell? No. It’s a bit of a momento, you see.” Klaus set the knife back down on the velvet.

“Pity.” With an underhand throw, she tossed the locket back to him, and he predictably snatched it out of the air. From behind the counter she stood behind, she pulled out a tablet and pressed the SD card into a slot in the side. Tapping her finger on the screen, she opened up the password prompt from the predictably encrypted chip.

“Don’t suppose you’ll give me the password?” She joked, starting to turn the tablet towards him.

“Caroline,” he said simply, and she paused, waiting. After a moment, he clarified. “That’s the password. ‘Caroline.’”

She stared at him for a moment, face turning inexplicably rosey. “That’s a terrible password. Someone could brute-force hack that in like five minutes.”

Klaus looked extremely amused at this. “They’d have to take it off my person first, and after you kill the first dozen professional pickpockets, the rest tend to get the message. Still, there is the occasional stupid young one.”

Caroline shot him an appalled look as she turned the tablet back around to face her. “Please tell me you aren’t killing every teenager that tries to pickpocket you on the subway?” The mayor would have to declare another Son of Sam.

He shrugged unconcernedly. “A broken wrist seems to suffice as a deterrent,” he replied, as if he and that Ducati he had parked in the alleyway outside her showroom had any passing acquaintance with the subway. You probably couldn’t open her up in the city–although something told her that Klaus didn’t give much of a damn about speed limits–but maybe he got out of the city and let her go on the highways out of New York. She absolutely, positively, did not wish he would take her with him and let her feel that wind in her hair, nope.

Having those types of thoughts–or any others about Klaus–were off-limits. He was a client, nothing more.

#he's obvious right like my man is trying so hard right?#Caroline he is angling for a date so bad he is just trying not to cross your lines #kiry;literally notorious for happy endings: he's a client nothing more teehee #anyways WHO WANTS TO HIDE A DEAD BODY WITH KLAUS AND CAROLINE?#FUN TIMES #klaroline wip wed #tvd for ts #klaroline for ts #i'm sorry i haven't been participating #i'm currently WAY undermedicated and my brain don't work #so i haven't been writing much

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hetakinkmemeblog · 11 months

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For Request #78 Sorry if it ends a little abruptly, I wasn't sure how to end it.

By now, Kiku knew what Alfred would be buying. The corner store was halfway between campus and his apartment, so every day at 10:00 AM, he bought a 32 oz cup of coffee that was more sugar than caffeine, a cake donut, and Takis. Every afternoon, he swung by again for bacon jerky and a can of Dr. Pepper.

He was 6’2” of all-American beef with a healthy amount of fat emphasizing the muscles he’d gained from football, lacrosse, and wrestling. Over time, Kiku had learned that Alfred was on a football scholarship and was majoring in physics and secondary education. He learned that Alfred had broken up with his boyfriend a few months ago but wasn’t looking for anything serious right now, much to Kiku’s disappointment.

“Thanks, dude!” Alfred said as he took his change. “I’m going camping with some of the guys this weekend, so see you Monday!”

Kiku smiled as he handed Alfred his receipt, their fingers brushing. “See you Monday. Have fun!”

“Maybe if Mat remembers to bring enough marshmallows. See ya!” He left with his bacon jerky and Dr. Pepper, and Kiku swallowed a sigh as the next customer came up with chips and a case of beer.

Fridays got pretty busy, but after the afternoon rush started winding down, Kiku found himself thinking about Alfred again. He tried to distract himself with cleaning the counter or restocking the condiments for the store’s barely edible hotdogs and sausages.

Yet, Kiku’s mind kept returning to Alfred, picturing him half-naked in front of a campfire, of him stripping to dive into the lake with only the night and dark water to cover him. Kiku imagined himself with him, Alfred’s strong arms around him, of him pushing Kiku against the dock—

The bell on the door rang, and Kiku blinked hard and swore, almost dropping the chip bags he was stocking. There was a twinge in his slacks, and Kiku flushed and did his best to turn his thoughts away. He wasn’t about to deal with getting a hard-on at work!

He hurried behind the counter as an older man shuffled in, back slightly hunched and lines around his bright green eyes. There were equal amounts of gray and blonde hair poking out from underneath his black hat, and patchy stubble showed that he hadn’t shaved in a few days.

