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#agatha harkness
cissa-calls · 1 day
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Countdown to Coven of Chaos: Day 274
Wanda: “I’m home! How was your day?”
Agatha: *laying on the couch covered from head to toe in dirt, dust, and rubble*
Y/N: *Laying on the floor with their clothes and hair burnt and standing upright*
Wanda: “Holy Hestia! Are you guys okay?”
Agatha: “We had a good day”
Y/N, dazed: “Yeah, lots of fun”
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yellowvxbes · 21 hours
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TRIGGER WARNING- DARK FIC, UNHEALTHY/TOXIC RELATIONSHIP, STALKING
Agatha Harkness x Reader
The wind caused hairs on your arms to stick up as you opened the balcony door. The stars shone through the dark sky, and the freezing air wrapped around you like a pair of comforting arms. A head full of black curls had their back on you, cigarette smoke blowing out of their mouth.
“Aggie, it’s cold.” You remarked with a shaky voice. Agatha always smoked when she was angry or in thought. You knew better than to interrupt her smoking sessions. However, you couldn’t watch her be like this anymore. You needed it to stop.
“Agatha, please I’m sorry. I just made a bad decision because I was upset-” Agatha huffed, throwing her cigarette off the balcony and finally turning to face you. A smirk tilted her lips, and a feelings of dread twisted your stomach.
She liked this. She liked when you apologized and got upset and begged her to come back to you. “Don’t start that bullshit on me, Y/N. You walked out of that door, ignoring every text and call. I was worried sick, you know that?”
No, she wasn’t. You knew that. Agatha had been following you around for weeks. Peeking through the windows in your apartment, making frequent appearances at your job, following you down the street. Agatha made sure that she had no reason to be worried.
“I do everything for you baby. You’re my entire world, the light of my life. I provided for you when no job would call you back, when your best friend left you, when everyone ghosted you! I did fucking everything!” Agatha screamed, getting so close to your face it felt like your lips just barely brushed.
A moment of guilt flashed but it was replaced by resentment deep inside of you. Finally you spat out, “And I wonder why all those things happened, hm? Maybe it was because-”
“SHUT UP!” Agatha roared, grabbing your chin as her nails dug into the skin, causing blood spots to appear.
Silence passed through the both of you as Agatha gripped your chin firmly in her hand, her teeth gritted together.
“Shut the fuck up and go back inside.”
“But what about-”
“Go, Y/N. I’ll be in a minute.”
Her hand moved from your chin to your cheek, and stroked it in a manner that could almost be seen as lovingly. She leaned in to you, her lips grazing your cheek as a gentle kiss was placed on your skin.
“If you ever try to leave me again, a day won’t go by where you won’t regret it, my love. Now be a dear, and give me a moment to freshen up, will you?”
As you wandered back into the apartment, you pondered to yourself bitterly. Agatha always made you feel so small, so powerless, so fragile. You hated it- she controlled every single part of you and you both knew it.
But, no matter how much hatred you held, Agatha and you both knew you’d always come back for her.
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wynonasrider · 3 days
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but if i said i wanna ride her face then what?
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aparticularbandit · 2 days
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agatha×wanda - 19 for your jealousy prompts?
jealousy prompts 19) "I didn't just imagine that!"
“Agnes.”
The name hisses through Wanda’s gritted teeth as the other woman leans over her white picket fence, one hand reaching out just to tap Dennis’s shirt with feigned affection before fixing his tie.  Her eyes narrow.  “Agnes.”
“Yes, hon?”  Agnes tightens Dennis’s tie a little too tight, pats it, and then stands back with her hands on her hips.  She doesn’t even turn to Wanda, no matter how much she just acknowledged her.  “That’s better, Dennis!  Wouldn’t want a sloppy tie to distract from your—”
“Agnes, quit flirting with the mailman.”
Wanda winds her elbow through Agnes’s and pulls her away from the white picket fence.  Agnes raises a hand to wave at Dennis, lips peeled in her typical cheery smile, and Dennis waves back, shrugs, and then walks on down to the next house.  Which, notably, is Agnes’s house.  But this is all scripted (no, it’s not), and so despite the fact that Dennis could have given Agnes her mail while they were chatting, he hasn’t; he still sticks it into the nice shiny mailbox leaning just over her white picket fence.
That Agnes came all the way to Wanda’s yard and Wanda’s fence just to get distracted with Dennis is….
“Oh, Wanda, don’t be so rude, dear,” Agnes says as Wanda stops on her front porch, finally turning to her.  She straightens her checker-print plaid dress, presses the wrinkles from it, and then looks up.  “I wasn’t flirting with anybody.  I was just being a good neighbor.”
Wanda’s eyes narrow.  “You fixed his tie, Agnes!  I didn’t just imagine that!”  She leans forward, hands on her hips.  “What would Ralph say?”
Agnes smiles, one brow raising.  “Oh, Ralph doesn’t mind, honey.  Honestly, I think he’d like it if I took some time out with Dennis.  Then I wouldn’t be messing with his bridge game!”  She smiles, all cheer, and pats Wanda’s chest the same way she’d tapped Dennis’s before fixing his tie.  Her smile fades all too quickly, though.  “Ralph never plays bridge,” she admits with a sad sigh.
“I can’t imagine,” Wanda starts to say, opening her front door and holding it open for Agnes to follow her, “your husband wouldn’t mind you having a…a fling with Dennis out there!”  She shuts the door behind her, does not avert her gaze from Agnes’s shapely backside, but masks her appraisal with a shocked face just as soon as Agnes begins to turn, walks past her in the hopes that Agnes doesn’t see anything.  “Men have a way of finding out, and they are never happy about it.”
She doesn’t catch Agnes noticing her, can’t see the smug, catlike expression that fades from her curled lips as she says, “You’re just talking about your Vision, hon.  Getting my Ralph to notice those sorts of things would take a good frying pan!”  To the head, she doesn’t say, but it’s there beneath it all.
Wanda hesitates.  “I’m not so sure Vision would notice,” she murmurs under her breath, and if this were actually a real show, she’d be saying it with a furrowed brow, pursued lips, one hand held up and one finger touching her chin – and she does all of this, yes, but in a show, the camera would be focused purely on her and then, subtly, picking up Agnes behind her, walking towards her.
In a show, Agnes wouldn’t have heard what Wanda said.  It would have been a secret, just for Wanda and the viewers, her imagined audience, and Agnes would ask her to repeat it, and Wanda would say, “Oh, nothing, nothing,” and then the show would continue on with amusing miscommunications where Wanda isn’t really doing anything flirtatious with anyone else in the slightest, but Vision thinks she is – in a clear denial of her assumptions that they would discuss right before turning on their evening show and staring at the screen with those adorable smiles of theirs as the credits roll.
Except, as much as Wanda wants this to be a show, and perhaps as much as she believes it to be one, it isn’t.
Agnes might not have heard what she said, but Agnes isn’t real.  Not really.
And Agatha hears everything.
So, yes, the fake camera might zoom in on Wanda and show Agnes walking up behind her, but every now and again, Agatha wants to step from the script Wanda would probably give her if she were writing Agnes’s script, wants to take it in a subtly different direction.
Agatha rests her chin on Wanda’s shoulder and says, voice soft, “Well, if Ralph won’t notice…and Vision won’t notice….”  Her hands snake around Wanda’s waist and then rest on her hips the same way that Wanda’s always rest on hers when she wants to push her one way or the other.  She leans closer, whispers so that her hot breath tingles Wanda’s ear, “…why don’t we give them a reason to be jealous, dear?”
Wanda gasps, hands curled in front of her, and turns, but by then, Agnes is nowhere near her.  She might not have even said anything at all.  Her brow furrows deeper.  “Did you…did you say something, Agnes?”
“I…I’m not sure,” Agnes says, eyes full of nothing but naïve innocence.  “What do you think I said?”
Wanda blinks twice.  “I....  Agnes, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were flirting with me.”  She steps forward, and Agatha notices how the script rolling through the other minds freezes, how the cameras (if there are any) stop filming (or, at least, focus elsewhere, on one of Vision’s office problems, something other than the two of them), how the broadcast almost seems to pause.  Wanda’s hands fidget together, messing with her short little apron, as she stops just in front of who she thinks is Agnes.  “You wouldn’t be so cruel, would you?”
Agatha reaches out, places a hand over Wanda’s to still them.  “Who said anything about being cruel, hot stuff?”
It’s the wrong time period for that.
For a moment, when Wanda glances up, she almost – almost – catches it.  Her brilliant emerald eyes meet Agatha’s aquamarine ones, search them.  Then her hands curve in Agatha’s, hold them gentle.  “Agnes, would it bother you too terribly if I….”  Her voice trails off.
“It’s alright, hon,” Agatha says, eyes wide as Agnes’s must be, nodding once.  “If you change your mind, we’ll just forget about this whole thing.”
Wanda nods, moves her hands from Agnes’s, reaches out, places them a little too high, and so smooths her touch from just beneath Agnes’s chest, along her waist, to rest at her hips.  Then she leans forward and kisses her.  It’s gentle, at first, and Agatha snakes her arms around Wanda’s neck, pulls her closer as Wanda opens to her, opens for her.
Agatha smiles into the kiss, maintains Agnes when Wanda pauses, and says, “Wow, hon.  You really feel that way about me?  No wonder you were so upset about Dennis—”
“Hush,” Wanda says, brushing her nose against Agnes’s.  “What was that you said about making Ralph jealous?” she asks, pinching Agnes’s waist, eyes flicking up from her lips to meet hers again, one hand tangling with the black ribbon cinching her dress.
Agatha bites her lower lip, feigning that giddy as a schoolgirl look, and smiles.  “Oh, Wanda, I can’t imagine a better use of my time.”
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agathashcrkness · 27 days
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Hidden Desire
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You feel incomplete, trapped, and can’t explain it. Maybe your good neighbour can show you why.
[ 18+ MINORS DNI, 50s!Soft!Older!Natasha, Innocent!Reader, Fingering, Dry Humping, Semi-Public Sex, Cheating, Squirting, Sexual Tension, Dirty Talk, Hatred of Men. ]
Moving to the small town, for your husband, has been nothing short of dull. You married him simply because he was nice, and it was seen as uncouth for a woman your age to remain unmarried. Uncontrolled by a husband, you think the world meant to say.
Of course, you struck lucky with your husband in most regards. He was never cruel, or vindictive, or abusive, at least physically. You knew about his dalliances with pretty much anything with a pulse and blonde hair, but after the second time, you had honestly stopped caring. As long as he catered to the bills, for you were unable to work, he was free to do what he liked. Who he liked.
The town was insular, a barely populated vacuum wherein everyone knew everyone else’s business, and it rubbed you the wrong way. Your husband had barely parked the car when you saw the sights of curtains twitching and lingering inquisitive stares from neighbours in your peripheral vision. You got out of the car, unconsciously straightening the line of your dress, still a bit self conscious about your appearance, especially under the gaze of so many eyes.
“Darling, the movers have already furnished the house, nothing to unpack here. Shall we go in?” The house itself was as the town was; plain and imposing. You nodded, biting your tongue at the many complaints about your life at this point that continued to build upon your tongue, and followed his guiding arm.
You had peace for all of 152 seconds. You had been counting them out of spite.
You moved to open the door, and a neatly made head of red hair greeted you, along with a wide and friendly smile.
“Hello! I’m Wanda, I wanted to be the first to welcome you to the neighbourhood. Myself and my husband, Vision, were the newest moved in. That is, until you!” She’s undeniably…happy to say the least, and you deflate internally, hoping she’s not a chatterbox. You exchange names quickly, and you want to immediately thank her for stopping by. She says there’s some kind of community gathering usually held over people’s houses; a game night or a potluck dinner, something like that. Your husband stalks up, tall as ever, and tells her that sounds great, that he’ll talk to the other husbands and find out when the next one is happening.
Thankfully, she leaves quickly, and all you want to do is rest, but your husband insists on talking to you, and you can hardly roll your eyes and deny him. “That would be nice, don’t you think? Get a chance to know the new community over something relaxed, rather than just going door to door introducing ourselves. That would be rather awkward, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, dear.” You sigh out hopelessly, knowing that he will either not pick up on or miss the tone of your voice entirely. He brushes past it, of course he does, trailing off about the importance of his new job. You can’t help it, but you find yourself unable to care. He’s not a bad man, but he’s terminally underwhelming in the contest of personality. You stand, saying you’re going to make dinner, and still he carries on.
A long dinner and a round of disappointing sex later, you’re staring at the ceiling in contemplation. Still, tomorrow is another day.
Tomorrow comes in the form of grocery shopping and continuing to avoid the prying eyes of ‘soon-to-be friends’. Your husband had called, something about Vision working in the same processing firm that he does, and that he offered up your home to host dinner sometime in the next month as a way to get to know the neighbours. You grit your teeth, telling him what a great idea it is with your best positive voice, and it’s like you can actually see him stand taller, telling you he knows it’s genius.
Of course, you needed to get some food for the two of you, but now you find yourself with the troubling task of shopping for a group of…10? 20? 50? How many body parkers are you going to be playing hostess to next week? What do they eat? Is anyone allergic to anything?
This is why you detest forced interactions like dinners. You’re still scowling as you reach for a can of chopped tomatoes, your hand coming into contact with a softer one, and a breathy chuckle leaving its owner. You turn, an apology ready on your lips at the unwanted contact, and are met with the most beautiful face you have encountered.
“Are you planning a creamy sauce for your husband as well?” She husks out, and her voice almost brings you to your knees in the middle of the goddamn grocery store. She’s beautiful, you think. Almost unnaturally so, and it ignites a warmth inside of you that you thought was either long extinguished or simply wasn’t to be ignited at all. You have many revelations screaming in your mind, but her captivating eyes are still on you, awaiting your answer.
“Uh…no. I’m just doing the general shop. I’m a planner, you know, I want to do everything at once. I’m a ‘you never be too prepared’ kind of person.” You’re rambling, that’s new to you. It’s like you’re physically unable to stop. Thankfully, she puts you out of your misery.
“You’re the new neighbour, correct? Across from Wanda and Vision, just beside the Harkness’?” Her words are questioning, but her tone is anything but. You see what she’s doing, trying to shift the conversation before your mind explodes from your constant thought-to-speech stream, and you send her a thankful gaze.
“Yes, I am. That reminds me, are you coming to the community dinner?” You ask.
‘The one I have barely come to grips with that I’m hosting’,you think dourly.
“I am. My husband and I will be joining you for dinner, so it’s kind of good to meet you outside of it, you know, because it will make it at least a bit less awkward.” She states calmly, and your heart sinks at the mention of her having a husband? But why does it? Of course she has a husband, look at her! You inhale sharply, trying to focus back on the topic at hand.
“Yes, actually it is. Do you have any allergies? I know it seems a bizarre question, but I’m not sure what to make, and I’m also not sure who’s allergic to what.” She smiles, pearly white teeth peeking out from behind plush lips, and you feel your heart speed up, cursing internally.
“I can help you there. The people with no allergies are my husband, Vision, and Ralph.”
“Ralph?” You question.
“Agatha’s husband. Now, Wanda has a minor allergic reaction to garlic, and Agatha can’t eat nuts without her tongue swelling up. Also, she detests seafood. Not an allergy, but trust me, you don’t want to get on her bad side.” Natasha replies, a shudder running through her at a previous memory of being on the receiving end of Agatha’s wrath.
It feels like you’re conspiring. She’s leaning in close, and you can smell the Chanel perfume she had put on, and see the colour of her lipstick more clearly. Suddenly, you feel 16 again, whispering to your friends under covers and in darkness, giggling at the thoughts. She makes you feel so…small. So young and fresh. It makes you want to fall in deep, but all you can do is stare at her, trying to hold onto the quite literally life saving information she’s giving you.
Never mind her delectable smell or perfect features.
She leans in impossibly closer, almost whispering; “I also have no allergies, doll. But I do love a good beef stroganoff.” With that, she straightens up, grabbing the can of chopped tomatoes and giving you a wink before sauntering off, leaving you thoughtless and gaping after her.
You shake your head clear and hurry off to the meat aisle.
——————————————————————————
Two weeks go by, you and Natasha meeting and talking more and more, getting to know one another privately, without the onlook of others. The dinner date is ever nearing, and you can’t help the small twinge of excitement that accompanies the thought of cooking for Natasha, someone you now consider a very good friend, even in the short time you’ve been in town.
