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HAHAHAHA same, Y/n is a very strong woman because I could never

Forbidden - Part 2

Wanda Maximoff x Reader

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Summary: Meeting the perfect woman at a party has three complications: 1) you're married; 2) she's your student; 3) she’s too good to let go.

Word count: 6.859 || Pronouns: she/her

Warnings: smut [18+ only!]

A/N: And it's finally here! I can't believe it took me so long to finish this chapter, I'm so sorry hahaha I hope you all enjoy it though!

You do NOT have permission to repost or translate my work on any platforms (even with credit)

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“You’re home.” The surprise in your voice disguises how mentally tired you are, your hand loosening the knot of your tie as you furrow your brows. Blond hair stuffed in the refrigerator was the last thing you expected to see when you got home.

“I am.” Carol says as she fits in an upright posture, a bottle of beer in her hand and a sloppy smile on her face. “I was on the phone with your dad this morning and he told me you had settled in, so I stopped by.” The information makes you frown, setting your bag on the kitchen counter after you get rid of your shoes. “Why were you on the phone with my dad?”

“We’re closing another partnership.” She says simply, using a dishcloth to open the glass bottle. You barely give her a hum of understanding, moving to the sink so you can pour yourself a glass of water.

Ever since you and Carol started to grow serious, your father offered her a partnership. You weren’t sure what a Football player would offer a tech company such as Stark Industries, but Howard found a way to make it work, advertising more and more training-oriented products, always with your wife as the poster girl.

To say that the deal has enriched not only your father but also Carol is an understatement. And the partnership that was wonderful at the beginning, became your biggest nightmare as your marriage began to sink, and your father became more and more emphatic about you staying in it.

“You should call him, he misses you.” The blonde speaks after a few minutes of silence, turning to face you with her hip resting on the kitchen counter. You resist the urge to roll your eyes as you finish your water unhurriedly. You’re pretty sure what she meant to say is that he misses the opportunity to micromanage every single aspect of your life. “And so have I.”

“Oh, have you?” You hit back as you wash your glass, sarcasm dripping from your words, completely unconvinced. “Come on, Y/n, can we not do this right now? I just got home.” Carol complains tiredly, a loud huff leaving her lips before she speaks, but you remain silent, your back to her as you keep your place by the sink.

When your relationship with the blonde started, you were sure there would be no other woman in the world for you. No one would ever be able to make you so happy, to love you as she did. That was your truth for so many years, and although there’s a part of you that still wants to believe that, it grows weaker every time you see pictures and videos of her from the times she spent away.

Always with some other girl, her hands around her waist or neck, laughing as she used to do with you, whispers in ears that used to flip your stomach but now just made you sick. There was never something more incriminating than that - although, to you, all of those images were incriminating enough.

But with every fight, every shouted accusation and lame excuses, Carol always found a way to keep you believing her, to make you ignore the small voice in your head that told you to leave. Of course, the insistent pressure from your family helped her a lot with that. Still, she couldn’t stop it from hurting.

“I’m gonna go shower.” You let her know when you’re done, wiping your hands on the back of your pants. “I could join you.” She tries, moving closer, but you screw your eyes shut to disguise your irritation. “Today was really tiring.” You cut her off more harshly than you intended, and your wife's hurt expression makes you sigh. “Maybe some other time.” You suggest, rubbing the bridge of your nose, and the blonde forces a sad smile as she nods slowly. “Sure. I’ll make us some dinner, then.”

She doesn’t wait for a response before she turns around and makes her way back to the refrigerator. But you’re pretty sure you saw a few tears pooling in her eyes, so you sigh softly, your jaw locked as you move closer to her.

“I’m glad you’re home.” You tell her with a hand over her shoulder, and Carol turns her face to you the same moment, her surprised expression lit by the refrigerator light. “Me too.” She answers with a smile, and you force one in response before you leave the kitchen.

⋅ ─ ⋅ ─ ⋅ ─ ⋅ ─ ⋅ ─ ⋅

The rest of the term is hell.

Seeing Wanda every Tuesday and Thursday is killing you slowly, no matter how she chooses to behave for the day. Sometimes, she’ll ignore you completely, keeping her gaze down on the pages of her notebook for the two hours that your class lasts. At other times, she’ll keep her gaze at you, barely blinking, her jaw tensed, her expression letting you know that, if she could, she would jump on your neck.