“Sorry for this,” the man said, almost a mumble, and Kiku braced himself.

It wasn’t uncommon for people to come in, wanting more than what they could afford. Kiku’s manager said his heart was too soft and that some of these guys were probably swindling him. Still, Kiku didn’t like the idea of turning people away just in case one of them might.

“Yes?” he asked politely, trying to smile. He was calming down, dick soft again.

“I haven’t been able to eat all day, but this is all I’ve been able to find…” The man’s spidery fingers released crumpled bills and a mess of coins on the counter, several of the coins not even US currency.

Most were pennies, and a few of the dollar bills weren’t ones he could take, due to tears or Washington sporting a Sharpie beard and eyebrows. Out of what the old man had, only $3.43 was what Kiku could take. There wasn’t a whole lot that the old man could get with that—a hotdog or tamale and a soda maybe. A water instead of soda if Kiku was willing to pretend to mistake a few of the pesos and loonies as US coins.

The man’s hands were shaking, and he was pale, making the freckles on his sallow cheeks and sagging neck stand out. Even his lips were pale, even chapped.

“Pick out what you’d like,” Kiku found himself saying, piling the money into neat piles. “I’ll pay.”

“Oh, no, young man—”

“I insist,” Kiku said firmly. “Please, go ahead.”

“Thank you, thank you,” the old man said. “You’re such a kind soul. You deserve much more than this sort of place.” He pulled something out of his coat pocket, reaching out, and Kiku hesitated but held out his hand. The old man set something cold and round into his palm, his gaze intense as he stared into Kiku’s eyes. “Now don’t waste this wish on anything frivolous, and word it well. Spirits enjoy having fun.”

“Th-thank you,” Kiku said, unsure of what else to say. The old man kept his gaze. “I’ll make sure to give it thought.”

The old man finally nodded and went to find some food. Meanwhile, Kiku looked at what was in his hand. It was a pewter coin, little dents showing someone had hammered the metal down by hand. Some kind of symbols were etched into both sides, the symbols looking like something he’d see in the manga Umineko no Naku Koro ni. He slipped the coin into his pocket, and he prepared his card, running it and giving the old man his money back as he punched in what he’d gotten.

“That’s all?” Kiku asked, looking at the sausage in a pretzel bun, piled with relish and onions, the large bag of salt and vinegar chips, and the 32 oz to-go cup of drip coffee—not the sugary “espresso drinks” they had—with a bit of cream, the old man mixing in some sugar.

“I prefer tea, but coffee tastes more passable when it cools down, and I need it to last me as I travel. The trains are north of here, yes?”

“Yes, sir,” Kiku answered. “Once you pass the skate park, there should be a trail through the grass leading straight there. I’d watch for police after the sun sets, though. Some of them like to hang out there, looking for people hoping to jump onto the cars.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, thank you.” The man took his items, putting the chips into his backpack. “Thank you again, young man, and I hope you make your wish with care.”

“I will,” Kiku promised, though it wasn’t long before he forgot about the coin in his pocket.

Sunday night, Kiku was tossing the clothes littering his floor into his hamper to do laundry. In his rush to beat the rush to the laundromat in the basement of the apartment building, Kiku heard a heavy thump. He jumped and looked down, seeing a pewter disk the size of one of those old silver dollars. His brow wrinkled, but then he remembered the old man from Friday afternoon.

Kiku slipped the coin into his shorts pocket and finished grabbing all his dirty clothes and brought them downstairs with detergent and dryer sheets. He threw in everything into the last machine available, not caring about sorting by color. He wore mostly black or earth tones. He didn’t see any reason to sort them. While waiting for his clothes to wash, Kiku took out his phone. He tried looking up what the symbols on the coin were, but while he found some that looked similar, he couldn’t find anything that matched them exactly.

Kiku fiddled with the coin as he went onto Instagram, going straight to Alfred’s account. He scrolled carefully, not wanting to accidentally like one of his posts. It looked like he’d returned from the camping trip—or found Wi-Fi—recently. The past several posts were of him with some of his teammates, Kiku rolling his eyes at one of the pictures of Alfred posing with a fish he’d caught. He was shirtless in it, at least, Kiku almost groaning at the barbed wire tattooed around his bicep, words above and below it. Kiku was willing to bet his paycheck it was a Bible verse.