Everything should be done, you think. It turns out that dinner would be a thankfully small affair; simply Agatha, Wanda, their husbands, and your husband.
And Natasha. And her husband.
You’re still intensely trying to figure out why Natasha having a husband makes you so…so…you can’t even think of a word deep and descriptive enough to describe the emotions. The timer goes off, just as the door is knocked. You move swiftly, knowing that your husband will help with neither situation, the mere thought of him being accompanied by irritation in your mind.
Why didn’t your husband make you feel?
Why did 5 minutes with Natasha make you feel more than your entire marriage?
The dinner cools off in the kitchen as you answer the door, Wanda and a mystery woman, presumably Agatha, standing, wearing matching smiles on the other side.
“Hiya, hon! Wanda, you sneak, you never told me she was such a model!” Agatha’s voice is confident and assured as you invite them both in, and her compliment has you blushing and lowering your head, a small smile overtaking your mouth.
“Agatha, let’s not embarrass the poor girl. Sorry about her, she sometimes forgets the better parts of social decorum.” A mock glare is sent to her by Wanda, and Agatha holds her hands up in mock surrender.
“Anyway, we wanted to come over earlier and see if you needed help with anything, darling. No woman should have to bear the brunt of it all on her own.” Wanda’s voice takes on an unimpressed quality, as if she’d had to deal with that before. You assume it’s the same as you; a useless, fickle husband. Great with general work, but unable to see when his wife is upset with him, even when she’s standing right in front of him. Agatha lays a comforting hand on Wanda’s shoulder, nodding in agreement, and Wanda visibly relaxes.
“I’m fine, thank you. But please, help yourselves to some drinks, and relax. My husband is in the lounge, but don’t mind him and make yourselves comfortable.” Your smile is painted on but cordial, and the two look knowingly between each other before leaving to do as you asked.
Another knock on the door reveals Natasha, and a strange man holding her arm. You clench your jaw subconsciously, and invite them in wordlessly. Natasha smiles at you, the dazzling grin lighting you up inside. You’re glad her husband merely nods at you in greeting before rushing off to talk with your husband jovially, both you and Natasha rolling your eyes, laughing at them with each other. You walk Natasha over to the other women, feeling somewhat self conscious as she looks over your home with a studious gaze.
“Your home is beautifully decorated, truly.” She breathes out, and you feel yourself relax, unsure as to why her opinion is held in such high regard in your mind. You’re just about to reply before a final knock rings out, causing Wanda and Agatha to sign dejectedly, confusing you as you walk to open it, Vision and Ralph standing before you.
Time moves forward, and now everyone is sat, the men chatting openly and loudly, leaving the women to ‘gossip’ as they see it. You emerge from the kitchen, dish in hand. Natasha’s face lights up, a knowing smirk crossing her face as she eyes the beef stroganoff being set down on the table, your face red as you meet her stare, and her smirk grows.
The dinner is peaceful, the men waxing poetic, the women finding them ridiculous. Soon enough, the dinner is polished off, many thanks and compliments being delivered to you, much to your delight. Natasha grabs you gently by the wrist, making sure you’re looking at her when she gives you her heartfelt thanks.
You almost faint at the sincere look you find swimming in her bewitching stare.
Making your way to the kitchen, you hear music filtering through from the record player. You pile the dishes into the dishwasher, the clanking of plates muffling the sound of the door opening, soft footfalls going also unheard by you as the owner approaches you.
The feeling of hands resting at your hips makes you groan, but not with pleasure.
“Honey…not here. Not now. There are guests, don’t start.” Your voice is tired and final, the words escaping from gritted teeth.
“Are you sure, dear? It could help you to destress.” That voice. The voice that certainly did not belong to your husband. The sultry quality sends shivers down your spine, the hands on your hips squeezing, and you’re powerless to resist at this point. It’s then you smell lingering traces of Chanel as she leans in close to your neck, her front slotting perfectly against your back.
“Tell me you don’t want this.” Her voice is teasing, breath fanning across your neck, and you have to ball your hands into fists to calm yourself. At your notable silence, Natasha braves a kiss onto your neck, and you can feel yourself slipping, a stifled moan escaping your pursed lips. The firm grip she has on your hips moves to your front and downwards, resting at the hem of your dress.
“Tell me you want this.” Her voice is gasping, breathless, and her lips are so close it’s intoxicating. If you turned your head and leaned just a bit, your lips would meet hers so delicately. You struggle to breathe because of all the sensations, but you quickly struggle through your answer.
“I want this.” You’re panting, but your answer is definite, no wavering. Natasha pulls you impossibly closer, one of her hands disappearing under your dress as she captures your lips. The simple act of a kiss from Natasha opens the floodgates for you. No amount of intimacy from your husband has made you even half as hot as one kiss and one touch from Natasha has, and Natasha must know it.
It has also made you almost embarrassingly wet, which Natasha will also know in a moment.
Her hands push your dress up so slowly, passing by your thighs and over your ass, resting at your hips. Natasha groans at the sight of your garters; white, as pure as she sees you. Logically, she knows that you must have slept with your husband, but to her it feels not like she’s taking your virginity, like men will, but rather she’s introducing you, like she’s sharing something with you. It’s how making love is supposed to happen, she muses. A joint experience, a joint effort. She glides her hands across your garters, smooth as liquid silk as she tells you as such.
“I would bet any amount of money I had that your husband is rather like mine. When the act of intimacy is brought up, they simply take. There’s no consideration for their partner’s pleasure, or even comfort.” She playfully snaps one of the belts against the skin of your thigh, making you gasp as her hips continue pinning you to the counter. It’s all happening so fast, but you can’t find a single reason to complain as she continues her movements.
“Tell me what you think about.” She pleads.
“What I think about?” You ask confusedly.
“When you touch yourself, baby. Tell me what goes through that pretty head.” The request stops all thoughts in your mind. You think back to the last time your hand had travelled down past the barrier of your panties, and you realise that this situation you find yourself in is exactly like your recent fantasies.
“Do you think of me?” She asks quietly, sounding almost vulnerable as she licks the shell of your ear.
“Tell me, little dove. Do you think of me when your fingers reach your quim? Undeniable pleasure coursing through you. Does my name leave those pretty lips as your fingers stroke yourself? Do you think of my fingers, my tongue?” She has hardly touched you, and you’re nearly in tears because of how erotic it all is. Your mind is growing fuzzy in the best way, and you nod furiously, hoping that that’s enough confirmation for her.
“I think of you too, my darling. At the dead of night, lay next to my husband, I whisper out your name as my release takes over. My legs shake and my cunt aches for you, the slickness between my thighs, all yours.” She’s whimpering into your neck, her hand finally cupping you. You moan, your loudest yet, and you thank the stars that the crooning of Brenda Lee drowns you out. Natasha groans at the wetness she finds, hips unconsciously thrusting into you, the air electric.
“Please, dear God. I need to have you, my sweet. Ever since we met, you have invaded my thoughts. I have pondered on how you feel around my fingers, how you would taste. How your moans would sound as you orgasmed again and again. How it would feel to run against you, our cunts pressed together. Please, tell me I can pleasure you. Let me bring you pleasure.” She kisses down your neck, hand still drawing circles over your now soaked panties, and you repent fully, all lingering thoughts of guilt or embarrassment leaving you as she reaches inside and cups your bare core.
“Thank you, my babe. My sweet, innocent one. Just let me make you feel good.”
One finger circles your clit, occasionally dipping down into your pooling wetness, teasing penetration before repeating the cycle. It’s humiliatingly quick, the speed at which you cave, begging for her to move inside of you, wishing for her to reach so far and deep inside of you that she grips your heart and never lets go. Those lithe fingers finally cross the barrier completely, two of them breaching you and slipping deep and snug inside of you. You reach for a tea towel, hurriedly biting into it to silence your scream. Natasha quickly pulls it away, filling the gap with her other hand before you had time to protest, fingers slipping through your mouth, mirroring her other hand’s actions.
You feel her starting to rub against your backside once more as she continues to pleasure you. You can’t help the feeling of whorish nature coursing through you; being bent over your own kitchen counter, being fingered by your older, married neighbour as she also uses your body for her own pleasure.
It’s enough to get you right to the edge of your first orgasm. The shame returning full force at everything about this event.
“I can feel what you’re thinking, dove. But I swear to you, this is perfectly natural. Our husbands do not give us the pleasure, the release we crave. So we must look elsewhere. No one can judge us for that, and no one will. Wanda and Agatha do the same thing. They won’t judge.” Natasha’s voice is exclusively soft whimpers and short gasps, and your mind explores what she has said, the image of Agatha and Wanda making love crossing your mind, making you flutter and clench around Natasha’s fingers, pushing your ass back and making her throw her head back. You quickly pull her fingers out of your mouth, concerned.
“Natasha, something feels off.” There’s a pressure building just above your pelvis, a foreign yet not undesirable feeling. You fear you’re about to wet yourself, and you start squirming against her, wriggling to escape. When she feels this, she holds you firm, speeding up her ministrations and snaking her other hand down to press against your lower stomach, and you bite back a yell.
“Natasha! Please, I’m gonna…” You trail off, not even being able to say the words to her, embarrassed. She chuckles against your shoulder knowingly, not letting you move an inch as she moves her hand unthinkably faster.
“Love, you’re about to orgasm. Nothing else. Please, clamp around my fingers. Chase your own pleasure. Feel it burn through you. Come for me, my doll.” The permission combined with the harsh bite she leaves just under your dress triggers your first orgasm. It’s electric, it’s intense. It’s nothing you have ever felt close to feeling, and you open your mouth in a silent scream, all oxygen leaving you as spots dance across your vision. The visual of you coming over her fingers sets Natasha off, her movements stilling against your hips as she comes in her own underwear.
Natasha holds you through it, moaning at the feeling of your juices leaving you, knowing you’ve just squirted onto her hand. She kisses you as you come down, trying to catch your breath, her tongue slipping past your lips and caressing your own. Her hand stills in you as you stop twitching, before pulling out gingerly, kissing you in apology as you wince.
“That was…” You can’t even begin to describe it. She smiles softly, spinning you around slowly and kissing you on the nose.
“Pleasurable.” She deadpans, and you laugh. You have no idea how long the both of you have been lost in your own world, the reality coming crashing down. The noise outside is still loud as she wraps her arm around your waist, the other bringing her soaked fingers up to her mouth and sucking harshly. You feel worked up once more at a simple visual, and you have a lot to think about because of all of this. But, for now, you settle for a final kiss before you rejoin the others. The girls cheer as you return, handing the both of you drinks and Agatha almost commanding that you sit. With the newfound knowledge about them, the command makes you flush, dipping your head to cover yourself as you take a drink.
“Finally!” Natasha’s husband’s voice cuts through the gentle atmosphere, grating to your ears and, judging by her venomous glare, Natasha’s also.
“Sorry. I got a bit turned around and luckily someone was there to help me.” She doesn’t even look at her husband, eyes trained on you, and you give a soft smile in response.
“Ah, cool your jets, you know how the women are with each other.” Your husband replies, laughing.
“Don’t we just.” Wanda speaks up, looking between you and Natasha, Natasha giving an imperceptible nod towards her. Wanda’s eyes light up at the confirmation as she leans over to whisper something in Agatha’s ear. Agatha’s eyes widen for a moment before her gaze returns to the both of you, an impressed look crossing her features as she nods in congratulations. Their reactions make you laugh, still feeling thoughtless because of your orgasm, and you’re basking in the afterglow. The women laugh with you, knowing exactly what you’re feeling, Natasha’s head coming to rest on your shoulder.
The men, as always, remain clueless.
Eventually, the night has to end, the husbands saying they have work in the morning and cannot stay longer, saying goodby with firm handshakes, smiles, and slaps on the back. You grab the tray of empty glasses, almost dropping them when you notice Natasha and your husband talking, her pointing over to you as she’s speaking. Panic courses through you, but then you see your husband smiling and nodding.
She couldn’t have told him.
You breathe out in relief as you enter the kitchen again.
Another presence is behind you once more.
“I asked your husband if you could join our book club, darling. Of course, a smart one like you can figure out that we won’t be reading.” She husks out, and you’re nodding furiously, thinking about it already.
“It sounds fun, Natasha. I can’t wait.”
“Neither can I, dear. I’ll be counting down the seconds. I think that Wanda and Agatha are curious about you, but forgive me. I want you all for myself.” A swift harsh kiss is planted upon your lips, and she’s smiling against you as she feels how eagerly you kiss her back. She’s falling hard and fast for you, already dreaming of your tightness once again.
“I like that.” You murmur against her lips, and she pulls away reluctantly.
“Until the next time, my sweet.” She laments.
“See you, Natasha.” You reply, and just like that, she’s back into her husband’s arms and out your door. You sigh, heart already feeling heavy due to her absence.
The smell of Chanel follows you into bed, making you smile.
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lifespectator · 4 months
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Wanda takes Y/n to her gingerbread house
Wanda: Everything you see here is edible.
Y/n, eyeing up Wanda: Everything?
Wanda, under her breath: Everything.
Agatha: Do ya'll think before you speak?
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3K notes · View notes
wmarximoff · 4 months
Text
(she will always be) a broken girl | w. maximoff
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summary: life away from home is good, and you're studying at the college of your dreams; however, your new neighbor is loud, irritating and a person who doesn't respect boundaries. and, also, is your ex-girlfriend from high school, Wanda Maximoff.
warnings: lots of cursing, smoking, drinking, very brief mentions of smut, mentions of physical parental abuse, mentions of homophobia, angst, fluff.
pairing: Wanda x fem!reader
word count: 14k
A/N: and I'm back guys! I hope you guys like this, because I certainly enjoyed writing it!
|masterlist|
༺ᱬ༻
There's a thump on the wall behind your head, followed closely by a strident, full-bodied laugh and yet another dry bump, like a deferred hammer blow to a wet rag.
And then an eager conversation that goes back and forth around your head, which turns into lively, intelligible buzzes when muffled by a thin wall, which gives way to another round of drunken giggling like two intoxicated hyenas, as if the competition on the other side of the plaster, pipes and bricks were who could laugh the most without losing their breath first.
You open your eyes, but maybe you just haven't closed them quite yet. Your eyeballs sting as if carpeted by a thin dusty layer of sand that crinkles behind your eyelids, crying out for the sleep that never came, staring up at the white ceiling lit by the bluish luminosity coming from a streetlight outside.
Rolling lethargically to one side in your sheets, half grunting as you do so, your actions are shrouded in a thick veil of torpor; your tired left fingers grope vaguely on the pale wood dresser set beside your bed, and it is after considerable effort all blindly made in the helplessness of your dark room that you finally find the frozen plastic of your phone, that is plugged into the charger socket.
The white glow burns your retinas for half a second when you press the side button with the cheek of your thumb and unlock the screen half a foot away from the tip of your nose. Large digitized thin numbers show the time of 01:19 am. And you wonder who’s the goddamn bastard who would be making so much noise at 1:19 am on a full Monday, as if they were going to demolish the damn wall above your head.
Or a late Tuesday morning, in fact, your drunken brain kind of thinks so. But whatever, nobody cares.
You just know that you need a good night's sleep, and that your muscles are crying out for the much-needed relaxation found in the soft sheets of your bed, something that in the last week has seemed so difficult to achieve even while still inside your own home, your own apartment.
Life was placid, peaceful even, calm in the most acute sense of the word until it found its so fateful epilogue at the beginning of the last week. With the beginning of the college semester came the moving of your new next door neighbor (on the left), from who you don't even know what their face looks like, but who you sure know likes to enjoy life as if every day is the last one. Your healthy sleep has sickened and died on this neighbor's doorstep, so it's likely that each day will indeed be your last as long as your door is next to them.
And it's even odd for you, because your routine has been pretty much the same since you left the bliss of the small Westview, New Jersey (population 6,685), your birthplace and home, to go to college in the big city as soon as you got your high school diploma by shaking the headmistress' hand, three years ago or so.
Your day consists of working in the morning at a coffeeshop that has accepted your meager résumé as a recent high-school graduate and pays just enough to keep you from freezing or starving to death, a handful of classes to pay attention to in the afternoon, and overnight, after a few more hours of work, feed Loki, your grumpy black cat, and study for some upcoming test after having dinner on cereal with milk or instant noodles and drinking a bottle of cheap beer just because you can.