What makes it all the worse, is that she keeps ignoring your attempts to reach her, all your calls going straight to voicemail, all your texts completely ignored. And the worst part is that you can’t even blame her. She’s right. You lied to her, even if you didn’t use your words to do so. You disregarded her trust in you and you’d forever hate yourself for it.

“You look too depressed, even for an artist.” A voice you’ve grown accustomed to sounds in your ears as you walk towards your office, and you giggle softly, slowing your pace so that the redhead can catch up with you. “I’m not an artist, I’m a professor.”

“I think this explains your suffering better.” Natalia retorts with amusement, making you laugh some more. The two of you then make some small talk as you walk together to the faculty building, greeting a few acquaintances and students you meet around the campus along the way.

“Doing anything fun for the Holidays?” The Russian Professor asks when you reach your office door, and you move the books you were holding to only one of your hands so you can unlock the door. “I’m going to visit my parents in their winter cabin, so no.” You tell her, which makes her laugh. “What about you?”

“Visiting my parents too.” She answers with her arms crossed, resting her shoulders on the door frame as you move inside the room, placing your belongings on your desk - completely messy due to the end of the term. “They said they met a ‘nice guy’ they wanted to introduce to me, so I’ll make sure to be extra gay once I get there.” Natalia tells with a roll of her eyes, and you let out a giggle. “I hardly believe someone would ever doubt your homosexuality.”

“Thank you, that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” The redhead says in an overly dramatic tone, with her hands over her chest and pretending she’s about to cry. You laugh as you shake your head in amusement, and the other smiles before asking, “Are you going home yet?”

“No, I have some grades to double-check before I leave.” You let her know as you dramatically plop yourself down on your chair, making her laugh. “Alright. Happy Holidays, Y/n/n.” She wishes with a kind smile, to which you respond with one of your own as you say. “Happy Holidays, Nat.”

The redhead leaves your office after that, closing the door behind her. As you turn your laptop on, you check your phone once again, just in case she has answered you. Of course she didn’t, the stack of messages sent staring back at you. So you let out a long sigh and, shoving your phone back in your pocket, you start to work.

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“Wanda! There's delivery for you! Again.” Yelena changes her shouted tone for an annoyed grumble as she says the last word, forcing a smile at the delivery guy as she signs the tablet he offers her. Wanda, from her bedroom, sighs, already knowing what it was before having to see it with her own eyes.

Not content with filling her cell phone with calls and texts, your new approach was gifting. Well, not new, exactly, once you’ve been doing it since the end of the past term. To make matters worse, your gifts were always thoughtful. First, you sent red roses and a note, apologizing again and saying you chose the flowers because you remember she had some decorating her room. Yelena and Kate suggested she throw them away, however, and they ended up on the terrace of the building, burning the flowers on a portable grill one of the neighbors lent them.

The next gift was a box of chocolates, but what surprised Wanda the most was the small golden kosher stamp, certifying that the product follows the Jewish dietary law. Living in the States and with a routine as chaotic as any college student's can be, Wanda always has a hard time following the rules that her religion sets, most of all when it comes to food. But she tries her best to do so and she couldn’t help thinking it was really sweet of you to be this thoughtful. Although her friends suggested tossing in the trash the letter that came along with the box, all the girls agreed that throwing away chocolate would be a crime, so they kept that one.

You also sent a Gray Wolf plush - the national animal of her birthplace - and a book about the history of the city of Kraków. Neither Yelena nor Kate understood what that last gift meant, but the brunette did, and she decided to keep the story to herself, ignoring her rosy cheeks and her friends' complaints to take the gift to her room.

So yes, Wanda was still very pissed off and hurt by the entire situation. But your persistent, thoughtful gifts were finding a way to get to her heart. And she hated it.

“Uh, is it chocolate again? I loved the ones she sent last week.” Kate gets to Yelena before Wanda does, leaving her place in the kitchen - where she was preparing a sandwich - to approach the blonde and whatever it is she has in her hands. “It’s not for you, Bishop.” Belova scolds, moving the silver box away from the other girls’ hands, and Wanda chuckles at the interaction.