Alfred was lucky he was hot.

As Kiku fiddled with the coin, he scrolled and scrolled, finding his mind wandering and his dick stirring. I wish I could feel him fucking me every night.

“Shit,” Kiku grunted, the coin falling to the ground as he barely managed to catch his phone before it landed on top of it. He could not afford to get a new one right now if he broke this one. “What the hell?”

His fingers looked blistered where he’d held the coin, and his brow wrinkled as he bent down and tapped it a few times before picking it up again. If not for his blisters, he’d swear it was his imagination.

Kiku forgot all about the burns and coin when he woke up his phone and realized that he’d accidentally liked one of Alfred’s posts from three months ago. Shit!

That night, Kiku dreamed he was being pushed against his bed as his ass was pulled up in the air. His fingers dug into the sheets as someone sheathed into him, making Kiku grunt and swear as he felt the muscle stretch painfully at first. Without waiting for him to get comfortable, the person Kiku couldn’t see started thrusting in and out, shallowly at first. He changed angle every so often, and Kiku gasped out each breath as a line of his drool hit the pillow.

He woke up as he came into his sheets, swearing under his breath, both from the feeling and also in annoyance. He’d just cleaned these!

Only, when Kiku started to get up, he became aware of the stretched feeling parting his ass cheeks, and he blinked slowly. Confused, he started to sit up when he suddenly felt that phantom thrusting again, Kiku seeing that it wasn’t just a dream. The thrusts were harder this time, almost frustrated. The invisible cock slammed into him again and again, and Kiku slammed his pillow against his face as he came again, shaking.

Still, the thrusting didn’t stop, Kiku whimpering now. He was sore, but he was sore in the best way as he fell back again, legs up like he was ready to take this phantom cock again. He slowly grew hard again, but right before he could cum a third time, the thrusting finally stopped, and Kiku pulled the pillow over his face again, this time to groan in his own frustration. His dick felt too sensitive after coming twice for him to jerk himself off, so Kiku was forced to deal with the discomfort of his erection as he switched out his sheets. He was soft again by the time he fell back asleep.

“Welcome back,” Kiku said as Alfred entered. “Have fun?”

“Sure did!” Alfred got his usual breakfast. “It was awesome. Loads of fun. I hope you didn’t miss me too bad.”

He grinned, and Kiku cleared his throat as he blushed. He must have noticed Kiku liking that post from three months ago. Kiku’s account was private, but he used a selfie as his pfp. He should have changed it back Miku.

“It was quieter,” Kiku replied, hoping his voice was even. He smiled when Alfred laughed.

“I bet. Welp, back to the grind, right? See you later, Kiku!” Alfred left, and Kiku sipped iced tea to wet his mouth, which had become suddenly dry.

That night, the phantom thrusting happened again, waking Kiku up right before he came, this time into a towel—just in case. He came again before fully waking up, Kiku biting his pillow as his fingers dug into the sheets.

Three streets away, Alfred pumped himself with his new fleshlight, the silicone matching the asshole of some porn star Alfred had never heard of—he’d only gotten this one because all the other butthole ones were sold out on the sight. The fit felt nicer than the vagina-shaped one he’d used before, and the mouth-shaped ones always just looked too weird. Looking at the silicone lips would make him get too distracted to keep from cumming.

He was still getting used to using one in general, Alfred still figuring out angles and speed to get himself off. It felt nicer than his own hand, but Alfred really wished it was a real ass he was plowing. Maybe that cute cashier’s. Alfred had been wanting to ask him out for a while, but he felt weird about it, when Kiku was working. He didn’t want to come off as harassing him or anything! But he’d never seen Kiku on campus and didn’t know where he lived or hung out, so it wasn’t like he could “accidentally” bump into him at his favorite café or store. When he saw that he’d liked one of his posts, Alfred thought maybe he’d hit the jackpot—why hadn’t he thought about trying to find his socials before?!—but Kiku’s profile was private. Of course it was. And Alfred worried sending a follow request would make him come off as creepy.

Thinking of Kiku lying on his bed, face cutely flush and dick hard, Alfred jerked off.