Sleep and repeat, one day after another.
But then it came, as the prelude to the descents of your peacetime; the thunderous beats and the guttural laughs, the intoxicating reek of smoked cigarettes one after the other, and the loud tunes of some distorted heavy guitar in an alternative rock song, engaged in a melodic voice that moans pro-sex and anti-system obscenities (and that actually, you kind of agree with that part).
But that mysterious person behind the wall is like a specter, a ethereal ghost, a foreboding sign that comes to haunt only at night, to torment and keep you from laying your head to rest against your pillow. And you know things aren't quite right with you because yesterday you burned the skin of your own hand by falling asleep propped up on the machine in the process of brewing a big, double espresso for a mean-looking man in a suit.
It's when the sound starts (and gets louder, and gets even louder after that, almost in the form of a rant) that you decide it's enough – the wall swelling with the sounds coming from behind it. Something in you comes undone in a bust, like a pulled thread that snaps in half from the tension at both ends, and the sleepless nights of the last week simply become too much to bear.
"You gotta be fucking kidding me..."
With your right hand you pull your covers to the side, and your bare feet nearly trample a sleeping Loki who's lying beside your bed like a pillow you accidentally dropped, and then you stand up, stretching your legs.
The cat meows in obvious displeasure when being woken up, straining with his front paws, but you just poke him in the side with the tip of your big toe.
“Sorry buddy, but I really need some sleep and this asshole next door isn't helping much.”
Your knees are bare, and your shoulders are tense as you step out of your tiny room into the single hallway, even scrawnier than your own room, and you go to your door, jerk it open, and then, marching like a general, you take about six or seven steps to the left to the side door, where the alternate metal song leaks through its cracks.
You knock once with your bent right fist, moving your wrist joint back and forth, but there is no immediate response and you just want to break down that door like your neighbor wants to break down your wall. Nor is there an eventual answer, when your good manners compel you to expect non-existent cooperation from this noisy stranger.
And you let out a cavernous grunt, plotting a lapse of hot rage inside you, feeling the tips of your ears and the skin of your shoulders smolder like embers.
“C’mon, open the damn door! I know you’re there! You can literally hear the music all the way down the hall, what the hell!”
And annoyance starts bubbling up inside you like magma inside a volcano about to erupt, growing and expanding in size, and then you hit it a second time, and then a third time, and you're barely counting how many times you knock on that damn door until you threaten to knock again (the side of your hand hurts), but then the door opens and your hand hangs in midair, like you're holding the handle of an invisible lantern.
You don't even hesitate to regurgitate, still half asleep and definitely very pissed off, the stress evaporating from inside you.
“Look here,” you begin to wiggle with your chest full of air and your cheeks burning, reciting the speech that has been stuck in your throat for about five or six days, “I know you probably have no idea or don’t care, I don't know which of the two options and honestly I don't give a damn about what you think, but some people around here tend to wake up early–”
And you blink at the figure in the doorway, a young girl with long dark hair who looks to be around your age. And she blinks back at you. And whatever you were going to say next, but the words die and wither behind your tongue, drying up in your throat. And you crease with the flash of skin between your eyebrows, as if you were facing some macabre apparition like in a horror movie.
“Wanda…?” a thoughtless whisper comes out of you that, without an effort, you would never have found actually slipped out of your lips, and not from some other person standing in the hallway that you just didn't see was there.
And it's like an atomic bomb being dropped from the skies on top of a city, because you see her (really see her), gorgeous and tangible, standing in front of you like a memory of your past, and your sleeping, irritated brain beeps and stops when your stomach drops, because your skin tingles as awareness leans over you and you realize that your incognito neighbor is, actually, an old acquaintance from a time you'd rather forget.
A time that you left behind, that you buried six feet from the ground and veiled and moved on after the due period of mourning paid in honor of your adolescence.
And the infectious smile she carries around the contour of her peach lips, with an air of excited laughter referring to a funny story still fresh on her features, fades, withers, and sets to dust when a glint of identification as helpless as yours breaks amidst her emerald irises, adorned by a smoky black eyeliner – the heavy makeup that looks like it was applied a long time ago, hours and hours behind the clock.
The atomic bomb dropped on the city exploded.
“Y/N...” she whispers your name, trying to understand, scrunching up her dark brows, and something in you breaks, “What are you... what are you...?”
“Wanda?” a male voice calls from behind her shoulder, intertwined with the sound of loud rock and the sour scent of cigarette ash, “Who is it? It’s late.”
And such a voice, to your deepest misery, is recognizable to your ears as if it were part of a second nature cloistered within you, of course – you would never forget the light chest, the quiet contentment that carried you during your days of youth, when you were part of the school's literature reading group and the debate club. Her shy smile and his voice carried by his native Eastern European accent.
Your onetime girlfriend, and your former best friend, the immigrant neighbors who moved in next door to you during your freshman year of high school. And you remember kissing her open-mouthed in the backseat of their father's car (by that time she already tasted like cigarettes and tears) and drinking hot beer with him behind the local gas station.
“No fucking way, Y/N!”
Pietro Maximoff is the one who calls out your name, passing his twin sister and almost bumping into Wanda Maximoff's left shoulder, who is motionless like a marble statue, as if her soul has left the shell that is her beautiful, (but) empty body.
And wearing nothing but a plain skinny blouse and sporty shorts that do nothing to cover your bare thighs, you feel suddenly exposed in front of the pair of siblings who should have stayed far away, buried in your past along with all of Westview. You don't want them to see you.
You don't want her to see you.
“Dude, what are the chances of us finding you around here, huh? It's been a long time, what the hell! And we are neighbors again, just like before!” he kind of chuckles to himself at his own line, his accent already faded, “I mean, Wanda is your neighbor again. But hey, are you here for college? I remember you got that approval letter! NYU, right?”
“Yes, I...” you whisper, half babbling, blinking sleep and shock out of your lingering brain, “I... yeah...”
You look at him, who has now grown a beard around his chin and bleached his short hair to a platinum silver tone, once the owner of streaks in a profuse coffee-brown color like the pretty hue that adorns the long beams on her head (he seems to be more of a man's bearing than a boy's per se), and your troubled gaze migrates towards Wanda, who is the only one of the two Maximoff twins who truly comprehends the core of your dazed silence, matched by a remorseful look that she hides behind her hair as she turns her chin appallingly to the side – because she knows, you know, and he doesn't.
He never knew. Nobody ever knew. She made sure no one ever knew.
Just as no one ever knew you ran off with Pietro in the middle of the night to drink cheap beer and eat cheeseburgers behind the gas station, no one ever knew you kissed the taste of red-filtered cigarettes on Wanda's tongue in the back of their father's car.
“And why did she break up with you?”
It's Yelena Belova who asks you the very next morning, your coworker and classmate alike, a friend for life, as her elbows work back and forth with the wooden handle of the wet mop that slides across the linoleum flooring in one fluid, continuous action, because today is her day to mop the floor and only tomorrow is yours, according to the appointment on the calendar adjacent to the staff room wall at the back of the store.
The two of you wear polo shirts on your torsos and similar aprons tied around your waists, the pieces arranged in the same shades of black and green and, behind the glass counter, which in turn has an array of sweet and savory to go with a cup of coffee, you growl lamely, like a grizzly mad dog that doesn't want to let go of the tennis ball in its mouth.
It's still fifteen minutes (and counting) before the store opens to a new wave of morning clients, and you just don't want to talk about your ex-high school sweetheart so early in the morning, even after a long sip of fresh coffee. Not after seeing her before you, (still as stunning, as enchanting, still as detestable as she was almost three years ago), in a dreadful revelation that the noisy, irritating, maddening neighbor, all this time, was just Wanda; an ex-girlfriend behind the door who distanced you from her.
But Yelena looks at you with keen amber eyes that gleam with insistent curiosity, pushing you over the edge, and your cup of coffee with shots of warm milk suddenly looks more interesting than your blonde friend who mops the floor under her feet.
“Homophobic rich dad, 'it's not you, it's me', stuff like that,” you mutter grudgingly from behind your drink, before shrugging your shoulders as if in a bogus performance of indifference.
“I mean, at least that's what she told me. You know, by text message. Three damn days before our senior prom, when everything was ready for us to go together. Just a single text message of four, five lines, whatever.”
And you take another sip of coffee, which even though it's soft against the milk, now feels as bitter as a crumbling lump of earth against the face of your tongue.
“Ouch,” Yelena exclaims in a falsely offended tone that smacks of laughter, “What a bitch.”
“Don't even tell me,” you muss, not being able to mask the wrath still pulsing in your tone, staring at the dark plastic lid that covers your paper coffee cup, “Just one hell of a bitch.”
“But hey, strict rich dad and mean teenage daughter, huh? Such a cliché.” She still mops the floor as she talks.
“Yeah, I guess,” you take a sip of coffee, “Erik Lester, Lehnsherr, any shit like that, whatever. He's a businessman, does something involving magnets, I don't know. All I know is that he has, like, a lot of money.”
Yelena mutters in agreement even though she has no idea who this much-hated father figure is, silently indicating that she is setting the stage for the continuation of your speech.
“She only met him after her mother died when she and Pietro were about ten years old, when they had to leave Sokovia. And like, the guy is a real asshole, I won't deny it, and he and Wanda never had a good relationship from what she told me and from what I've seen and heard, either. Sometimes I could hear his screams through my bedroom window.”
And you remember her crying, so beautiful and so broken at such a young age, the makeup smeared around her eyeballs that glistened in stinging tears, a black thread of eyeliner trail running down her ever so sharp cheekbones her as she crept out in your bedroom window, into the comfort of your arms or into your fogged-up car, searching for cigarette smoke through the desert streets of the small town, during the nights lit by the neon of streetlights and headlights.
And then, in a rather bittersweet mental parallel, you realize that you could never sleep properly while in the presence of Wanda, who is a nocturnal animal, a source of red energy – like a dream that came to torment you, disappearing along with the first cracks of sun to rise in the morning.
“I always thought she did those things – the clothes, the music, the cigarettes – to piss him off. And she did, yeah. He was very pissed off about all these things. The two were always up in arms in that house. But if there was one thing she was afraid of, it was that he would find out she liked girls. She was terrified of coming out to him. So she didn't come out to anyone. She didn't… she never assumed me to anyone.”
You gird your lips in a straight line, ending the sentence in a den of resentment that weighs heavily on the tip of your tongue; both your forearms braced on the clear face of the counter's reinforced glass, the half-full coffee cup placed in the space between your wrists.
“I thought that because we were together for the entire senior year it was going to work out, you know, me and her.”
Yelena looks at you from behind the counter, and there's an air of pity that envelops her facial expression, but that you prefer to just ignore as you focus your gaze on the rings that line the length of your fingers. Wanda wears these too.
“That thing we had, even if it was just between the two of us, it all felt so… right. So natural. Like, we were going to graduate and leave, weren't we? There was no reason to give up like that. It was me and her. Just the two of us. But then... then came the time for the prom.”
You sigh, as in a vicious memory. For a minute your vision threatens to cloud with smothered tears, but you blink them back from your eyelashes.
“And she freaked out and ditched me. Went with that stupid Jarvis Stark guy, an English idiot, son of Erik's business partner or some shit like that. And, well, I left town after that. Moved on. And now here I am, making coffee for rude people who barely look me in the face and having to deal with you bothering me all morning.”
Your voice is teasing, wrapped in a mockery that befits the goofy grin that breaks at the corner of your lips, and the young blonde girl half-laughs at you, swinging her high ponytail to back of her head.
“And now she's your noisy neighbor. Call it romantic.” Yelena reminds you in a voice full of petulant innuendo in an irritating retort, raising her thick, dark brows to the middle of her forehead.
You grunt against the plastic lid of your coffee cup.
“Ugh, please don't remind me of that right now, I don't want to think about it anymore.”
You can almost feel the heavy, dark bags under your droopy eyes, the sleepless nights weighty on the bones of your spine – but the young blonde woman smirks, having stopped mopping the floor for a good few minutes now.
“I'm pretty sure that would make a great plot for a low-budget romcom, if you ask me. One of those twin actresses could play her in the movie. She kinda looks like them, doesn’t she?”
“Yelena!”
“But it's true!” your friend laughs at your earnest displeasure, “But hey, maybe you can sneak into her apartment for the night and make her make it up to you for the prom. Or those sleepless nights, if you know what I mean.”
You blink in lethargic action, looking towards her.
“I swear I'm going to spill coffee on the floor you just cleaned if you don't stop pissing me off, Belova.”
The empty, hard blue plastic laundry basket rests against the right side of your hip bone, slithering against the waistband of your baggy, light jeans as you descend step by step on the concrete stairs that lead toward the laundry room in the building, located on the underground floor of the condominium residence.
The weight of the tiring day of flawed sleep still weighs on the muscles of your back, but you know the neighbors will nag like macaws if your laundry spends another day that takes possession of the washing machine again.
But it's late at night, past ten o'clock, so there's no one to be found in front of the sextet of washing machines that are still side by side against a white wall, like cars parked in a large parking lot. Your sneakers bounce against the black-and-white checkered linoleum floor as your left index finger presses the face of the switch, turning on a half-eerie, icy white light that flashes once and then stops right above your head.
You move without circumlocution, nonchalantly, walking toward the middle machine, and open the circular hatch to take out your now-clean, though damp, clothes.
But along with your clothes, you notice, with a curious and uncertain look, that there seem to be other pants and shirts that don't actually make up your wardrobe – in a way, such pieces don't even match your personal style, and you certainly don't remember putting them there in the first place.
Just take a single pair of tall black cotton socks between your fingers and something catches your eye, like a candle burning in the dark. Your eyebrows crease in the middle of your forehead, like a big question mark.
And, with the tips of your curious left fingers, you make your way to the hollow interior of the large domestic appliance to pull out, from inside, a thin red lace panties like the petals of a rose that is certainly not yours, hovering with the tiny piece in front of your eyes in midair – but you soon know whose it is when you realize that you already know that lingerie, the identification hovers like a crimson fog in front of your brain.
“For fuck’s sake...”
It's a beautiful piece that you bring close to your face to check, a cotton adorned with well-crafted details in the fabric and that, in the past, would be nothing more than purely sexy, which would incite libidinous feelings that would spark into the your chest and between your legs; but something in you inflates, bursts and goes flying, because you know whose alabaster thighs are from which you yourself have already taken those same panties, only to head towards the center wet with liquids of pleasure.
And you squeeze the damn red lace between your fingers, in a fist shape, like you're choking a chicken's skinny neck. A gust of hot air is expelled between your nostrils like steam coming out of a factory chimney.
So you turn on your heels and march toward the stairs, your cheeks burning in a snarling amalgamation of smoldering shame and volcanic rage, and six flights are a blur that burns your calf muscle as you walk hard to the second floor of the building, crossing the empty hallway in evenly spaced footsteps, like a guided missile aimed at the door next to yours on the left.
 The shiny metal of the numerals “1” and “9” attached to the center of the oak wooden door is what most attracts your solicitous attention when your closed fist knocks just above the handle; the round piece, large and gold, like a Christmas ornament the size of an apple or a clenched fist, you still holding the red garment in the palm of your hand placed to the side of your hip encased in the waistband of your jeans.
When footsteps are heard inside and Wanda comes to open the door, this time with her pretty face cleansed back to its natural state, devoid of the characteristic heavy makeup she usually puts on, it doesn't surprise you at all that she has a lit cigarette tucked between the fingers of her right hand, which has fingernails lacquered with a sober black polish that has peeled off the neatly cut and sanded ends.
“Y/N, what do you– do you have any idea what time it is, damn it?! It’s almost midnight!”
“What time is it? What time is it?! Look who's talking, for God's sake!”
When you brandish it with your hand, the underwear wobbles and it's only then that you remember that you still have it in your possession, and that seems to be able to irritate you even more.
“And is this yours by any chance?!” Holding the thin red strap just pressed between the tips of your forefinger and thumb, you lift the panties up to her face.
There's a curiously surprised frown in a flash of white skin between her dark brows, a light of disagreement circling the jade green of Wanda's eyes as they gaze at the underwear presented to her by you.