When she’s close enough, Yelena hands her the box - which is only slightly larger than a shoebox. Kate and Yelena fall silent as they watch Wanda holding the item in her hands, and examining it for a moment before taking it to the kitchen counter. When the brunette opens the lid, the other two girls frown in confusion, but she has a small smile on the corner of her lips.

“What flowers are those?” Bishop is the one who asks, watching as Wanda takes the bouquet carefully out of the box, the small white flowers enhancing the beautiful green of the leaves. “Lilies of the valley.” The brunette answers with an easy smile, her eyes never leaving the flowers, and Kate takes no time in googling it on her phone. “It's a flower of forgiveness.”

“It’s also Sokovia’s national flower.” Wanda adds, her smile growing as she fails to ignore the butterflies in her stomach. And as Kate lets out a soft ‘awn’, Yelena crosses her arms, snorting. “That’s not desperate at all.”

“I think it’s kinda cute.” Bishop retorts to the other's sarcasm, receiving a warning look. “Don’t encourage it!” The blonde grumbles, lightly hitting her friend's arm for emphasis. “What? It is! She’s really trying!” Kate hits back, defensively, but Yelena only snorts again. “She used our friend! She just wanted someone to have fun with in her boring married life. A poor, innocent girl to discard after a one-night stand...”

“I’m right here.” Wanda grumbles with an unamused expression, earning from Yelena an apologetic grimace. “I don’t think that’s necessarily true.” Bishop responds to her friend's previous comment, folding her arms with a pensive expression. “Like, would she be sending all these gifts if it was that meaningless? I mean, it’s been months.”

Belova lets out a disbelieving laugh, rolling her eyes. But when they rest on Wanda’s face again, she frowns. “Oh no, you’re thinking, stop thinking!” Yelena warns, but the brunette doesn’t let go of her thoughtful frown. “Kate may be right though.” She says with a shrug, putting the flower back on the box, and the blonde takes her annoyed gaze to the taller one in the room. “Are you happy?”

“Look, I’m not saying she’s not wrong about what she’s done.” Kate defends herself, her gaze shifting between Wanda and Yelena. “She still lied to you and, worse, she’s still married.” The brunette can’t help but let her eyes fall on the flowers you sent as she hears her friend, and she decides to close the lid so she can think straight. “But, I don’t know, maybe you mean more to her than you think you do. What did she say when you confronted her, again?”

“She said it didn’t have to be the last time, but I didn’t let her say more than that.” Wanda recalls with her arms hugging her own body to protect herself from the memories and the messed-up situation she’s in - without much success, however. Kate snaps her fingers. “See? Maybe she does like you and wants to be with you, even if she’s married. Oh my God, this is so exciting!”

“Are you listening to yourself?” Yelena asks, completely baffled, drawing all eyes back to her. “She’s our professor. You can’t date your professor!” She reasons, but Kate just snorts dismissively. “Of course you can! It’s super hot too, everyone wants to do that.” The comment makes Wanda laugh softly with amusement, shaking her head. But Yelena is still annoyed by it all. “It’s illegal.”

“I’m not underage, Yelena, I’m capable of making my own decisions.” The brunette speaks for the first time after a while, an eyebrow raised in her direction, but the blonde shakes her head. “It’s not about that, Wanda, it’s against the university rules, she’ll be fired.” The comment makes the brunette furrow her brows, she hadn’t thought about it that way before.

“You better tell your sister about that.” Kate breaks the silence with a teasing smirk that makes Yelena almost growl in anger. “That’s it, I’m leaving.” The blonde doesn't even finish talking to start stomping away towards the exit of their shared apartment. “Lena, come on, it was just a joke!” Bishop tries to hide a smile as she follows the other girl out and Wanda laughs softly at the other two before looking at the box on the counter again, staring at it for a while before deciding to take it with her to her room.

⋅ ─ ⋅ ─ ⋅ ─ ⋅ ─ ⋅ ─ ⋅

Going back to school after the winter break ends also means seeing you again and Wanda wasn't sure how she felt about it. She was still mad at you for everything you’ve done to her, of course. But after almost three months - and your constant gifts and trying to reach out to apologize - the brunette couldn’t deny she was getting soft.