Back in Kiku’s room, he curled up, closing his eyes and trying to pretend that it was Alfred fucking him as he rode out the phantom cock. He was getting hard again, and sweat was breaking out down his neck and along his forehead. He bit down on his pillow hard as he came again, shivering as he slowly came down from the high of orgasm, becoming aware that the thrusting had finally stopped. He sighed and pushed the towel away, too tired to clean it off before the cum hardened.

The next night, the thrusting came back while Kiku was showering after working late. He’d agreed to take half a coworker’s shift while Toris took the other half, and his body was killing him.

“Again?” he huffed, leaning against the mildewy tile as he felt the huge, phantom cock moving in and out of him.

Kiku jerked himself off at the same time, wondering if it would make the feeling pass faster.

It stopped abruptly a minute later, Kiku biting back a groan as he kept jerking himself off until he came and was able to finish showering.

The next night was a much different feeling, Kiku writhing around in his bed and knocking down his towel, blankets, and pillows. He grunted and groaned, feeling as if fingers were digging into him. He then felt water rush into his anus despite his body remaining totally dry. Kiku bit into his arm to keep from making whatever feral noise was bubbling up his throat. He soon tasted something metallic and realized he’d broken skin, and he became aware of feeling something like a microfiber cloth rubbing around inside of him. Oh, God, what was happening?

After another rinse, it was over, and Kiku gasped and sputtered, shaking as he stared up at his popcorn ceiling. God that had felt weird. What was that?!

Filled Request

Request #78

AmeriPan Magic Onahole AU

Kiku works part-time at a 24-hour corner store. He has a major crush on one of the regular customers, Alfred. Late one evening, while commuting home, he is approached by an eccentric stranger.

They appear homeless and offer to grant Kiku a wish for some change. He doesn't believe in magic or the like, but he takes pity on them and gives them what he has to spare. Kiku has some lude desires and wishes to be fucked by Alfred.

That night, Kiku is startled awake. Bizarrely, it feels like he is being penetrated from behind. However, upon inspection, he finds nobody is around and is phantom rammed until dawn.

It turns out the stranger granted his wish. Alfred's fleshlight is now a voodoo doll. Every time it is used, Kiku experiences everything.

What a predicament.

#hws a/merica #hws j/apan #amepan #filled prompts #request 078 #hetalia kink meme

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microcapsblog · 2 years

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Penny stocks are traded at a low market price and have a very low market capitalization. These stocks have low liquidity, are highly speculative, and do not require much financial investment. Before investing in the best penny stocks to buy now, an investor should be aware of several key factors that affect how these stocks are traded.

#best penny stocks to buy now #penny stocks to buy now

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bestpennystocks · 5 months

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aceinvestors · 2 years

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The idea of "buying the dip" simply means purchasing a stock (or any asset) after the price has dropped, with the hope that over time, the price will rise again and your assets will increase in value. Buying at dip in the stock market proves to be a successful strategy for long term investors who wants to hold the quality stocks at right price. Warren Buffett is one of the many success stories of averaging. The basis of this strategy is that the market recovers over a period of time.

#penny Stock #Dividend Stcok #stock market #penny stock market #penny stocks to buy #penny stocks to buy now #best penny stocks to buy #penny share to buy

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crinkled-emotions · 5 months

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Day 2: A falling asleep on B's shoulder... it's Midday

Here we go, day 2!

No content warnings for this fic, this is a fluff prompt fill!

A little Bobster for your Saturday morning 😎

“Payback! Here!”

The football whizzed past Bob’s face, narrowly avoiding knocking his glasses on to the sand. When he whipped around the ball was in Coyote’s arms and he was surging toward the touchdown line, dodging Phoenix’s nimble form but the spear tackle from Hangman ended what was looking like a win for his team.

“Ow! Seresin don’t bite me!”

“I didn’t bite you! It was more like a... nibble.”

“Well don’t do that either, asshole!”

The two continued to wrestle in the sand; Coyote got a knee on Hangman’s stomach and grabbed the ball only to throw it to Rooster. Bob watched as he got the touchdown whilst Payback and Fanboy decided that was the perfect time to drag him into a dogpile on Hangman. Bob and Phoenix laughed, glancing over their shoulders at Maverick who was taking photos. They’d probably go up on the hangar wall soon; all of their TOPGUN graduation photos from prior to the Dagger mission had made their way there alongside Rooster’s eventually. Hangman may have shed a tear; no one mentioned it when Rooster hugged him.