“What– what do you think you're doing with my panties, you creep?!” The accusatory tone in her voice, curled in thick cigarette smoke, is enough to pop a nerve in your neck.
“Creep?!” you whimper in thunderous rage, “I’m the goddamn creep?! You’re the one who put your underwear to wash with my clothes, you’re the creep in this whole situation! You creep!”
“What–?” Wanda looks at you like you're just insane, going into a snarky defensive pose, “I–I didn't do that!”
“Oh, of course,” your voice drips with angry sarcasm, “Your lingerie just decided to come out of the other washing machine and into the one I'm using. Seriously, Wanda, you've been better at lying before, I swear–”
“Look Y/N, I may have been confused, but I just moved here–”
“I don't,” your voice rises to match hers, ending whatever now-finished excuse that would come out of Wanda's mouth, “I don't wanna fucking know. I don’t care! Just– just take this and please don't bother me anymore!”
And there's barely a window that takes in the time it takes for the young woman with the jade eyes to plan with her brain an answer so her mouth can modulate it to you, because you crumple the red garment against her chest hidden inward the worn material of a loose-fitting band shirt that had faded to a tawny gray (that she had once sworn it was black), before turning around and, without giving her undue satisfaction, you head back toward the stairs that lead to the lower floor.
But you're barely ten or fifteen paces away from her door before Wanda's voice echoes across the hall, reverberating through the walls into your eardrums, through your muscles and your bones.
“Very mature, you asshole! How fucking old are you, five?!”
And you're just done dealing with her shit.
“Fuck you!” you bark like a shot in a game of table tennis and, without looking back, lift your elbow to your ribs, holding up the middle finger of your right hand for Wanda to see and take offense.
A shocked gasp comes from afar, but before she can even respond to you in a burst of rather naughty insults, there's the click of another door that opens at the end of the hall, and a third surly neighbor appears in a guttural rage as he engages in an unseemly bickering with Wanda ("It's late, shut the fuck up!" and "Go mind your own fucking business!" is the least that reaches your ears) while you, in full of silence and without giving much thought to the exchange of sharp curses between the young girl and an old gray-haired man from apartment sixteen, just turns the corner and walks down the stairs, trotting back to the laundry room.
Your right foot in your white sneaker taps arrhythmic to a distressed beat on the checkered linoleum floor, as you wait for the dryer to drying your clothes, your unflinching gaze staring at the silver device as it emits a round hum, your forearms interlaced down your chest, pressed against your rib cage, your shoulders stiffening in a recurring muscular tension from the episode of anger still fresh in your body.
When carefree footsteps echoes down the stairs, you don't stare toward the door of the laundry room because you only know who's approaching when the uncompromising scent of tobacco, smoke and strawberry moisturizer catches your nostrils, prompting a fearless grunt and an avid eye roll on your part.
Wanda carries a red plastic laundry basket with her, and doesn't exchange a word with you as she takes her clean clothes from the washing machine you've just used.
“It was a mistake, you know.”
For a moment, you think she's talking about your relationship. After all, it makes sense to imagine that this assumption is correct; your relationship with her was indeed a mistake, you know and imagine that she thinks so too. But her voice comes in a few seconds within the silence interspersed between the groans of the dryer machine, and she seems even half embarrassed as she doesn’t look directly at you, prickled into an almost intelligible thread.
You remain in terse silence as she gives it another try.
“It was an accident Y/N, that's all.”
But there's not a single answer that comes from you, and you don't even fix your proud gaze on Wanda, even though, with your nerves already chilled and your head clear away from the drowning fog of anger that seemed to have caught you in blind rage, you have realized that you have been quite unnecessarily rude to your new neighbor, your old lover.
“What do you want me to say, huh?” she claims your gaze, staring sideways at your profile, “That I'm sorry? Even by a stupid accident? All right, look, I apologize. I’m sorry. Now can you at least look at me, Y/N?”
But no, you don't look at her. And her shoulders sag in a sure sign of defeat.
When the machine finally dries your clean garments that smell sweetly of a softener pleasing to the senses, you pick them up, fold them, and place them in your blue hamper without uttering a word to make your actions light. And, walking behind Wanda carrying the basket on your hip, nonchalantly as if the girl in the cherry-red denim shorts were just an intangible ghost, you leave the laundry room—her gaze burns into the sore muscles of your back as you do.
Your nights are spent listening to loud music and smelling of toasted tobacco, and it's been a while since you've been able to watch TV anymore because of the loud noise from the neighbor next door. Maybe she's playing a tantrum, maybe she has no idea how life works in an apartment complex. But even Loki is more skittish by the lack of sleep that prompts his already grumpy nature.
The long scratch mark that grows angry red on your right forearm, towards the inside of your elbow, says a lot about how you and your cat have been having a rather toxic relationship on the feline’s part.
The early afternoon is engulfed by a partially warm climate, with a mild temperature, but even so, you chose to grab a sweater from your hanger, just before leaving the house early enough not to run into Wanda in the hallway, as had happened on a few unfortunate occasions since then – once when you went to meet a Thai food delivery boy and she was taking out the trash, and another time when you were leaving for work and she was arriving from whatever she'd spent the night before, looking a little woozy as she tried (and failed) to unlock her apartment door.
Carrying your backpack on your shoulders, your elbows tucked into your ribs and both your hands raised, squeezing the outline of your fingers adorned by a handful of silver rings through the dark straps. You walk in measure with Yelena's footsteps, who treads to your right, dressed in a stylish yellow flannel coat crisscrossed with gray and white stripes, and Kate Bishop, the tall girl with dark hair tied back from the of her head, who comes close to your left shoulder – the three of you heading towards the classroom befitting your third period Wednesday schedule.
“Man, I can't believe Nat actually became a cop,” is what Kate says in an indignant tone, addressed to Yelena.
“I mean, like, she's your sister, you know? And you’re so– so, so politically engaged! Besides, you are Russians, you should know about these things! Isn't your dad like, an anti-cops die-hard communist or something?”
“That literally says absolutely nothing,” Yelena answers her crookedly, wrinkling the skin on her nose, “Your mom is a goddamn CEO and yet you don't see me charging you about all the capitalist shit she does in her office.”
“But is different!” Kate exclaims back, almost offended, “My mom isn't like, that Howard Stark guy or something. She's just—”
“Rich,” spits the blonde girl, “She’s rich. She’s filthy rich. So yeah, she's kinda like him.”
“It’s different!”
“It's no different, Kate, I'm sorry,” you finally say to the girl in the purple blouse and ripped gray jeans, who just grunts in a pained, giving up response.
But it's when you turn the corner of a hallway that Kate turns to you with a certain air of curiosity that hovers over her actions.
“But hey Y/N,” she calls your name, and you turn your head towards her deep-brown eyes, “Is it true?”
“What exactly is true, Kate?” you blink in confusion towards her.
“That a crazy ex of yours moved in next door to you.”
One of your eyebrows rises in dubious ambiguity. You don't remember saying anything to Kate concerning Wanda, nor your disastrous relationship with the said Sokovian girl.
“How...?” but your train of thought soon traces towards Yelena, your confidant who lately is so close to Kate, who is also unnaturally quiet beside you, “Wait, did you tell her, Yelena?!”
“W-what? Sooner or later she would find out about it!” as the blonde girl shrugs her shoulders into the fabric of her yellow coat, you let a disgruntled grunt escape your lips.
Great, you allow yourself to think in an exhausted mindset, that's just great. What you most needed now is for people to know about your intimate life.
Not that the young Bishop heiress isn't a dear friend of yours, but it just so happens that you've only met her a few months ago, and it's not customary for you to open your heart to someone you're not so close to – for example, Yelena herself, who you've known for almost two years only became a close figure of your in the last eight months or so spent in each other’s company.
“I mean, everybody kinda knows that now...”
Kate says in a tiny voice, but it's not low enough to go unnoticed by your hearing or, for that matter, even by Yelena's ears, who scolds the other girl, exasperating a loud “Dude!” that echoes through the entire hall.
Your hands certainly yearn to strangle your friend in the coat who walks close to your right shoulder, to squeeze her neck which is adorned by thin and stylish chains in a good taste for fashion, but your fingers are content to just hold on enfolding the backpack straps that circle your shoulders, as your chin turns toward Yelena.
“Who else did you tell it to, huh?” but when the silence is lasting, your patience that is already running short insists on pressing the girl with the white backpack, “Who else knows about it, Yelena?”
“Well,” she starts, a little embarrassed, a little hesitant.
“Like, first of all, in my defense, it's not my fault you're an antisocial weirdo who doesn't go out to drink with us! But you know how it is, we went out with Natasha and Peter and Kamala this weekend and we went to this Irish pub that I keep saying you'll like, and I may or may not have had a shot or two more than the usual and, well... they started asking about you, well... and shit happens.”
“Shit happens,” you repeat in a half-tired, half-incredulous tone of voice, “Shit happens, sure.”
“Sure,” she repeats, before quickly adding a few more names to the list, “I mean, that Quill guy from the football team showed up with his girlfriend too, and Carol arrived later with Maria and Darcy, and then one of them called Jane and Brunnhilde, and then—”
“Ugh, okay, I get it, please don't continue,” you grunt, squeezing your eyelids together in pain, suddenly feeling several eyes turning to you as you cross the hall on a walk of shame, “Everyone knows.”
“Yeah, kinda everyone knows, yeah,” Yelena's tone is soaked in contrite agreement, and she shrugs her shoulders that carry the straps of her white backpack, “Sorry, dude.”
“No, it's okay,” you force plastic optimism out of your mouth, imagining that if you say it out loud the words will come true, “Everything's perfectly fine.”
Over their shoulders, Kate and Yelena exchange a worried glance.
But a few minutes pass after such a conversation had passed through the halls of the university with the other two girls dressed in the yellow coat and the purple jacket, and you can barely get your brain to focus on the mental activity of understanding the words uttered by Ms. Harkness's mouth, who dramatically cries out to the entire class of thirty or forty students as she gestures in a Shakespearean manner with her hands, waving her thick, long brown hair back and forth as she does – she was always a dramatic type, despite her genuine sympathy for students of her liking.
And even later that day is when you find yourself in the cafeteria's bathroom, rinsing the soap foam that lathers your palms under running tap water, when the door of a booth on your right opens, and you hadn't even realized there was anyone else there but yourself.
And your rib bones feel like they want to rip through the tissue in your lungs as you look up from the sink, only to realize that the figure in the open red sweatshirt and black miniskirt is Wanda, heading for a sink next to the left to the one you use to then squeak the record between her fingers and start the action of washing her own hands of matte black enamel nails.
You just want to blink and realize that it's an illusion, a mirage, a product of your twisted mind that hasn't been sleeping well and that you're certainly thinking too much about her, who is now your neighbor.
But she doesn't go away even as your eyelids open and close, once, twice, three times, and a hot, tangled thread rises from the muscle of your shoulders to the outline of your neck, crisscrossing your cheekbones and the tips of your ears.
The prickly anger that bristles your skin is like a hard, prickly grip around your throat, and a lump of flesh and gall weaves inside your larynx. The tips of your clipped nails scratch the palm of your left hand a little harder than necessary; the girl standing next to you is like a spark, and you are like a haystack.
And the ember burns loudly, almost even emanating smoke from the top of your head, as the melodiously unassuming voice in her usual low pitch echoes through the floor and the tiled walls.
“There's been word out there that your crazy ex moved in next door to you, did you know?” says Wanda, still looking at her wet, soapy hands.
You try to bite the words before they come out, but it's inevitable that you'll respond in the same tone.
“And what are you even doing here to begin with, huh? Have you become a stalker or something? That's kinda sad, even for you.”
And she half-laughs, which causes the blood in your body to leak to your head, but also to other rather unwanted locations in your lower organs.
“People have the right to study at this university. It's not all about you, Y/N,” you rub your hands together harder, “I mean, unless it's about your crazy ex. Then I think it's about you like, for real.”
And your tongue is quicker to rise to the roof of your mouth than your brain is to censor whatever it is you're about to regurgitate in the form of an insult, when the quick response comes in a reactionary backhand to the girl with the jacket of a deep shade of red like wine.
“Well, those rumors aren't even true. Because, you know, to have a crazy ex-girlfriend I would need to have had an official, public relationship, and as far as I can remember, I've never had that with anyone,” your saliva is bitter between your teeth, “So I don't think I need to worry about these rumors. It’s just gossip that everyone will eventually forget, anyways.”
You turn off the faucet on your use and Wanda does the same to hers, but neither of you moves to dry your hands or even head out of the bathroom. She looks at you instead, but you only find your own exhausted eyes in your reflection in front of the mirror placed on the wall in front of you.
“So you didn't have anyone,” Wanda says, her emerald irises fixedly contouring your jawbone, “After me.”
The thread of anger stretches from your stomach to your heart, and you still don't look at her as your curled fingers grip the oval edges of the white porcelain sink. She doesn't deserve satisfaction from you; after all, if you were never officially a couple, if there was never a title before the promise, it's all her fault, it fell on her, it starts and ends with her.
“That's literally none of your business,” you mutter under your breath, but you kind of hesitate a bit as she takes a step toward you in her biker boots that wrap around her ankles clad in a pair of black high tights.
“You didn't have anyone after me. Besides me. Did you, Y/N?”
And you turn your nose towards her, only to find a pair of verdant irises that lie dark as moss, a kind of possession that weaves through the abyssal dark puddles that are her dilated pupils, and the black smoky eyeshadow makes her retinas glow like two gemstones reflected by a beam of light in a darkened room.
Wanda is like a black hole that draws you into a dangerous magnetism, engulfing you like a supernova explosion.
And something primal inside of you kind of likes that, kind of craves for it, for her monopoly over you, for the exclusivity that's been maintained since the last time you two saw each other, three years ago, back in your hometown. Secretly you wonder if she hasn't had anyone else after you either, and you kind of hope the answer is a big fat no.
After all, if you're still hers, she's still yours too.
“Has anyone else ever touched you like I did?”
You swallow hard, the inside of your throat hardening when as close to her as you are, your shoulders deflating a little into your dark sweatshirt as the scent of strawberry moisturizer and toasted tobacco clogs up your nostrils, spilling Wanda's red into your bloodstream. She looks like an animal ready to devour you and you're not sure if you're going to let her do it or not, but you tend to think that yes, you will.
“Has anyone else licked you on the corner of your mouth before actually kissing you, because they know it turns you on?”
You swallow the still air in your throat.
“Did anyone else run their hands down the sides of your neck before holding your hair?”
She takes a step toward you, and you take another step back.
“Has anyone else,” her voice is a low, dangerous whisper, “Bitten the side of your rib before they went down on you? With their tongue slow and soft at first and accelerating as your moans get more desperate when you ask for more?”
You want to kiss her. Your hands tingle to cup the sides of her jaw and pull her face down so your lips meet in midair, and she kisses you the way she knows you like. As you've done before, as she once wanted. But then you remember why you hate her as much as you want to kiss her, and it's like a reality check. And a new gust of angry air ignites inside your chest.
“It's none of your business, Wanda,” you finally say through gritted teeth, steadying the bridge that connects your intense gazes. You are annoyed and turned on, and you just know that she will always be your undoing.
“And I don't owe you any fucking satisfaction. I don't need to remind you that it was you who broke up with me via texts, do I? You're the one who dumped me, not the other way around. I don't owe you shit.”
A guilty hesitation crosses her gaze, which taking slashes of blame, quickly turns away from you to stare at the sink pipe on the right side of your hip; Wanda seems to shrink a little, wilting, squeezing the folds of her ringed fingers through the single strap of the crossbody bag that spills down her torso.
“That’s not true, Y/N, I… I– I didn’t…” she muss, in a low voice soaked in massive regret, stepping back a step, “It’s not like that, you just… you don't… you don’t understand–”
“I don't understand what, huh, Wanda? I don’t understand what?!"
Your voice rises an octave, and something stuck inside you for the past two years, like a bottle of champagne that pops a cork, just starts to flow, pouring out of your chest in a loud, painful confession and just so, so purely angry.
“That you got tired of playing with my feelings and decided to finally be the perfect little girl your father wanted you to be? That you decided to pose as a straight girl for one night, hanging on that jerk Jarvis' arm to be the perfect couple with a bright future after graduation? That all our plans, our confessions, our dreams were nothing but a hobby for you, a toy to play until you got sick of me and threw me away when you just felt like it?”