As she walks with her friends to your classroom - Kate by her left shoulder and Yelena by her right one -, Wanda feels her heart skipping two beats with every step she takes. The other two girls, completely unaware of the brunette’s struggles, keep talking excitedly about something she wasn’t really paying attention to, but was trying really hard to do so.

Now, Wanda wasn’t sure what was going to happen once they finally reached the classroom. Maybe your eyes would meet and you’d smile at her again, and she’d be incapable of not smiling back and everything would be fine. Or you wouldn’t even spare her a glance, having grown tired of waiting for her. What she did not expect, however, is that one of her classmates would be talking to you - or rather, flirting with you.

“I told you, everyone wants to date a professor.” Kate comments by her side as she follows Wanda’s furious gaze with her own to where you were talking to Anna Marie, who had her hand resting on your arm lightly. “What’s wrong with people wanting to date their teachers?” Yelena grumbles as she pushes her friends to some chairs close to the exit, and Wanda has a hard time taking her eyes away from you to walk.

“Well, it’s not every day we have a Professor who isn’t seventy years old.” Kate comments with amusement, placing her stuff on the table. “And, with all due respect, Wanda, but she’s kinda hot.” The girl’s elbow hitting her side playfully finally tears the brunette’s eyes from the front of the class, blinking a few times to recollect her thoughts. As Kate laughs softly, Yelena grumbles displeased. “Gross.”

“You’re just mad about it because half of your friends want to sleep with your sister.” Bishop retorts with amusement, and Yelena grumbles once again, changing her desk so that Wanda is sitting between her and Kate. “That’s it, you’re not sitting by my side.” Kate only chuckles softly, but the brunette hasn't been paying attention for a long time.

In the front of the classroom, Anna is still talking to you - and with her hand still annoyingly on your forearm. But you push her hand away politely and, although she can’t hear from that distance, by the motion of your hand the brunette thinks you told the other girl to go sit down.

As Marie finds a place to sit, your eyes scan the room, stopping when they meet Wanda’s. At first, she’s frozen, not sure if she should look away or keep staring. But you offer her a small smile - nearly invisible at that distance -, and avert your gaze the next moment when the brunette doesn’t reciprocate, her blood still boiling inside her veins.

So you start your class as naturally as you can and, as the hours go by, you have no trouble noticing that today is one of the days Wanda looks at you as if she wants to jump on your neck.

⋅ ─ ⋅ ─ ⋅ ─ ⋅ ─ ⋅ ─ ⋅

From the next class on, everything changes.

You were drinking from your water bottle on Thursday when Wanda arrived with her friend, and you almost choked at the sight of her. Instead of the casual clothes she usually wears to class, her lower half is very poorly covered by a miniskirt, and the tight-fitting tank top she wears exposing a fair amount of her chest have you drooling.

To make matters worse, once her eyes meet yours she sends you a smirk full of meaning, her lower lip trapped between her teeth before she looks away. The interaction is brief, but it’s more than enough to make your brain malfunction for the rest of the class. The way the brunette is clearly having fun with the whole thing doesn’t help.

And that’s how the classes went. Wanda showing up in shorter and shorter clothes, messing with your sanity whenever your eyes landed on her, either by biting the pen cap, crossing her arms with the sole purpose of making her breasts even more evident under her cleavage, or even spreading her legs apart slightly so you can see the color of her panties - sometimes, when she was sitting close enough, you could even see the dark stain of her arousal.

You had no idea where all that was coming from. But - as much as you liked it - it had to end, because you were getting increasingly distracted in class, to the point where some students noticed your uneased posture, and asked if you were alright. So, one afternoon after the class was over, you called her over.

“Miss Maximoff, do you have a moment, please?” You asked, trying to sound as unaffected as you could, beckoning the younger girl to approach you by your table. “Yes, Professor?” The brunette asks as she does so, her innocent voice sounding unnatural in the face of the little smirk on the corner of her face.