“Bobby, Tasha! C’mon, we’re going to dump sand all over Penny’s floors and drink cheap beer.”

Rooster was doing his best impression of a wet dog; curls all over the place, covered in sand after stacks on and beaming. Bob rolled his eyes, used to the team causing chaos everywhere they went. Penny had given up on complaining about the sand in her bar; she simply handed Rooster a broom at the end of the night with a pat on his shoulder. Payback, Fanboy and Hangman had managed to rope Coyote into buying drinks judging by the look on their faces and the way he shook his head as he reached for his shirt. Phoenix jogged to catch up with them, leaving Bob and Rooster together.

“You hungry? I feel like fries.”

Bob laughed, bumping shoulders with him on their walk up. He was kind of used to hanging out with Rooster and Phoenix simultaneously, but Rooster on his own was... different. Turns out they had a lot in common (other than the crippling anxiety, obviously) (they both like shitty late night TV).

The Hard Deck wasn’t actually open yet, considering it was barely 11am, and the cheap beer Rooster had been thinking about was replaced by cans of Coke and baskets of fries for lunch when they realised it was still quite early in the day. Between the eight of them (including Maverick), Penny complained that they were going to clear her stock of fries before she could even open for the night considering they’d been on the beach since eight. Now that she was preparing to open for the night, the Daggers had helped her clean up, paid their tab and were now splitting up for the rest of their weekend off. Hangman and Coyote were apparently going fishing; Payback, Fanboy and Phoenix were going on a hike... Bob and Rooster had been invited but Bob wanted to stay out of the San Diego heat and Rooster just said he wasn’t interested. In the parking lot Rooster got his attention, gesturing to his Bronco. Bob got the idea, jumping into the passenger seat. When the coast was clear, Rooster leaned over and kissed him.

“I have been waiting to do that all morning,” he grinned. Bob snorted.

“I can tell.”

“So, I have an idea; my sofa, the air conditioning, and The Last of Us.”

“Or... I could go fishing with Bagman and Coyote-“

Rooster’s eyebrow shot up and Bob laughed when he stopped backing out of his parking space.

“Baby... I’m hurt.”

“You’re fine.”

Bob put his hand on his thigh, giving it a squeeze. That seemed to be enough for Rooster.

The tiny bungalow Carole had purchased all those years ago and Bradley had paid off recently was still as inviting as ever; the Daggers remained completely unaware but Bob spent more time there than he did at his own apartment. It was currently going through a refit; the room Bradley had grown up in had become a study, and the master bedroom was currently in the middle of being repainted. Bob was convinced it was taking a little longer because Bradley kept feeling guilty; his mom lived in that yellow room for almost twenty years, but then she died. Now, the yellow walls that had seemed light and bright in his childhood were being painted back to a neutral white.

Following Bradley into the living room, Bob was surprised to find a new couch and coffee table where that old brown fabric one used to be.

“That’s new,” he commented as Bradley disappeared into the kitchen.

“Oh, yeah, I thought it was probably time. I already fixed up in here; it converts into a bed too for when Tasha stays over.”

Flopping on to said couch, Bob was surprised how easily he melted into the leather. It was soft under his fingers, but not the type to get sweaty in the hot summer air. The air conditioning was already on, and when Bradley reappeared he was carrying two bottles of water and a bag of chips.

“You just ate your weight in fries,” Bob said. Rooster grinned.

“So?”

He landed on the couch beside Bob, kicking his feet up on the coffee table and reaching for the TV remote. Bob leaned into his side, reaching up to kiss Bradley’s temple.

“No comment.”

“I’m telling Phoenix.”

“You wouldn’t.”

Silence. A pause. Then, Bob grinned.

“I dare you.”

Brown eyes met blue.

“Maybe not.”

Rooster reached into his pocket and grabbed his phone. Once it was off he switched on the TV, shoulders relaxing the more he flicked through streaming services and then live TV. Despite the chaotic start to the day on the beach with their friends, Bob found his eyes starting to close. With Bradley beside him, the gentle hum of the air conditioning and whatever sport had caught Bradley’s attention playing in the background, a nap was sounding like a great idea.

“Hey, Bobby, would it be okay for me to tell Mav about us in the new year- Bob? Babe?”