She looks on the verge of tears, her waterline glistening in crystalline pools of liquid embarrassment and her bottom lip threatening to quiver, and you barely notice when hot strands of bottled up feelings begin to leak down your cheeks, dripping towards the contour of your chin.
“Because if that's what I don't understand, then yeah, I really don't. I don't understand how you had the courage to be so coward to hurt me and break my heart in that mean way, when the only thing I ever did for you was take you in, Wanda! I took care of you! I listened to you, I dedicated myself to you, I gave you my heart, I fucking loved you! And that's how you repaid me, because you're a walking fucking problem and nothing will ever, ever satisfy you!"
And there's a sharp, deafening silence that follows after that, rumbling in your eardrums. And a veil of reality falls both over you and her; after all, whether indirectly or not, at no time had you confessed to Wanda that in a way, even with the immaturity worthy of late adolescence, you loved her as much as was possible at that time.
She looks hurt by your words, her eyes a gloomy, sad green, her hands tightening on the strap of her bag. And even if you've spent three long years believing that you really wanted to harm her, once you've done it, you don't feel the way you should. It's not satisfactory at all, because it hurts you too. It hurts so, so much.
“Y/N...” she whispers, but there's nothing more to say after that, so your name just hangs and dies in the air around her.
You pant, inflating and deflating heavily with your chest as if you've just run the course of a long marathon. And she looks at you like a shy child who's done something stupid, and it only takes one blink for a drop of black makeup to run down her pale, sharp cheekbones, the green of the irises now as bright as the grass in the spring pastures or in Botticellian paintings.
Her tearful face should feel like your masterpiece, not your leading lament.
“Wanda, I…” you whisper, wanting to say something you don't know, wanting to undo what you've already done, “I... I didn't mean..."
She seems to take a gulp of air to part her peachy lips and start a whole new sentence when the bathroom entrance door opens and an agitated group of chatty girls enters, oblivious to the heavy atmosphere established between you and Wanda. You look at her who doesn't look at you.
With the back of your hand, you quickly sweep the tears away from your own cheeks. And, picking up your backpack that is on the floor, placed next to the sink, you brush past Wanda and head towards the door without saying another word to the young lady in the red sweatshirt, who looks just as broken as you do.
All you have to do is turn one corner to the thick tears begin to pour down the warm skin of your face.
The movement of warm-weather morning firstfruits is a little slow, even still, with the occasional businessperson in a suit or tired student stopping by to enter the store before the clock strikes nine in the morning, to resort to the necessary high doses of caffeine and only then can start their day with a temporary and bogus simulation of a burst of energy.
And it's when Yelena says something about needing to use the restroom, when there's no customer to attend to or even a soul sitting at the tables just to use the free WiFi, that you decide that checking a few emails in your phone's inbox will do no harm to your start of the day.
After all, you've already scrubbed the damn mop on the floor so much that the linoleum now looks like a mirror under your feet, and you've changed three times the napkins that didn't really need to be discarded and changed.
And you know well that you did, though, to take your mind away from the memory of the night before; of the loud, heavy music blasting through the dividing wall of your room with Wanda's, in a failed attempt to stifle the sobbing cry of the neighbor apartment, who kept your brain alert throughout the night, until tiredness won over by the fatigue of your muscles (or maybe her muscles first), allowing the both of you, so close and yet so far away, to fall asleep together, at the same time, each thinking of the other as you lost consciousness.
A few minutes pass, however, before the distinctive tinkling of the small bell above the front door engulfs your attention away from your cellphone screen, and your rehearsed speech of welcome comes almost as an involuntary response that fills your mouth, before the most genuine of smiles slip through the pulp of your lips as braided ginger hair comes into your field of view, clasped in a heavy, handsome leather jacket.
“Nat, hi!” you greet her, Yelena's older sister, and she smirks as she walks toward you from across the counter.
You always liked her and she always liked you.
“Hey, Y/N,” Natasha looks around as if scanning the area, before turning her piercing green gaze back to your face, never missing the tiny smile on her full lips, hands shoved in the back pockets of the dark jeans that she wears around her toned legs.
 “Yelena left you here to deal with those grumpy people all alone, huh? That suck. Guess I'm gonna have to rap her knuckles for a change.”
“Nah, it’s okay. She went to the restroom,” you smile, “I guess.”
“You guess, huh?” Natasha raises an orange brow, “Well, it must have been. She was never good at holding her bladder, you know? I mean, seriously, there was this time when we were kids back in Ohio where she was playing on the slide and then my mom—”
“Hey, don't you even dare to start it!” Yelena's voice comes from the back in a protesting exclamation, before the young blonde girl appears, tying her leaf-green apron around her waist.
“And may I know what you're doing here, huh? Don't you have, like, cop stuff to do around, officer? There must be some kitten stuck in a tree in Central Park or some sucker in a manhole in need of help.”
“I think this is a fire department thing,” you comment, and in return Yelena blinks in disbelief in your direction.
And the older sister lets out a lame giggle through her nose, expelling a gust of warm air through her nostrils.
“I was passing by and I decided to come around just to annoy you, 'Lena” says Natasha, half-laughing, prompting a roll of the eyes on the part of the youngest sister, “But I'll take the opportunity to ask Y/N to make me an espresso. You know, her coffee is really good.”
And when Natasha's voluptuous gaze falls on you, the corner of her lips twitching a little, there's a pang that nudges your stomach and makes your lungs inflate and deflate with warm air evaporating off your skin.
Natasha is a few years older than you (and therefore also more experienced), and you are well aware that she is a very stunning woman, who is constantly enveloped in a simple aura of sensuality, which spontaneous flirtation seems to be like a second nature to her. And it feels good, it's really warming to know that someone like her looks at someone like you in such a way. Even if, deep down, your brain is aware that your heart doesn't beat for her, and never will.
“For God's sake Natasha, the coffee is made by a damn machine, literally every time it's the same thing,” Yelena mutters crookedly under her grumpy breath, “Just get a room, damn it, this is a public place.”
“Come on, 'Lena, you don't need to be jealous,” and you know it's now nothing more than a sibling bickering, a healthy petulance that ends up trapping you in the middle of the situation that leans towards comic, “You're the lucky one who has to see Y/N every day, not me.”
And you take it easy, barely able to suppress a round of giggles when Yelena looks like she wants to jump over the counter and kick her sister in the face.
“Listen, get the hell out of here, go away! Go! Go! Go! You're not getting no fucking coffee anymore—!”
But the entrance bell jingles a second time as the glass door opens and someone enters the establishment.
And the second time is worse than the first, because all you need to do is glance over Natasha's left shoulder and a pair of emerald eyes other than the rookie cop's eyes connect with yours, like a knot tied in mid-air, two magnets that attract and repel each other. The soft smile plastered on your lips begins to fade and then disappears into a dry line and a wisp of skin between your brows.
And you just can't believe it's Wanda who's there, like an obsessive spirit or even an obsessed stalker, even though your apartment is just a block away from the coffeeshop, even though there's a cozy bookstore across the street and, if you hadn't paid so much attention to Natasha, you would have noticed the blood-red dress, so delicate against the imposing black jacket; the clothes dressed in the familiar silhouette that had entered the store on the sidewalk opposite your work environment.
“Such a psycho…” Yelena muss for only Natasha to hear, but you do the same and believe Wanda does too, because she looks hesitant as she gazes at your uniformed friend, standing beside you behind the counter.
You blink, and so does Wanda, still standing in the doorway.
The atmosphere that sets in is palpable, and the two sisters, then aware of your unfortunate situation with your neighbor-ex-girlfriend-not-really-a-girlfriend, exchange looks that only two people with a connection like theirs can exchange.
And then, you turn your stiff shoulders toward the coffee machine, stepping away from the compact glass counter, “I–I'll make your espresso, Nat.”
The clatter of the machine seems to be deafening when the silence is thick and even the sound of a penny falling to the floor would echo through the entire store, and the sudden sour smell of coffee sends your stomach into a wave of nausea you don't quite know where it's coming from, but it's here to stay and, in such a way, you feel like you want to cry.
The acerbic regret of harming her still eats you into your muscles and your bones.
Fitting the lid on the tall clear plastic glass, you place the drink across the face of the counter, in front of Natasha, who gives you a complacent look, in a green so different from the green that stares at you from behind her.
“Here it is,” you say in a rather mechanical voice.
Natasha takes her wallet from the back pocket of her tight dark jeans and places a bill that exceeds the stipulated amount next to the glass, holding you back with her hand when you get her the change. Everything is very vague, and the cozy, playful aura that once enveloped the three of you left the store as soon as Wanda opened that door.
“See you later, sis,” Natasha says to Yelena, who stares at Wanda like an angry guard dog, before turning back to you, “And you… take care, honey.”
There's a deliberately deferred squeeze of the red-haired woman's hand by the delineation of your own fingers caged in rings, and even as Natasha turns onto her back, her single long red braid slipping between her shoulder blades hidden inside her leather jacket, pouring along her spine, you know she shoots a hard look at Wanda, who flinches as she passes close to her shoulder – even though the two of them have never touched, it’s as if Natasha has bumped her shoulder against Wanda’s.
The temperature seems to drop, and the Sokovian girl takes a step forward, toward the counter – her dark hair looks beautiful even in a messy bun on top of her head, and you really have to hold back before uttering that compliment out loud. She doesn't seem to be sleeping well, and even layers of dark makeup can't hide the bags under her tired eyes. You thought it would bring you some kind of comfort, but really you just want to hug her.
"Can I help you?" Yelena is the one who takes the initiative, even if her hard tone doesn't at all befit the implications of her rehearsed store clerk phrase.
"I..." Wanda starts, opens her mouth, closes it for a second and then opens it again, "I was going to order an iced tea, but now I... I... Y/N," she then looks at you, “Can I talk to you? Please."
No, you want to say, not at all. I'm ashamed that I said those things to you. But Wanda's gaze is as intense as Yelena's. And you let out a lame sigh, squinting in disbelief towards your own thoughtless actions, before turning to your coworker who is next to your left shoulder.
Fuck it.
“I'm gonna… I'm gonna take a break,” you announce, before returning your gaze to Wanda, who seems to hide gratification beneath the hesitation in her eyes.
Yelena, on the other hand, seems pretty discredited with your words.
“Dude, it's like eight-thirty in the morning,” she reminds you, “And you're going to spend your break time with… this?”
The tone is displeased as she looks at your ex high school sweetheart, who then just looks away. You just shake your head in embarrassment.
“Yelena, please, just… please,” you look nonsensically tired at the young blonde in uniform, “Not now.”
And Yelena looks like she wants to say something, but she stops before she does, because looking from you to Wanda, two restless spirits, two broken bodies, she understands. Something about her understands, even if she doesn't like what she understands. And she shakes her head, following your figure that goes around the counter after untying your apron and, shadowing Wanda closely, just leaves the store behind you.
The bell jingles up from the door.
Leaning against the brick wall of the alley beside the cafeteria, a cigarette smoldering in its blazing tip, breathing in puffs of smoke, Wanda stares silently at her own feet—her faux-leather boots dark, tall, and worn. You, leaning against the damp wall opposite the one she leans in, watch her and look away every time she tries to engage her eyes with yours. It's like a game where whoever speaks first loses, and you and Wanda are just too competitive to let go.
You know there's no need to wonder why Wanda's sudden arrival has upset you so much, still a little remorseful for your explosive outburst in the university restroom as you are; but even as displeased as you claim to be to yourself, you also feel, in a way, happy and exultant, a comfortable lull warming the inside of your chest that you kind of really try to fight against, but it's a losing battle and you know it.
And, as engrossed in your own head as you are, you don't even notice the red specter that, like the devil himself, looks your way as if she might rip your soul out of your chest, the strawberry scent wafting through the alley with cigarettes that only Wanda Maximoff can squander.
With your hands tucked into the back pockets of your dark jeans, you just say nothing towards her.
“Do you... want a cigarette?”
Her voice catches your attention, but for a few seconds, you find yourself bereft of words that are capable of responding to it. When you lift your chin to look at her, though, both of your dark gazes are linked together in a single train of thought, Wanda too hesitant, you too uncertain.
She, with dark makeup, has the nicotine stick between the pulps of her profuse lips, and you watch her through the whole process that unfolds through her smoking the cigarette; you notice when her mouth is parted to receive the smoke, revealing flashes of white, opalescent teeth, and you also notice how a thin bed of glossy gloss ends up smearing the yellow filter, like a midnight kiss exchanged before imminent death.
Wanda blinks playfully at you, still waiting for an answer, her lepidopteran eyelashes fluttering in mascara, before leaning her head toward your gaze. Her sudden proximity shooting lightning bolts to your stomach, because now the alley seems so tight and her soft skin feels so touchable.
You stare at her for a few seconds, pupils dilated in a vortex of darkness, before shaking your head as you move your neck from side to side.
The thick smoke leaves Wanda's peach lips not long after you do. And then you remember doing it with her, cigarette after cigarette, between kisses and touches, the moans engulfed by dawn in the dark corners of Westview, where no prying eye could have realized that you loved Wanda Maximoff.
“No, thanks,” you raise your right hand hesitantly, “I stopped a while ago. I was starting to run out of breath to just walk up the stairs.”
You think she knows that you only started, years ago, because of her, in order to impress her, to be able to approach her the night you visited her house because of Pietro and, not knowing how to properly initiate a conversation with a pretty girl, you asked for a cigarette because you once saw her smoking behind the bleachers; she knows you never liked the taste and that you coughed more than you held the noxious smoke into your lungs and lied that you liked it, prompting an avid wave of laughter from her.
Then she shrugs, resolving to herself that she won't press the point. For a few minutes, present is the silence erected between you like a massive wall. Wanda puff on her cigarette, and after that, you sigh.
“You wouldn't order iced tea,” you say in a neutralized voice, “You've seen me in uniform before, in the hallway. You know I work there.”
And she kind of laughs, unsurprised, through thick cigarette smoke.
"Well, I do. But I really want an iced tea, just so you know,” there's an air of good humor in her speech, even as her icy eyes gaze at the floor between her boots.
The silence descends again for half a second, until it's pierced once more by you.
“I'm sorry, by the way,” is a semi-whisper that crosses the alley, “For the things I said to you in the bathroom that day. Or the things people are saying around about you. It's been a while since all that shit happened and it's not… it's not fair that you're being held accountable for this teenage bullshit. Breakups... breakups happen, I guess. You weren't obligated to stay with me.”
She looks at you, her eyes glowing the color of guilt-ridden jade.
“But I didn't have to break up with you in such a shitty way, also,” and then, a sigh comes in a cage of smoke, “I… I think I deserve some of your treatment. I'm the one who should apologize. It was stupid of me, it wasn’t… it wasn't right what I did to you, Y/N.”
You compress your lips into a line because you know it's true, but you don't want to start a new intrigue right after finishing another one.
“Well, you could have done it any number of ways that would have been better, in fact,” you shrug, “But we were seventeen, Wanda. I was an idiot, you were an idiot. And I understand it was hard for you, you know… with Erik, and stuff.”
The mention of her father's name seems to make her shift uncomfortably in her clothes, the dark jacket that covers the short dress of reddish fabric seeming abruptly cramped and exposed as she seems to shrink in on herself, lifting the walls that have kept you away. And then she smokes, closing her eyes, like she used to when he made her cry.
You see the smoke coming in and out of her pearly mouth, and you feel kind of nostalgic to see her like this, so vulnerable and transparent, feeling everything but saying nothing.
“Yeah, it was really hard,” there's an eerie tone that creeps into her voice, the moss green of her gaze seeming to carry a baleful hue, “But it wasn't fair that I just threw all that shit at your back every time that I was sad. But… that's in the past, right? It's no longer a problem I have to deal with, let alone you."
And she doesn't seem to want to talk about it anymore, so you don't bring it up again. A car passes on the street and a dog barks at a bicycle rider. When the cigarette she smokes finally runs out, she stubs out the butt against the brick wall and lets a limp sigh escape her nose.
“I think I'll go home now… I don't want to take your break time anymore,” and she smiles, albeit minimally, “Your tired face on me is starting to make me feel guilty.”