You find yourself wondering how the hell she can look so pretty all the damn time, especially with that red dress that was too short for the sake of your mental health and a black jacket over it that highlights the red locks of her hair. Your eyes almost linger on her mouth for too long until the noises of your students leaving attract your attention again. So you clear your throat awkwardly, pretending to look through some papers and missing the way her smirk grows wider. “I, uh, I’d like to discuss the third topic of your essay, I don’t think it is very clear to me.”

“Well, Professor, what I meant by that is that one of the pillars of art is desire, isn't it?” She points out the discussion you had in previous classes, but you can barely listen, too busy trying to keep your brain working properly as she rests her palms over the table with her stretched out, highlighting her cleavage… “Every piece of art seeks to arouse a craving in its consumers, an irresistible hunger they cannot deny-”

“Wanda, you’re killing me.” You interrupt with a groan, your voice low so the few remaining students won’t hear, your hand loosening your tie to try and relieve the heat - which obviously doesn’t help. “I don’t know what you mean, professor, I’m just explaining my essay.” The brunette hits back, and although her posture is dismissive, her amused tone gives her away, making you sigh in surrender. “Can we talk? Please, I-”

“I’m sorry Professor, I have another class in ten minutes.” She says with a forced apologetic grimace, checking the time on her phone. “Maybe I can go to your office after dinner time?” She suggests before you can complain, taking a step closer to you, and you have to resist the urge to take a step back, gulping harshly as you nod your head dumbly. The effect she has on you… You’d never be able to explain.

“S-sure, I’ll be waiting for you.” You manage to stutter out, your eyes glued on her lips when she offers you a broad smile. “Okay. See you later, professor.” She says her goodbyes, and doesn’t wait for your answer before walking away. Not that you would’ve been able to, too focused on the sway of her hips intentionally done to catch your eye.

⋅ ─ ⋅ ─ ⋅ ─ ⋅ ─ ⋅ ─ ⋅

You can barely focus on any of your classes after that, and all your interactions happen on autopilot as all you can think about is your meeting with Wanda after dinner. And when the time finally comes, you’re passing back and forth anxiously around your office.

The knocks on your door startle you slightly and you take a few seconds to check your reflection in the small mirror on the corner, fixing your hair as you walk to the door. The wooden piece swings to your right at your own strength, revealing on the other side the brunette you’ve wanted to see since the very first second she left the classroom earlier today.

It hasn't been long since then, only a gap of a few hours. But the atmosphere between the two of you has already changed completely, a dense cloud of uncertainty and anticipation dancing around the both of you, growing thicker with each passing moment of you staring into each other's eyes.

“Hi.” Wanda is the one who breaks the silence first, her posture - once determined and defiant now almost insecure, with one hand firmly around the bag's strap and the green irises struggling to remain in yours. “Hey.” You say back just as softly, moving to the side just enough for the girl to enter your office. She offers you a minimal smile as she does so, and it’s right there that you realize how much you’ve missed it these past months.

The click of the door closing behind you is the prelude to a long moment of silence that follows between you, broken by the faint noise of students and faculty walking around campus. Wanda stops facing you in the middle of the room, her back to your desk, appearing uncomfortable in that place she had never been before. You watch her in silence, your mind racing with everything you wanted to say right now, your chest tightening preventing you from doing so.

“Wanda, what’s happening?” You condense all your questions into one, the lump in your throat turning into a tired scoff. “One day you hate me, won’t even look at me if not to glare at me as if I were the worst person in the world - not that I can blame you for that, of course, but... In the next you are…” You point at her, remembering the stunt she pulled in class earlier, and once again the words fail you, leaving you unable to say anything but repeat the question, “what’s happening?”

The brunette remains silent. Her eyes drop from yours, her jaw locked and her expression thoughtful. She seems to be searching for the right words, you imagine, and you don't push her to do so, remaining silent, watching her with as much patience as your anxious brain allows you. A little longer than a minute later, she sighs.

“I saw you talking to Anna before class the other day.” Wanda tells, a tone almost shameful. You furrow your brows in confusion, but your obliviousness only earns you an annoyed grunt from the brunette. “She was flirting with you so bluntly, in front of everyone and I… I was so angry, I just…” You finally remember the day she mentioned, when one of your students came to you before class started. But you barely pay any mind to it, too curious about the words the girl in front of you is holding back from saying.