When his casual comment didn’t get a response, Rooster glanced down at his shoulder to find Bob asleep there, soft breaths into his shirt with his glasses falling down his nose. Bradley smiled to himself, stomach warm with affection as he took Bob’s glasses off for him and rearranged them on the couch so he wouldn’t get a cramp in his neck from the bad nap position.

“You’re right; he probably already knows. Wonder if he knows Hangman’s a biter too.”

No response.

“Bob, you’re full of common sense today; it’s probably in his service file.”

Despite it only being just past midday, Rooster’s eyes were closing too.

#Top Gun: Maverick #Top Gun Maverick #TGM #Bradley Rooster Bradshaw #Bradley Bradshaw #Rooster Callsign: Rooster #Robert Bob Floyd #Robert Floyd #Bob #Callsign: Bob #fluff #G's Dec 2023 Prompts!

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rmhashauthor · 7 months

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hey!! this is chance and here’s week 5’s prompt. your oc suddenly gets transported to a mall. what store(s) would they go in? would they buy anything? what would they think? tell me about the experience.

Mmm interesting.

I'll be referring to my OC Lienfang, from the book I am currently releasing serially on Wattpad: The Dragon Prince's Consort.

Fang grew up extremely poor. Her parents did their best, but when her mother got hurt working in construction the company decided to terminate her instead of pay out the worker's comp. Her father got sick and through some underhanded bureaucratic nonsense the Federation denied him insurance benefits, so he slowly wasted away and died. Eventually Fang's mother also passed, leaving Fang alone and burdened with her parents' debt, which she tried to work off for years with no success. She just fell deeper and deeper into the pit, occasionally homeless and eventually moving to the Drassian Empire to try to start over, where she gets into trouble with a certain extremely wealthy young fella whose older brother is a complete dick.

Now that she's with Valen, the titular Dragon Prince, she's loaded. Just SOME of her clothes are worth millions, which Valen made sure of in the event that he can release her from her contract - that way she'll have more than enough stuff she can pawn for cash with plenty left over.

Before, Fang would have just gone into a mall to look around and maybe get warm. She might have had a few coins in her pocket, but probably not enough to buy a pack of gum, let alone food that isn't compressed protein rations and vitamin tablets. Now that she's Valen's concubine, though, there's literally NOTHING she can't afford to buy at least a hundred of. In the novel (I really need to get used to calling my 'stories' novels) Valen takes her to the highest of the high-end shopping avenues and takes her first to a master robe-maker and proceeds to spend about six million on Fang's wardrobe. To start. Gowns, stockings, leggings, tunics, riding kit, boots, underwear - he blows through cash like there's no end to it and Fang's head spins when he makes a guess at how much it all cost.

After that he takes her to a dozen other shops to buy her jewelry, shoes, combs, pins, soaps, creams, cosmetics, anything and everything a prince's concubine is expected to have and then some. It's so much stuff that it has to get shipped back to the palace compound (which by the way is the interior of a friggin' mountain, because DRAGONS) and an army of servants have to unpack it and put it all away. Fang is overwhelmed by the estimated price, though she accepts that in order to pull off the scheme she's cooked up with Valen she'll have to act like she deserves all of it. At the same time, it's not so hard to grow accustomed to warm socks that don't have holes in them, gowns and robes that fit properly and aren't patched dozens of times, and shoes that aren't so thin she can step on a penny and tell you what year it was minted.

It's only when the newness wears off the clothes and jewels that Fang starts wising up to the idea that it's not so much the stuff she enjoys or the comforts they bring, it's Valen's attention and apparent enjoyment of giving her things she's never had before. Brand-new shoes that no one else has ever worn? They're hers now. Silk and satin gowns trimmed with fur and silver thread? Made custom to fit her and only her. Rouge and makeup in colors Drass don't wear? Specially ordered for Fang. Valen's beyond wealthy - his dad's the goddamn Dragon Emperor - he can afford to spend 10-15 million on his new "girlfriend".

I figure lots of people have a princess fantasy, or at least a sugar daddy kink. I don't judge.

The Dragon Prince's Consort updates THURSDAYS on Wattpad, and it as well as my finished novel STARFISH are available to read absolutely for FREE because why not.

HOWEVER, if you do happen to have a dollar to spare, I also have a Ko-fi. I don't expect to make money off of these but it sure would be nice if I could afford some toast or a piece of cheese. *GASP* or a grilled cheese sandwich?!