“Does that mean you're going to stop listening to Deftones all night long? Because that’s kinda depressing,” the air of laughter doesn't escape you, and she shyly lets the smile grow on the contour of her lips.
“Well… at first it wasn't on purpose, but then I just kind of kept doing it to get your attention,” she scrunches with the skin of her nose, “On second thought, it wasn't my best idea. Sorry about that. It was a stupid thing to do.”
“Fine,” you smile small, even if that still won't make your morning tiredness go away entirely, “I'll charge you more for your iced tea and then we'll call it even, Maximoff.”
“Are you still going to get me an iced tea?” Wanda looks in your direction and, a little awkwardly, you nod.
“You want one, don't you?” you look at her, “Still like black tea with lemonade?”
“Yeah,” she smiles, “Yeah, I do.”
The taut muscular tension radiating from the top of your spine fades along with the heavy bags of skin under your eyes, and the days gone by become bearable, even pleasant, as the weeks that follow as a result of the conversation and the apologies exchanged between you and Wanda.
In part, of course, you suppose your light mood is related to the fact that there is no longer a sound of drums and guitars that seems to want to breach your bedroom wall, once sleep is invited back to inhabit your bedding, cradling you in a necessary embrace that is only undone again when Loki bites your foot because he's hungry in the middle of the night. As if the recurring spark igniting within your filled chest could even be overlooked, anyway.
You then have the luxury of unconcernedly greeting Wanda with an exchange of affable smiles for the expected times you bump into each other in the hallway of the apartment complex you live in or the campus of the university where you both study, and now and then she goes to the coffeeshop where you work during her free time in the afternoons, carrying with her some excuse to buy an iced black tea with lemonade to sip along a classic book you know she likes to read.
“Hey sucker, you're drooling. Stop looking before I report you for public nuisance.”
Yelena mutters beside you as you find yourself staring at the girl in the black miniskirt sitting so charmingly at the table in front of the cashier, who then looks at you in a splash of emerald-green irises over the top of the hardcover book, allowing herself to hide a slight smile behind the full pages.
The skin on your cheeks and the tips of your ears glows in deep pinks when you tell your co-worker to “shut the fuck up”, because you just know there's no way to look away from Wanda's pale, exposed thighs that are draped over each other down the table – her kneecaps slightly turned toward you, almost as if purposefully put in that position just for you to look at.
One night when you came in from yet another extra shift at work, Wanda was having a hard time getting the key in her door while she had bags slung all over her forearm extensions, and you immediately helped her carry the groceries into her house, being then rewarded with a can of cherry Coke (her preferred drink), and a small peck ghosted on your left cheek that felt like an electrical charge against your epidermis, stirring something up inside you.
You exchanged your phone numbers later when you asked her to feed Loki for another extra shift and gave her your spare apartment key to do so.
Yelena, of course, made fun of you for grinning so kindheartedly when the notification came in for a photo of Wanda holding Loki against her lap like a grumpy little baby, but you just didn't bother to care about your best friend's continuous teasing that went on until late of the night. The following afternoon, Wanda sat with her tray on the table with you, the Belova girl and Kate during your lunch period at the cafeteria.
“Oh yeah, Y/N was part of the debate club when we were in high school,” she says with her cheek resting on her open right palm, prompting a good-natured eye roll on your part, “It was cute.”
“I bet it was, indeed,” Yelena replies, in a voice filled with hints of mockery, her mouth full of chewed apple, “So cute, little Y/N!”
“Dude, just shut up,” you grumble awkwardly from behind your glass of orange juice.
“I bet you guys were a really cute couple though,” but when Kate says that, drinking from the straw of her grape juice box, the atmosphere around the table is a little weird.
You and Wanda look at each other, and it even amazes you when you see that she can't help but express a reserved smile that goes far back, back to her adolescence.
The succeeding weekend, when Pietro came to the big city to visit his sister, he didn't accept less than a drunken company in your presence, which, according to him, would bring back the flame of the good old days; and it was late into the night, when the young boy in the bluish blouse (the brown roots of his hair sampled in the strain of dyed gray locks, cut short) pointed an accusing drunken left finger that trekked from you to Wanda and from Wanda to you.
“You know, it's a shame you two never dated back in high school,” he grumbles, before tucking the neck of his beer bottle between his parched lips, “I always thought you guys were, like, super alike. And Wanda kept saying she thought you were super hot, Y/N, seriously, it was super annoying!”
There's an incredulous grunt on the part of the twin girl with the creased brow and gauchely twisted mouth, who's sitting opposite her brother's, as she spits the cigarette smoke out of her nostrils instead of down to her lungs, tapping the ashes into a hard ruby-color metal ashtray placed in the center of the coffee table in front of you, amidst a heap of several empty beer bottles and leftover bread, hamburger and fries, the junk food now all cold and withered.
“Shut up, Pietro!”
Her voice is loud as the shyness that rises red across her pale cheeks, making her look younger and more innocent behind the dark makeup and lank hair. And you, sitting like a physical barrier founded between the pair of siblings, just take a sip of your own cold beer, sinking your body a little deeper into the dark linen sofa that smells like Wanda.
“Come on, Wanda, you’re always nagging that you're gonna die alone or whatever that emo shit you keep saying, so date Y/N instead! She's a great catch!”
“Pietro, I swear to God that I actually will fucking murder you.”
She looks like she's going to explode. It's almost funny in a certain way, but you don't allow yourself to laugh, so you just drink more and more of your beer.
“Y/N,” he moves to you in a drawl and, in a silence that connects your mouth to the mouth of the bottle, your hooded gaze turns to the boy’s piercing blue eyes, “Date Wanda. C’mon, date her! I know your type, I know you have a taste for edgy girls–”
“Seriously, just shut the fuck up!” thunders the younger sister, who is promptly snubbed by the older brother.
“Don't act like it's not true, Wanda! Back home it was always “oh, but Y/N is so pretty”, “Y/N is so cool”, “Y/N's sneakers are stylish”, “Y/N eyes are so–”
But before Pietro can continue in a monologue about his sister and how much she always noticed you, his speech is interrupted by a pillow of reddish fabric that flies close to the tip of your nose only to then crash into his forehead, causing him to spill beer all over his shorts.
But it's a few days later, maybe another weekend or the start of another Monday, that Wanda's wide television, which flashed on her screen an old black-and-white American sitcom that you know is to her taste (who appreciates classic literature and old series, nostalgic for a time when she never lived, something she says came from her mother) is the only thing that clutters the apartment like some source of light or sound, which meet the two of you, both of you snuggled up on her dark beer-stained couch.
You don't have anything to say to each other, but even so, the atmosphere is comfortable and domestic because Wanda, with a sudden abundance of coziness surging into her bubbling core, has her head exhaling the scents of freshly washed hair reclining on your shoulder, your arm in outline of her body pulling her close to your right side, chuckling along with her in innocent humor when some goofy character trips over a piece of furniture or a banana peel.
On the coffee table are a couple of cans of Cherry Coke and an empty red ashtray. You don't know when you two ended up like this, but there's no complaint on your part, and certainly not hers either.
When an alacrity chuckle escapes through the parted crack of her lips, her scalp approaches the underside of your nose and you feel the sweet aroma of strawberry shampoo, which is enveloped in a full-bodied cigarette smell that causes a wave of nostalgic clamor disperses through your bloodstream.
And she knows you like it, because her fingers curl against the hem of the blouse you're wearing on your hunched body on the couch, nails tinted in a sober black nail polish deferring a continuous, circular caress against your lower belly, close to your belly button, dangerously close to the zip of your pants.
“Y/N,” she calls out to you, in a low voice that comes with a background of laughter from an old-time television audience, “Did you really love me back then?”
You look at Wanda, whose head has slipped to fall to your chest, in the warm embrace in which you have captured her. She looks up, now bare of her makeup, in a modest shade of green that shines in the black-and-white lighting that radiates from the television. And in that bonded midair, with the sting of her gaze burning into your irises, you move your chin up and down, never dissolving the bond that you've built.
“Yes,” is a sigh, “Yes, there was a time when… when I loved you. When I really loved you.”
You say, as if you still don't love her. As if you wouldn't be able to break your own bones only to have her there again, lying in the comfort of your arms that salute so much for the outline of the warmth of her body glistening the red color against your bristling chest.
Wanda, for her part, stops with the deferred caress against your lower stomach, shifting her watchful gaze toward the glowing television screen.
“I loved you too, you know,” her body moves closer to yours, “I really loved you back then.”
"Then… why?" your speech can't help but emulate the reactionary question, which comes like thunder, hitting the back of your throat, "If you loved me, then why...?"
Her muscles, even beneath the rock band shirt she wears and the black miniskirt that adorns her hips, strain against you. She knows it's about the prom night, about the abandonment. Your tone isn't furious, but rather, just infested with a genuine curiosity that turns out to have a background in faded hurt.
“Those people,” she mutters between ragged breaths, “The rumors… he would have known. Erik, he… he would have known.”
“We were going to get out of that town, Wanda,” your voice is low against the top of her ear, “I had nothing else to worry about. I didn't care if any of those bastards were going to judge us—”
“It's not about the judgment, Y/N,” she interrupts you, her voice a whisper, after an empty, unfunny chuckle, “Fuck, I couldn't care less if someone was going to judge us. It's not like no one ever judged me for the trouble I got myself into or the shit I did back then, anyways."
And yes, she has a point. If there was anyone at Westview High who would be regarded as the black sheep, a hopeless cause, it would indeed be a young Wanda Maximoff. And then, your frown creases across your forehead. You don't know where she's going with this information that is nothing short of new to you, but you are willing to listen.
“It's just… I told Erik about you. Well, about you and me. On prom day,” your stomach drops as your grip increases the deferred pressure on her left bicep, through the cotton of her shirt, “And then that idiot hit me.”
Her laughter is not matched by yours. A sudden fury that takes over your bones makes you want to punch Erike Lehnsherr in his damn jaw. Wanda has always been the keeper of a sour humor, drinking from sources of cynicism, but this time you weren't able to escort her into a bittersweet joke.
“And I found out that stupid Pietro opened his big mouth and talked about your acceptance letter from NYU,” your gaze falls to the top of her dark-haired head, “And it turns out he had an influential acquaintance inside there. Do you know Professor Charles Xavier?”
“The bald guy who’s always wearing that ugly suit?” you ask, and Wanda nods, between another chuckle. The barely perceptible flicker falling over it indicates an onset of suppressed crying you've seen before.
“Erik, he,” she sniffles, “He said he was going to end your life. And I always knew, I– you wanted so badly to get out of that town, Y/N. You spent that last year studying so hard, you worked so hard for that damn letter… I couldn't let him get away with it, with everything you've worked so hard to achieve. It was your dream, I couldn't, I—”
She gasps against your shirt, in a greedy wave of painful sobs that feel like they want to shatter the bones in her shoulders. And you hold her when she cries, when she breaks down into tears that seem incessant, just like you did before, in your bed at night or in the cold of dawn inside your archaic old car given to you by your father. Even if you also wanted to burst into a painful cry. Even if you want to apologize for all the harm you've caused her in retaliation produced by the bastard who fathered her.
And you see her as you saw her before; just a broken girl in the world, the daughter of someone who didn't deserve to have her in his life.
“I–I just miss my mom so much,” she cries against your chest, sounding so young, so innocent, and so shattered.
You hold her until she sheds all her tears, when the crying subsides, and she begins to wheeze loudly in weary sleep against your chest. It's only then that you allow yourself to cry silently against her hair which, even after so many cigarettes smoked, still manages to smell so good. And you cry for what you did and what you didn't do either.
The bright sun of the pale of the next dawn comes to shine in the middle of the celestial field, somewhat immodic during that particular warm day, in the middle of a sultry and sunny climate.
The wide-open window causes golden slivers of sunlight to warm the top of your cheek, and when your brain finally wakes up, blinking the sleep out of your eyelashes, you feel along with the morning a look burning on your face. And when your eyelids open, it's to reveal Wanda's slightly puffy face in front of you; her eyes half red and puffy from the crying that had put her to sleep, her chin balanced on your chest.
She's lying on top of you, her legs tucked between yours.
“You woke up,” she whispers, like a little child. You smile, still lethargic from the recent sleep in your system.
“I woke up, indeed.”
“Are you okay?” Her tone is curious, full of meaning. A gust of warm air blows between your nostrils, close to her nose that almost touches yours.
"I am. Yes, I am. Are you? What time is it?”
“Early. And yes, I am,” and then, her gaze drops to the line of your lips, “I'm sorry, but I really want to kiss you right now.”
Something burns inside you.
“I really want to kiss you now too, Wanda.”
 And then Wanda dives toward you, grabbing the sides of your face between her warm hands. And you then reach forward and take her, pressing the commission of your lips against the contoured sleepy-cherry-flavored mouth that could belong to none other than the girl who always had your heart, who moved her body hers against yours. You just wanted to feel her close, all to yourself, comfortable in your grip.
A slow kiss, half snooty and sloppy, dissolves, but you hold the air inside your lungs and search for more of her, the red inside her mouth, armed with a soft red nostalgic familiarity contouring your bodies through your lips, being eagerly reciprocated by an affectionate Wanda. Your lips were moved carefully, following an invisible line that dictated you not so reckless actions like a rehearsed act.
The fervent kiss becomes a pacified kiss, and the pacified kiss becomes little kisses that soon fade into serene peace. You feel a forehead press against yours.
Soon, a sly pink tongue slips back into your mouth in search of what is hers, expert and needy. And then, a robust and powerful touch, palms wide open and pressed to the curve of your jaw, asks you to open your eyes – and Wanda stands before you like a creature out of a dream, Wanda usurps your senses, Wanda pulses inside your veins and on your tongue.
“You're perfect, Wanda,” you whisper hot against the pulp of her swollen lips, “You're just perfect.”
“I love you,” she says in return, and hot tears again adorn her eyeballs, “I fucking love you, Y/N.”
You want to explode, explode in love. Your forehead presses against hers, and she caresses the cheek of her thumb against the top of her cheekbone.
“I love you too Wanda,” you smile, “I love you too.”
She is no longer your noisy neighbor after this.
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gender-luster · 9 months
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listen, i know they're evil. i know they're a villain. i know they're completely unhinged and off the rails. i know they're a little bit of a bastard, and i know that they're a sneaky, tricky bitch. and you know what? i love them for it
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cissa-calls · 2 days
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Countdown to Coven of Chaos: Day 273
Agatha: “If I die, will you promise to continue my legacy?”
Y/N: “You’re not dying, but if you did…I promise. I will take up the mantle of exploiting magic and annoying Wanda”
Agatha: “That’s all I’ve ever wanted, I love you”
Wanda, watching this whole scene take place: “Why is it that I’m doomed to eternally be surrounded by idiots”
Y/N: “Just lucky I guess”
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deemonsart · 1 year
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Wong: ...
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mayas-mind · 1 year
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Wong: “Dr. Strange, don’t do that spell!! It’s too dangerous!!”
Dr. Strange:
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goddessofmischief · 2 years
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ok but... it’s the same picture
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wandavisionedits · 2 months
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—Elizabeth Olsen reunites with Kathryn Hahn at Variety's Power of Women
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agathashcrkness · 1 month
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Stress Relief
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A massage? Not your thing. Until you meet Natasha, that is.
[ 18+ MINORS DNI. Pervy!Masseuse!Natasha, Dry Humping, Dub-Con, Anal, Pet Names, Squirting, Oral, Mentions of Breeding Kink, Masturbation, Thigh Riding, Face Riding, Dirty Talk ]
Word count: 3.9k
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“I’m not sure a massage is for me.” As expected, protests came out of your mouth immediately. Darcy looks at you incredulously, how could anyone not like massages? She’s stumped, and honestly you can’t blame her. You know it’s weird not to relax when someone is literally pushing out your stress, but there’s something about it that leaves you unnerved. Like you can’t relax ever after it. You roll your eyes covertly; thankfully Darcy is too distracted by her phone that she doesn’t notice your defiance.
“Listen, I have a coupon. Just try it out and see if you like it.” Darcy pleads, big blue eyes widening into saucers, and you find it hard to even begin to argue against the idea. Damn your best friend and her dumb cerulean orbs.