“I don’t want you looking at any other girl but me.” A low gasp leaves your lips at her confession, your mouth agape with surprise. “I don’t.” You say wholeheartedly, your restless mind suddenly empty. “Your wife wouldn’t like to hear you say that.” The brunette accuses bitterly, one eyebrow raised as her features contort into an angry expression. “I’ve seen pictures of the two of you. You look cute together, happy.”

“And you believe everything you see on the internet, I suppose.” You return her sarcastic tone with an amused yet devoid of humor one, a dry laugh escorting your words. Wanda looks at you with curiosity this time, and you put your hands in your pockets, looking away as you tell, “Carol and I are not happy, we haven’t been in a long time. My marriage, it’s not… It just doesn’t work anymore.”

“And why don’t you end it?” Wanda asks in a heartbeat, the expression on her face indecipherable when you look up at her again. “It’s complicated.” You answer simply with a shrug of your shoulders. The last thing you wanted right now was to talk about the misfortunes of your failed marriage. The answer doesn’t please the brunette in the slightest however, who scoffs in disbelief with her arms crossed, rolling her eyes as she murmurs, “of course it is.”

“I mean it.” You hit back firmly, and wait for her to look at you again to speak. She's reluctant to do so at first, but when her eyes finally meet yours, they're hurtful, and you sigh wearily. “I wanna end things. I do. I just… I’m just finding it hard to find the right time to do so.” Your words are honest, but they don’t convince Wanda, who merely nods in understanding, looking down at her feet once again.

“Did you, hm, did you like the gifts I sent you?” You try to change the subject, because the last thing you want right now is to see her sad, even if you can’t do much to change that. The brunette seems to have a similar line of thinking, because when she looks up again, her expression is playful.

“Was that you?” The teasing question makes you let out a chuckle, looking away at your shoes and missing the way she smiles at you. “I did.” She answers finally, her tone softer this time. “Kate loved the chocolates, by the way, she’s been looking for them everywhere. Where did you find them?”

“I had a friend help me out.” You answer vaguely, and Wanda doesn't want to think too much about the butterflies in her stomach at the mere thought of you talking about her to other people. Fortunately for her, she doesn’t have to, because your approaching footsteps catch her attention, and having you so close again makes her brain stop working for a second.

“I’m really sorry, Wanda.” You change the tone of the conversation once more, the glint behind your eyes as pleading as your tone when you reach out for her hands. “I never meant to hurt, much less to use you.” You assure her honestly, and the brunette tries not to be so distracted by the soft caress your thumbs offer the back of her hands. “I should’ve been honest about my situation and about what I want.”

“And what do you want?” The younger girl asks, her tone so low you’re sure you only heard her due to your closeness. “You.” You don’t think twice before you answer, appreciating the way she holds her breath. Her pupils are blown and they fall to your lips that same second, but you fight the urge to kiss her to keep talking. “And I know I’m married and I’m your professor, the situation couldn’t be any worse. But that doesn't make me want you any less.”

“I want you too.” The brunette confesses back, a short smirk at the corner of her lips at the low gasp you let out. “I-I don't care about these things. I know I should, but… I just want you, in whatever way you can be mine.” She finds herself saying, surprising not only you but herself at the sudden utterance.

“Are you sure about this?” You ask, your eyebrows frowning in a way that displays all your uncertainty. But Wanda’s smile only grows, nodding her head in an almost silly way as the words make more and more sense to herself. “Yes.” She answers verbally not long after, her eyes coming back to your own in an attempt to reassure you further. “Yes, I’m sure.”

“I’m gonna kiss you now, then.” You’re smiling as you let her know, a smile that only grows as she lets out a silly little laugh, nodding her head again as she agrees, “okay.”

You take no time in leaning in, and the brunette takes even less to meet you halfway, your lips touching for the first time after so long. The muscles of your bodies relax in untold synchrony, your mouths finding a perfect rhythm as easily as the first time they did so, all those months ago.

Her hands find the sides of your face at the same moment that yours take a hold of her waist, pulling her closer to your own body. The sigh she lets out makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on end, but before you can deepen the kiss, she is pulling away to say, "God, I missed you so much."