You can follow me on Instagram for updates and short-form junk like mini-rants on romance tropes I love or hate, update announcements, very short snippets, dorky memes and pictures of my cat Nell. She is EXTREMELY cute and I love her VERY much, even if she is a brat 78% of the time.

#fiction #scifi romance #author #book blog #booklr #authors #romance #creative writing #writeblr #writers on tumblr #my ocs #writing ask game #writer ask game #wip ask game #ask game

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notfinancialadvice · 1 year

Text

I get this + similar ads a lot.

Ignore them.

Fear mongering that things are about to collapse, and fear of missing out on the current-thing that is rising, are both used to sell financial products and/or books, classes, seminars... etc.

If you are close to, or in, retirement, your portfolio should be structured towards safer things (such as government and corporate bonds). These pay smaller returns, but are far less likely to be defaulted upon.

The likelihood of a government bond being defaulted on is statistically irrelevant, the likelihood of a corporate bond is linked to the credit rating. Returns are thus weighed.

If you have 10+ years to retirement, then doom-sayings do not fucking matter and I cannot stress this highly enough.

You absolutely need to pay attention to your portfolio and/or have someone who does and/or say "to hell with this" and stick your cash into funds that handle this for you.

The funds that handle this for you are mutual funds (you buy 1 stock, it is a basket of a bunch of other stocks) or index funds (you buy 1 stock, it is a basket of other stocks) or something similar. The value of this approach is you don't pick stocks, some professional with a vested interest does.

Different versions have different fees ("The basket of funds has produced $1.00 in profit. The fund's price raises $0.98 in value. We keep $0.02 internally") and risk tolerances.

Some funds take some big risks and balance this with very safe stocks/bonds/etc. Some take moderate risks. Some take practically no risk.

The entire point is to mitigate risk to you and lower the amount of work you have to do to figure out "what is going to be the next Amazon in 20+ years."

Picking individual stocks is extremely difficult, time-consuming, risky, requires timing, a LOT of knowledge about a LOT of simultaneous things, and must be CONSTANTLY monitored, 24/7, 365. Huge amounts of extremely specialized data that is ungodly fucking expensive to acquire (much less analyze).

My personal strategy:

I have money-folks who handle about 95% of my investment cash. This is what they do for a living and they are equipped, talented, skilled, resourced, and have a professional and legal duty to grow it. They also get paid more if it grows, so, y'know, we all win.

The cash they handle is frozen. I do not touch it. If it evaporates I'm fucked, which is why I don't touch it.

I keep a small chunk to use for business opportunities I find. They are comparatively smaller in volume, and frequently extremely risky from a business perspective. I hedge risk as possible but there is always a decent chance the entirety could evaporate in weeks (or sooner).

I do this because sometimes it makes money! When it does, it is at a massively higher percentage than the money-nerd-handled money.

Here is a stock I hand-picked a week ago. It has more than tripled.

This is a fun number to look at.

This is a post about a company I invested in that said "Hey fuck you we're dead now. The money you gave us is gone forever. You now have a printable piece of capitalism art."

The best part is the founders ripped the wiring from the walls and sold it to re-launch the company in a private venture.

Which is not fun to look at! It gives me vibes somewhere between "we were incompetent" and "we were scam artists." It doesn't matter! It's gone, it's done, I've moved on I chalk it up as a learning experience expense.

But proves my point. Had I gone all-in with every penny, I would have $0.

Don't listen to doomsayers -- you'll invest emotionally, you'll lose, and maybe you'll lose everything. You'll either take stupidly high risks or you'll take absolutely no risk, and thus make no profit. Or you'll be scammed! Or, most likely, a mixture.

Do invest rationally:

"This company has promise. Their business model and financials are sound. This makes sense to me. I will invest with them until we no longer align."

"This company is doing something that won't make money and/or is likely to fail, but pushes the world in the direction I want the world to go into. I can afford fiscally and mentally to lose this money if they fail. The cost of moving the world in this direction is worth it to me."

AND MOST IMPORTANTLY

"This group of professionals is professionally and legally responsible for protecting/growing my cash. They are also fiscally incentivized to do so, which loops together their responsibilities nicely. They will handle the vast majority of my money bricks."

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