“Darcy…” You sigh as your protest starts. In your heart, you know your disagreement won’t make a difference. For all her positives, Darcy is incredibly stubborn and won’t let you submit anything other than a ‘yes’ as an answer. You nod a heavy release, and Darcy grins manically. What exactly have you gotten into?
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The massage parlour is not what you expect. The walls are a crisp eggshell, far from the shady and sleazy atmosphere your mind had built up. The rooms were bright, the entrance marbled and the staff welcoming. You could get used to this after all, possibly.
“Hiya hon! Back for more, Darce? A bit quick to come back, but you won’t hear me complaining. What’s been goin’ on that you need another so soon?” A melodic voice rings out, startling you slightly. Your eyes track the sound, focusing upon an older woman with a megawatt smile, and you find that that puts you more at ease surprisingly. Darcy and the woman clearly know one another; does Darcy frequent here? How many times has she been? What keeps her coming back? The questions ignite the ‘need to know’ nature of your mind, one of your less endearing qualities, you think.
Nevertheless, you’re ever so curious.
“Not for me this time, Agatha. For my friend here. I’ve been talking a big game about your parlour, so please don’t make me look like a fool in front of her.”
“More than she usually does anyways.” You quip, knowing Darcy well enough that you step slightly to the side, ensuring that her swift backhand following the remark misses its target; your face. Agatha laughs at the two of you, shaking her head fondly. It reminds you of why you’re here, and you can’t help but feel the nervousness building back up inside of you.
“Smart little thing. C’mon, I’m sure Miss Romanoff is available.” Agatha says assuredly, and Darcy gasps next to you.
“Oh my God! You’re getting your first ever massage, and the Black Widow is doing it!” Her excitement, for once, isn’t contagious. You feel the pit in your stomach drop further, deeper, wanting to pull you into its swirls of anxiety. Darcy hits your arm, you being too distracted to try and stop her.
“Dude! I’ve never had a massage from her, but everyone here talks about her. Agatha rails on about how she’s the best, but never books her for me. I think she likes me all to herself. But even the name tells you she’s fire!”
The Black Widow, you find out whilst chatting offhandedly with Agatha, is a good namesake for her best employee, albeit scary. Apparently, Miss Romanoff could get just about anyone to relax, and the way they would simply submit led to jokes about sleeping pills and paralytic venom strains, and some time later, the nickname was born. You stop when Agatha halts you, in front of a door with the Black Widow’s infamous insignia.
Room 84.
You can do this. You can do this.
You're not sure if you can do this.
The door to the room opens, and you have no choice.
The setup is what you would imagine a room in a massage place to look like, the scented oils and soothing music adding to the cliche of it all. You turn to thank Agatha, but both she and Darcy are gone, leaving you alone in a strange (if relaxing) room.
“Ah! Agatha said she’d brought another customer along, and here you are.” A sultry voice calls out to you, siren-like, and you jump for the second time today. ‘So much for relaxing’, you think sourly. But as you turn back, you’re floored by the woman in front of you. She’s a vision, knockout, a perfect 11 on the scale of 1 to 10, but you shake those thoughts away. She’s here to be professional.
“Miss Romanoff?” You ask, and she scoffs.
“Please, no, none of this Miss Romanoff business. Call me Natasha. Agatha knows I hate it when people are unnecessarily formal, in a building for massages of all places, so she tells everyone who comes through the door to do that. She’s a great boss, but an insufferable friend.” Natasha laughs out, and you chuckle nervously to humour her, her eyes never leaving your face, barely blinking. She stands, heading into the adjoining prep room.
“If you could disrobe, and put the towel around your lower waist. Call out to me when you’re finished and we’ll begin.” You nod slowly, and she leaves you to get undressed. You start with the upper half of your body, but the more layers you take off, the more tense you seem to become. You take off the rest of your clothing slowly, not wanting Natasha to think you’re some kind of pervert who’s all too eager to have your body rubbed down by her.
In the prep room, Natasha slides two fingers into her folds, biting into a towel to muffle her moans. The soft music playing aids her in staying undetected, but she’s always been loud, especially when she’s anywhere close to how wet she is right now. It feels like a compulsion to her. As soon as she saw you standing there meekly, she could feel herself become aroused and did her best to coax you into relaxation by conversing with you. In her mind, she wanted nothing more than to have you immediately naked and on the massage table, doing something a lot more sinful than a massage.
She’s hurtling towards orgasm, knowing that your expanse of soft looking skin is going to be available to her as soon as she’s done, and the mere thought makes her cream around her fingers. She wants to add a third, stretch herself just like she plans for you, but she doesn’t get the chance.
“Natasha. I’m ready. Are you coming?” Your voice calls out, sweet like honey, and Natasha’s juices coat her fingers as she screams her orgasm into the towel. Panting softly, she shakily responds to you, willing her voice not to crack as she talks. She goes to wipe off her fingers when a more devious thought overtakes her. She eyes the bottle of massage oil and grins, taking it down and fixing herself before walking back to you.
Slicking up her hands with more than massage oil, she asks you where you would like her to begin.
“I think around my neck. I carry a lot of tension in my neck and shoulders, so it would be nice not to have that around, at least for a while.”
“Ok, dear. Take a breath.” You look down quickly, wanting to hide the flush on your face due to the pet name. Natasha smiles, groaning internally as she starts massaging your shoulders. The combination of the feeling of your skin and the fact that she’s rubbing her juices into your shoulders has her aroused again.
What were you doing to her?
“The oil smells lovely. What is it?” You ask lazily, and Natasha struggles to bite back a moan, the knowledge of something extra threatens to leave her mouth.
“Passion fruit and jojoba.” She answers stiffly, working deeper into your shoulders. The tension, for her at least, is thick. She looks down at the back of your head, and how close her pelvis is to you. She inwardly laments at having not worn her strap today, because her bulge would be a hair’s breadth away from your mouth. She could’ve easily slipped in and fucked your throat, muffling any complaints you had and working herself towards another release. She grabs your shoulders tightly at the thought, and sees you flinch slightly at the increased pressure before giving you a series of softer rubs in the centre of them as an apology.
The expanse of your back calls to Natasha, and she makes quick work in order to see to further down your body. She frowns slightly at how high you have the towel placed, not even giving you a glimpse of your panties, but it doesn’t bother her. She’ll just tell you she needs to move it in order to finish correctly. She eyes the clothes you’ve folded, seeing the lacy pink bra resting on top and biting her lip, praying to whatever higher power there is that it’s a matching set. She can barely wait to unwrap you, but you have to be coaxed gently, sweetly, and as much as Natasha wants to devour you whole, she’ll settle for smaller bites of you.
For now.
You, despite your many objections to this, are feeling yourself relaxing more and more as time passes. Natasha has moved down, your neck and shoulders tingling as she moves to work your back, her strong grasp coming in handy as she quickly locates knots and works to detangle them. You sigh quietly, clutching the underside of the bed when she reaches a particularly stiff point, small gasps leaving you. You hear her breathing pick up and assume she’s just exerting more energy, her work on your back becoming more forceful and just divine in your mind.
Natasha…Natasha is struggling.
You keep letting out these cute little noises, and it’s cutting her self control in half every time you do. She reaches your lower back, moving the towel and raising her eyebrows in surprise and glee when you don’t object. The pink sliver of underwear she can see all but finishes her, her hands moving to the dimples at the bottom of your back, thumbs circling the divots. She just has to make it through to massaging your legs, and then she’ll have you. You’re slowly being snared by her web, and you won’t be able to refuse her once her hands are done with you. She finally reaches a corner of the massage table, one where you can’t see her.
She slowly starts rubbing herself against the soft corner, the pressure having to be enough for now. If she angles her head correctly, she can see the side view of your breasts, pinned between your chest and the table, and her underwear is beyond ruined at this point. Maybe she’ll send you home with them, as a parting gift. She keeps up the slow grind as she eagerly starts on your legs.
You’re naive. You chalk the rocking motion up to one of Natasha’s ‘signature massage moves’ as you’ve called them in your head. She’s the best masseuse here, or so they say, so she must have some aces up her sleeve. You assume the motions are intended to calm you, simulating a hammock or a gently swaying ship. Everything is fine.
Until the hands move further and further up your legs, breaching the cover of the towel and circling your inner thighs.
“Natasha?” You question, and the rocking becomes more intense. She quickly shushes you, hands pushing to part your legs, and you whip your head round to ask her what she’s doing. The sight that greets you shocks you to say the least.
Natasha’s red in the face, biting her lip as she keeps rocking against the table, hands still against your thighs and trying desperately to part them. Her eyes have taken on a more desperate quality to them, the jade green hue being swallowed up by soulless pupils. She looks ruined as she locks eyes with you, humping faster at being watched and finally letting out a pleading whimper.
You go to stand, to get out of the room, lifting your front body up, but she’s quicker and stronger than you. She pulls you back down into a prone position by your ankles, making you help as she tuts at you.
“Not yet, baby. I’m not done with making you relax yet.” Her voice is gravelly, directly opposing the liquid-like manner in which her hands move, successfully parting your thighs. She groans at the sight of your pussy, barely covered by the lace, and the small wet patch you can feel humiliating you more than anything before this moment. The towel covering your ass is unceremoniously ripped from you, and Natasha grabs two handfuls of your cheeks. You whimper as she fondles you, careless to your wriggling and potential objections.
“Goddamn, this ass. Could see the curve of it even under the towel. But seeing it unobstructed? Makes me wanna…” Natasha drifts off, and a second later, a swift smack is delivered to your left ass cheek. You lurch forward, as much as you can, the shock of being spanked making your body stiffen. She grabs the nape of your neck with one palm.
“Sweetheart, don’t let all my hard work go to waste. Just relax, stop tensing up like that, please.” Although it’s a request on the surface, you can hear the lingering tone of demand laced through the ways she speaks.
She’s in control. All you can do is lie there and take it.
You drop languidly, your muscles unclenching, and she strokes your lower back in thanks.
“Such a good girl for me, honey. So sweet, so pliable. Knew from the second I saw you I’d have to have you.” She’s still groping your ass, but she moves herself onto the table. You’re surprised it can take the weight of both of you, and Natasha’s hands take the backs of your upper arms, pulling you flush to her, the both of you kneeling. Her arms encase you, nimble fingers moving to cup your breasts, the excess flesh spilling through her fingers as she licks and sucks at your neck before moving her mouth close to your ear.
“Sorry, baby. Was gonna wait and then tell you to roll over, but I needed you now. You make me so desperate, little one. You know what you do to me. I need to fuck you now, babe. I can’t wait any longer, I’m so sorry.” Her hands move so fast, one of them cupping you over your underwear and pressing into your clit, the other winding itself further around your body, resting at your neck and keeping you upright.
You let out your first unbridled moan, and Natasha smiles while biting your earlobe, humping against your ass, swifter and harder this time. She moans at the pressure too, moving her hand to cup your pussy without the barrier. You moan louder and her hand squeezes your throat, cutting you off before moving to cover your mouth. Tears brim in your eyes, her voice still soothing as she gently reprimands you.
“Sweet little whore for me. I’m glad to hear you’re enjoying yourself, but we can’t let anyone know what we’re doing in here, okay? It’d be bad for both of us, and the business. Do you wanna take Darcy’s favourite place away, huh? What kind of friend would you be then?” Her tone is patronising; she’s speaking to you like you’re a goddamn child, all the while she’s teasing your pussy lips.
You could cry out for help.
But for some unknown reason, you don’t. 5 seconds of silence passes between you, the slick noise that your pussy is making as she rubs it making you feel ashamed, and yet you want more. And you hate yourself for it.
“This cunt is coating my fingers so well, my little slut. I can’t wait to get a taste.” She’s still humping into you routinely, and she lifts her hand out of your underwear, separating her fingers as your juices cling to them, strings of it connecting one finger to another. She pops them into her mouth one by one, her eyes rolling back and shutting as she moans around each of them, swallowing your essence.
Suddenly, she pushes you down onto all fours and drags you knees bent under you, your ass and pussy up in the air. You yelp, and she holds you up by the hips, leaving sloppy kisses down your spine.
“I’ve had some, but I need more. Just lay there and lemme lick you baby, I’ll make the stickiness go away, I swear.” She’s begging now, and you are hardly in a position to say no. You hear the fabric of your panties tearing, mourning the loss of your favourite matching set before you try to muffle a sinful moan as you feel Natasha give a broad lick on your pussy, dipping briefly inside and moaning against your core before kissing it slowly.
“Fucking delicious. Like a ripe peach, little one. Knew you’d taste fresh, god. Lemme play with it a little, then I’ll fuck you so good. Have the flavour of you on my tongue all day, carry you out because your legs are like jelly. Just take me in, baby, it’ll be good.” The dirty talk and the sinful tongue has your mind reeling, and you flop further down on the table with a sense of finality; you want this. And she’s going to give it to you.
She’s lapping at you with more vigour now that the fight has left you, hands on your ass again, holding your pussy open for her. She’s gorging herself on you, the filthiest sounds coming from behind you. The vibration of her moans hit against you directly as she slurps up your cum, and you’re losing your mind, face against the table to muffle your cries of pleasure. One swift hard smack against your ass and you’re coming into her mouth, hard. She doesn’t come up for breath, trying to swallow everything you’re giving her. When she at long last resurfaces, her face is coated with your juices. Barely an area goes untouched; her cheeks, nose and chin seem to be the main victims. You’re panting brokenly, trying to catch your breath when you feel two of her fingers dip briefly inside of you before moving slowly upwards.
“W-what are you doing?” You slur out the question, trying to find the strength to make your limbs cooperate as she circles your asshole gently. You feel one finger slowly being inserted before she pulls it out, and lets a long trail of her spit drop onto your hole before gliding her fingers into you again. You whimper, feeling the stretch and she drapes herself over you, face in your neck as her fingers rut into you.
“So fucking tight, little one. No one stretched you out here? Don’t worry, I’ll do it for you. If I’d known something like you was going to cross my path today, I would’ve been packing. Not to worry though, there’s always next time.” Next time? You shiver at the thought, and the pressure she’s applying to you, her thigh moving to press against your pussy and her own core soaking your ass as she grinds herself against you.
When had she taken off her jeans?
“Ah! God baby, can barely fit two fingers in here. So fresh for me, I know I’m the first one to crack you open like this. You’re doing so well for me, pretty girl. Taking me in, making me feel this good. Oh, yes baby! Just lie there and take it like a good doll.” She’s kissing and biting what part of your neck she can reach as she fucks you into the table, and your mind is getting fuzzier. Her pace increases in speed, completely knocking the wind out of you as you clench around her fingers and thigh, sobbing as she barely slows down to let you ride out your high.
You’re flipped onto your front suddenly, and Natasha’s knees meet either side of your face. She grabs your chin, pushing against your cheeks until your mouth parts in a gasp. She looks desperate, chest heaving as she peers down at you.
“Stick out that fucking tongue. Let me get my pleasure now baby.” She growls, and you comply. A brief second later, she lowers down, and you’re surrounded by her smell and taste and sounds.
“Oh, yes, baby! Just keep that beautiful tongue still and lemme ride your face. Doing so, so good for me, pretty girl. Gonna mark that face, fill your mouth with my cum and you’re gonna fuckin’ take it. Take it all! Wish I could fuck your throat, feel you gag and clench around my dick. Be so warm and tight in there, just like your ass. Oh God honey, here it comes. I’m gonna cum on you. I’m gonna- I’m…yes, baby, yes!” She wails brokenly as her juices flood your mouth, squirting directly onto you and covering your chin and chest. Natasha’s thighs shake and clench as she keeps your head pinned with them, before her orgasm washes away and she removes herself from you, shuffling down to straddle your waist, your cores almost touching.
She kisses you sloppily, all tongue and teeth as she collects the remnants of her cum from your mouth, moaning into you, and you can’t help but whimper back.
This woman had manipulated you into a massage, eaten you out, fucked you in the ass and made you give her head in return.
And honestly, you fucking loved it.
She stops kissing you, moving her head down as she buries her face in your chest, hugging you like a koala while you both breathe heavily. You’re unbelievably sticky for multiple reasons, but her weight is comforting, so you let yourself relax once more.
“We gotta do that again. You have to come back some other time baby, I’ll help you relax again and again. I’ll pack next time, might even get out the special strap if you’re a good girl. Cum inside your little holes, send you out of here filled up and fucked out.” The thoughts she has are sinful but so delicious sounding that you find yourself nodding. She pecks your lips before getting off of you, telling you to use the towel to clean up.