"I missed you too." You confess equally breathlessly, your lips brushing together as you speak. "There hasn't been a moment in these last months that I haven't been thinking about you." The brunette's contented giggle is all you get in response before she leans forward again, kissing you harder than before.

The fabric of her dress slides up as you caress her sides, and you instantly remember the scene from earlier, pulling away once again and chuckling softly at the small whimper of protest she lets out. “You look beautiful in this dress by the way.” You praise, letting your gaze descend on her figure as you admire her briefly.

“You’ll like me better without it.” Wanda’s words are rushed against your mouth, and she gives you no room to speak as she kisses you again, her hands firmly in your hair to prevent you from escaping her again. To her delight, you had no intention of doing so, kissing her harder instead.

As her tongue dances around yours, you push her gently yet hurriedly, walking a few steps with her until her hips hit the hard wood of your desk. Wanda doesn’t hesitate when they do so, sitting atop the piece of furniture and wrapping her legs around your middle, pressing your body against hers further. One of her hands untangles from your locks only to tug at your tie, and you lose all your sanity at once, groaning against her lips as your hand invades her dress without warning.

The brunette breaks the kiss with a loud gasp as she feels your fingers push the fabric of her panties aside, and lets out a sinful moan when you stick two of them into her at once, your digits sliding with ease through her arousal. You are quick to kiss her again, swallowing her moans as they escape her throat. But the wet sounds of your hand fucking her so hard echo around you, making your own core burn.

As her orgasm approaches, Wanda leads her hands to your shoulders, her nails digging into your skin through the fabric, her mouth failing to keep the rhythm on yours. So you move your own to her jaw and neck, biting and sucking on her skin just enough so it wouldn’t leave a mark.

The brunette, on the other hand, focuses all her strength on being quiet, her eyes screwed shut and her lower lip trapped between her teeth to prevent any of her moans and whimpers from coming out. But it’s all in vain once you press your thumb on her clit, and Wanda has to bury her face on your shoulder, biting your skin to muffle the sounds she’s unable to keep to herself.

You only stop when her trembling hand rests over your wrist, and you smile to yourself at the mess you made out of her so quickly, missing her warmth the same instant you pull your fingers out of her. The brunette sighs at the lack, her walls clenching around nothing as she tries to recover from her climax. You kiss her sweaty forehead as you wait, smoothing the skin of her thighs with your hands, unaware of the way the touch makes her tremble.

Not after long, Wanda lifts her face from your shoulder, and her smile is the last thing you see before she kisses passionately. You barely have the time to reciprocate it before her fingers find your belt, and your grip on her thighs immediately intensifies in anticipation. But before she can go any further, her phone is ringing.

"Shit." She grumbles as she pulls away, hastily engaging in finding the device inside her bag. "H-hi, Pietro!" She greets as soon as she finds the cell phone, an excited and surprisingly innocent tone. You, on the other hand, blink a few times, trying to keep up with the sudden change of events, your hands still on her legs under her dress as you try to catch your breath.

"No! No, I'm coming, I just..." You watch as the brunette talks to the person you don't know, your chest tightening a little in anticipation for the longing you know you will be left with after she's gone. "I had an inconvenience to sort out." She finishes her own sentence finally, and when you raise a single eyebrow, she rolls her eyes with a smile. "But I'm done, I'm on my way... Okay, bye."

"An inconvenience?" You ask teasingly as she hangs up, taking a few steps back so she can stand up. The question earns you a brief chuckle from the brunette as she gets to her feet again. "Sorry, would you rather I told my brother I was busy fucking my Professor?" You laugh back at her joke, grimacing a response that makes a smile grow on her face before it fades away. "I have to go now."

"Five more minutes." You mumble as you pull her close again, your arms secure around her waist. "I can't." Wanda says amidst a giggle, even though she makes not the slightest effort to disengage from your embrace. "I have to pick my brother up at the airport." She tells you, laughing some more when you grimace in displeasure.

"I'll return the favor, I promise." The brunette promises, her hands over your chest and a suggestive tone that matches her smirk perfectly. "Hmm, it's the second time you say that but who's counting?" You tease with an easy smile, biting back a laugh when she narrows her eyes in your direction. "I will return all of them, okay." She lightly slaps your shoulder to display her own displeasure, taking advantage of the action to wrap her arms around your neck. You let out a low chuckle, murmuring in understanding before rubbing your nose against hers affectionately.

"But now I gotta go." Wanda comments against her own will, her stomach doing somersaults at the display of affection. But she doesn't comment on it, and you sigh in surrender. "Okay." Your arms leave her middle to give way to your fingers intertwining with hers as you guide her toward the door.

"Oh, wait!" The brunette snaps the fingers of her free hand as if remembering something before you reach the office exit, earning her a curious look from you in response. "Is there really something wrong with my essay or was that just an excuse?" she asks worriedly, and you can't help but giggle before assuring her, "I haven't read it yet actually."

Wanda murmurs in understanding, but it doesn't take long for a smirk to grow at the corner of her mouth, looking at you mischievously. "I'm hoping you'll be nice while grading it, professor." She comments suggestively, tracing her fingertips lightly down your collarbone. You swallow dryly, pushing away the effect she has on you to smile teasingly back. "Are you using me for good grades, Miss Maximoff?"

"It's more of a bonus, really." She retorts with a shrug, and you let out an amused laugh with a slight roll of the eyes that makes her smile. "Well, I'll have you know there will be no favoritism." You retort with a playful tone of reprimand, but Wanda doesn't back down, raising an eyebrow at you instead.

"Is that so?" She steps forward to ask, her breath brushing your skin along with her nose on yours. "But I thought I was your favorite." She comments with a pout, giving you puppy dog eyes that you have no trouble realizing would make her get you to do anything for her.

"You are, but we can't let other people know that, can we?" You retort with amusement, tilting your head to the side and adjusting your posture so as to put a little more distance between the two of you. Although she tries to disguise it, you can tell by her expression that she's annoyed that her teasing hasn't worked, and you have to hold back a giggle as you admire the scene.

"Besides, it's not like you need it anyways, you're already my best student." You praise wholeheartedly, earning a contented smile and rosy cheeks in return. The adorable sight makes it impossible for you to hold back any longer, and you soon lean forward, capturing her lips in a soft kiss. The brunette giggles as she reciprocates it, but before she can even bring her hands to the sides of your face, you are pulling away.

"You should go now." You comment, and the brunette's eyes widen slightly as she remembers that her brother was waiting for her at the airport on the other side of town. "I should." She agrees with a nod of her head, but soon her countenance softens, looking at you with sparkling eyes and an easy smile. "Bye, Y/n."

"Bye, Wanda." You say goodbye in the same tone, a smile on your face matching hers perfectly and that only grows when she pecks your lips goodbye. You finally open the door for her then, and the brunette casts you one last look before walking out of your office. You watch her walk away until she is out of your field of vision before returning to work at your desk. And for the rest of the evening, you have a silly smile on your face.

Part 3

#abimess rb #maximilfism

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abimess · 1 year

Text

Forbidden - Part 2

Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Masterlist | Be notified of my stories

Summary: Meeting the perfect woman at a party has three complications: 1) you're married; 2) she's your student; 3) she’s too good to let go.

Word count: 6.859 || Pronouns: she/her

Warnings: smut [18+ only!]

A/N: And it's finally here! I can't believe it took me so long to finish this chapter, I'm so sorry hahaha I hope you all enjoy it though!

You do NOT have permission to repost or translate my work on any platforms (even with credit)

Series Masterlist | Previews part

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The rest of the term is hell.

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So yes, Wanda was still very pissed off and hurt by the entire situation. But your persistent, thoughtful gifts were finding a way to get to her heart. And she hated it.

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So you start your class as naturally as you can and, as the hours go by, you have no trouble noticing that today is one of the days Wanda looks at you as if she wants to jump on your neck.

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From the next class on, everything changes.

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“I’m gonna kiss you now, then.” You’re smiling as you let her know, a smile that only grows as she lets out a silly little laugh, nodding her head again as she agrees, “okay.”

Part 3

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff #elizabeth olsen x reader #elizabeth olsen #wanda maximoff au

621 notes · View notes

abimess · 1 year

Text

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.

#this story is so good omg #on the edge of my seat waiting for the next part #abimess recs #wmarximoff

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