With one parting kiss, turned small makeout session, you’re leaving the room, perplexed and yet rejuvenated as you return to Darcy with Natasha’s cum in your mouth and her handprint on your ass cheek.
“Hey, bitch! At last, she resurfaces. How was it? Tell me everything about her. Did she satisfy you?”
A sly nod and a dopey grin were all that she got from you in response. You didn’t know if Darcy knew about Natasha’s brand of ‘service’, or if this was a regular thing for the parlour, but kept quiet about it just in case it wasn’t. As wild as your session with Natasha was, you didn’t want to get her in trouble. You both make to leave, waving a quick goodbye to Agatha, feeling green eyes watching you intensely once again.
With that, you’re caught in the Black Widow’s web, destined to return to her like the desperate slut she wants you to be.
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wmarximoff · 3 months
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Reader being Pietro’s bestfriend and Wanda having a crush on them but is too shy to say anything because she is popular and reader is apart of the unpopular dirtbags kind of group. The n reader confronts Wanda and it leads to Wanda’s first time. Pretty please with a cherry on top🥺🥺
freaks | w. maximoff
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summary: high school isn't easy at all, especially for a kid as misfits as you. but just being in the wrong place at the wrong time, a bomb is dropped in your lap; because Wanda Maximoff, the popular, perfect girl with the kindest heart of all, actually has a crush on you. and she just happens to be your best friend's twin sister.
warnings (18+): underage characters, smoking, secondary characters using illicit drugs (weed), cursing, first time, smut, oral sex (Wanda receiving), penetration (Wanda receiving).
pairing: Wanda x fem!reader
word count: 12k
A/N: sorry for the delay anon but i'm lazy as heck kjsfkjfs
anyway, this was fun to write (and actually pretty cute too). it's practically a romcom, really. hope you enjoy it!
|masterlist|
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The cushions of the narrow couch you were sitting on felt cozy and comfortable under your thighs clad inside the material of a beat-up denim. But perhaps it wasn't for the furniture itself, which, although distinctly well maintained by a taste of carefully carved work, in no way appeared to be an expensive or even onerous piece in its cheap springs and foam.
It turns out that ever since your presence became something made frequent inside the Maximoff residence, you had found between those walls an air of coziness and reception that, like a warm maternal hug, dissipated the tense weight that was usual to fall on the muscles of your shoulders and your back.
The house of the family of four (just a mother and her three children, two teenagers and a child) was situated in one of the areas inhabited by the low-income citizens of the small town of Westview, beyond the gas station and the railroad tracks, a few blocks up from that trailer park that everyone knows from bad legends, but it's not like you need more than that to snuggle into the blandishments of that dark brown fabric sofa.
After all, it was enough to be accompanied by the presence of Pietro Maximoff, the eldest son (for twelve minutes, his sister occasionally reminded him of the fact in front of you), for you to know that the upheavals of the world would disappear inside your chest and, immersed in a bubble of comfort being with your best friend for about nine or ten months, there would be nothing that could hold you back for so long.
Pietro just had that effect on people; he was a good guy, a receptive young man of your age who used to be an esteemed figure by those who came in contact with the recurring good humor that guided him – but, like a typical misfit high school kid, there was nothing about him that pleased everyone at all. Not like his sister did so masterfully, at least.
The boy, dressed in khaki shorts and a long blue blouse as thin as a sapphire stone that showed off his similarly colored irises, was thus sitting half sprawled with his legs spread as if he had fallen there and not gotten up for a long time, parallel to you, in a small dark armchair that was only distanced from the sofa by a scrawny coffee table set there, of cheap pale wood that he used to prop his heels put into a pair of worn out running shoes.
To your right and to his left, perched in a chair pulled out from under the dining table, Darcy Lewis was the girl with long brown hair who had her upper back leaning against the back of her chair. Her clear, intent eyes so solemnly bound to the phone screen she kept blinking close to the tip of her nose, behind the thin glass lenses of a pair of dark plastic-framed prescription glasses.
Pietro and Darcy, then friends almost out of convenience because no one else was close to them (she being a weird amalgamation of a know-it-all geek and a half-inconvenient sarcastic little shit, he just an immigrant kid with a weird accent who slipped up at times and a sense of humor doubtful), they took you in because the others didn't seem all that interested in keeping you close – not when you were the only new kid around with a tattoo hidden somewhere on your body and a few more pairs of piercings than was acceptable for your neighbors dangling stylishly from your ears.
The boy dressed in the blue shirt, then seated opposite you, was expertly rolling a thin weed cigarette with his fingertips curled towards his athletic pecs in an intent gaze at the action exerted on his digits.
He then stuck his tongue out, sliding it down through the crack in his parted lips, using his saliva to glue the loose end of the rolling paper against the skinny little body of the cigarette which, when it was finally ready to be smoked, he tried to tuck it into the corner where his lips ended as if he wanted to perform a mobster from the height of the twentieth century.
But he was only sixteen-almost-seventeen, as young as he could be, and that was why Pietro only appeared to be what he was at that moment; a disheveled kid with poorly homemade bleached hair done with the help of his grumpy sister (the brown roots were showing in the crook of his head, giving him an air of sloppiness) with a long joint lying in the corner of his mouth.
He then leaned with his spine forward so his right hand went for the small pale blue plastic lighter set on the coffee table, before pouring his thumb across the stone so that the spark ignited the flame that lighted the end of the weed cigarette, from which he drew a long, lingering drag to spread the thick smoke through his nostrils in a state of mind imbued with a zealous tranquility, leaning his back against the armchair.
Behind your own red-filtered cigarette dangling between your lips, you raised an amused brow at your friend's slouched figure.
“Fucking stoner, man,” you mussed, albeit in airs of morose jocularity that inferred a little chuckle on Darcy's part, “That shit gonna fry all your brain cells someday, you know that? Make you dumber than you already are.”
He took another swig of the joint before fixing you with a pair of droopy blue eyes, since this was the second or third of the day he'd smoked – around his firm chin, the tiniest fuzz of an occasional dark beard was already threatening to arise with the emergence of age, each day closer to adulthood. One day, he would be a handsome man, because for now he was just a boy who promised to be a good-looking adult.
“And that shit gonna kill you someday,” with a little finger movement, waving his limp left hand, he pointed to the nicotine cigarette that was blistered between the index and middle fingers of yours, raised right at your face.
You smiled and so did he, half on his side, still lying on the armchair cushions like a misplaced decoration.
“At least I won't die stupid like you.”
“Just kiss him already man, for Christ's sake,” Darcy grumbled in a tone of shared humor, before reaching for the joint from Pietro's hand and bringing the small cylindrical body to her to draw a swig of weed for herself.
“Nah,” you expressed a small smile flanked by smoke, “As much as I know Piet wants it so much, he's not really my type, sorry.”
“What do you mean he's not your type, huh?” Darcy gave you a funny look from behind the glasses placed in front of her sharp blue eyes, as if she wanted to poke a small lump hidden inside you.
“I thought his last name was Maximoff. That sure is your type, sister.”
There was a second puff of smoke until the boy, then already in a somewhat lethargic action when clouded by the cognitive effect of the cannabis he was smoking, lifted the back of his head from the backrest and lowered his chin, squeezing with his eyelids that wandered from Darcy's smile to your brow furrowed in a bewildered slant, only to redo the act once again a little more confused, cinching a flash of fur from his forehead with the thick, dark-haired brows above the blue eyes sort of gleaming with a curious blaze.
“Y/n, what’s she talking about…?”
“Your mom, duh,” was your immediate response, a mock-masked deliverance dripping from your throat, a smirk taut in the unnaturally twitching muscles on your face, “Ms. Maximoff's got it going on, right? I mean, gosh, she really looks hot in her waitress uniform.”
“Dude, I always knew MILFs were your type, you totally look like you would do a MILF.”
Darcy looked back at you with an air of laughter as her chin tipped in your direction, the lack of sobriety evident in her airy actions, which in no way complied with the implications of the first comment bestowed on you.
“Well, and who doesn’t like MILFs?” you smiled burlesquely, to which Darcy readily acquiesced with a sharp nod.
“But yeah Pietro, your mom is like, hot. The hottest MILF among all MILFs. So hot.”
“So hot,” you repeated in a profuse drag of a cigarette, pointing to the girl sitting next to your right knee that showed a beam of skin through a long slit in the fabric of your pants.
“Very, very hot.”
“Like, super hot.”
The platinum-haired boy, meanwhile, only let out a loathsome grunt as his drunken face contorted in repulsive distaste for the idea you and Darcy offered him about his own mother, shaking his head firmly as if he wanted to shake off these thoughts as if they were really mosquitoes pestering him to sleep at night—something that brought on you, of a good-natured nature, and on Darcy, just too stoned for her own good, a long round of loud, juicy laughter that caused the muscles in you abdomen to ache in hot cramping.
“Dude, gross! That's disgusting, she's my mom! What the fuck!"
Though a little unsteadily, his left fingers hooked against the fabric of a red pillow that was brought up and then hurled toward him with just a flick of the tendons of the young man's strong shoulder, which depended on minor physical labor to add a little more on the household income.
It was a quick if somewhat lingering half second, when your gaze only caught a glittering blur pouring air to shatter against your face.
The fluffy object then collided with a soft thud against the top of your left cheekbone, pushing the muscle of your neck back against the back of the sofa, as your senseless fingers detached from the still-lit half-smoked cigarette, whose butt fell against the pillow that soon had its fabric sprinkled in a small hole with burnt and blackened edges.
“Shit, Pietro–!”
Darcy, with cheeks as rosy as a pair of ripe tomatoes against her usually pale, lifeless alabaster countenance, seemed a second away from writhing into a convulsive laugh that would soon take the form of a fit of choking vomit, and you soon treated catching the remains of the cigarette between your right index finger and thumb, before pressing the tip against the pale porcelain pot that was the makeshift ashtray to then stand on your knees, scrutinizing the damage done to the mobile.
“Shit,” you repeated, albeit in a slightly lowered tone, the palms of your hands resting on your bent and exposed knees, “Shit, see what you did, dickhead? You ripped a goddamn hole in the pillow, you jerk!”
“What–?!” the boy then scrambled to his feet in exasperation, suddenly slipping into a layer of momentary sobriety, rounding the coffee table to walk over to your side in rather worried steps, “What the– oh my God, oh my God, my mom’s going to kill me—”
The sound of the front door being opened so close and then being closed as it was before, was what spread throughout the house of close rooms, succinct and with a small and short square footage composition.
The walls of your stomach collapsed in on you as Pietro shot you an alarmed look that flickered a troubled blue, turning pale as if the blood was suddenly draining from his cheeks. For a second he looked like a deer caught in the headlights of a car on the road.
“We're fucked.”
“I know.”
But desperation didn't rage among the three of you for as long as it would have; like a bucket of water dispersed in a still-igniting spark, putting out a coming fire, who came into the living room was not the figure of Ms. Maximoff dressed in her signature red and white ketchup-stained waitress uniform, but only a young Wanda Maximoff, Pietro's younger twin sister, who had a pair of headphones screwed into both her ears, under the profuse bundles of her dark-brown hair.
“Pietro…?” the low voice came from far away, as footsteps approached the room with heavy combat boots high-laced on her ankles, “What are you…?”
Wanda's irises wandered from Pietro to then you and Darcy, as her index and middle fingers, with extensions adorned in a series of silver rings, hooked onto the long wires of her headphones to pull them down from inside her ears.
“Wanda!” you muttered under your breath, because your unconscious was taken over by the image of her standing there, and there was nothing else to say but call her to you, “Wanda. H-hey, Wanda. Hi.”
“…Hi, Y/n.”
You gasped for a bit as you opened and closed with your lips, saliva hardening in the back of your throat at the pretty figure of the girl dressed in dark clothes and chains dangling from the belt that threaded around the waistband of her black skirt and around her milk-white neck, with pointy pendants that alluded to the mysticism she held dear.
And she just brought out something inside you. After all, Wanda Maximoff was affable, soft, beautiful and gentle as a bouquet of red roses, the prettiest of them all.
At Westview High, everyone knew who she was when she walked through the halls, the only girl who could walk shoulder to shoulder with the cool kids clique even if she hadn't gotten out of her Evanescence listening phase – even if her wealth was not as capital as theirs. Everyone wanted a little bit of her, from the kind, generous, gorgeous girl, essential member of the academic decathlon team and debate group.
A keen library goer, consumer of thick, hard-to-read books, who kept high grades as well as the good will of the people like it was second nature to her. A school prodigy. A popular necessity.
And Wanda went out of her way to be extremely considerate of her requirements. It just so happens that she was never quite able to share that said kindheartedness with you, something that has always given you doses of discontent inside your chest – after all, even after almost a whole year of seasons all past since your permanent installation in the small-town blandices, Wanda never bothered to look you straight in the eye for more than three or so seconds.
“This–this isn’t what it looks like, Wanda,” cried Pietro, who raised a hand to his sister across the room.
“We’re just,” you tried, “Well, we were—”
“Of course we sure as hell weren't smoking pot in your living room,” Darcy muttered to the ceiling, still sitting in her chair, “I mean minus Y/n, because she's such a boring bitch,” there was a snort on the part of the bespectacled girl.
“Darcy, shut up!”
“C’mon, what a fucking surprise Piet, everybody knows you smoke pot!”
And then when Wanda's gaze woven in a curious green latched onto yours, an air-tied knot whose ends met between you and her, you pressed your lips together in a single line, because a thin layer of blush turned pink on her high cheeks, which flushed like a little porcelain doll.
You straightened your posture, but the girl with the long, silky dark hair only looked away, aiming for the dirty porcelain bowl set on the cheap wooden table.
“I,” she whispered, like a shy little mouse with rosy cheeks, “I won't… I won’t say anything to mom, don't worry about it. Just… just clean this mess up before she gets home.”
There was a flash of green gaze that flashed into your eyes like a beacon on the horizon, but then it faded in less than a second because Wanda seemed to relinquish eye contact with you, again lowering her gaze away from your face, hiding her pretty pale eyes behind a thick curtain of dark hair.
She suppressed her lips in a thin, rosy line, seeming to shrink into her blackish-brown, long-sleeved blouse. Wanda opened her mouth as if to say something, but then clasped her lips together again in a sign of resignation.
“I–I'm going to my room.”
And the girl barely waited for an answer from any of the three parties before she left for the house, leaving like a deserting spirit. You blinked once, and then turned your nose towards Darcy.
“Dude, did I do something wrong…?”
“She’s probably just scared of you,” teased the girl with the glasses, “You know, she dresses all edgy and stuff but she's just so sweet and kind like this little black bunny and you... well, man, you spilled cigarette ash all over her mother's couch, what the heck.”
When she laughed at her own joke, something in you faltered for half a second.
“Yeah, that makes sense,” you mussed awkwardly, screwing the palm of your right hand against the skin of the back of your neck, “I… I guess.”
“Whatever, Wanda’s a weirdo,” Pietro's voice came from your side, even if half muttering to himself, “Just–just please help me clean this up, dammit. My mom’s going to kill me, I swear...”
A gust of annoyed air had left the gap between your lips open for what was perhaps the tenth time in a row allotted to that meager period of time that spanned a lengthy fifteen minutes of a rather dull morning – at least that's what you was, when your weary gaze sagged across the raised square screen of your phone, towards the upper right corner, and there you were faced with the digital clock marking the scorching hour of nine thirty-seven on a hot morning in Wednesday.
You sighed slowly, warm air draining from your lungs and your chest deflating into your unbuttoned flannel shirt, through the straps of your thin tank top, because there was nothing to do other than that.
You might as well proclaim your notes in your notebook as Miss Harkness, who was standing right in front of long rows of other bustling teenagers who, like you, huffed bored air out of their mouths into their faces, dictated to her history class to all the school kids in their seats.
However, as much as you were interested in the class (as, in fact, you were), it turns out that Miss Harkness just had a habit of getting quite carried away in her classical prose, and even though the middle-aged woman in the lilac waistcoat was one of your favorite teachers, nothing there was enough to capture your diverted attention.
Because you, moreover, barely had any thoughts floating around in your head that weren't entirely focused on Wanda Maximoff and the esoteric wonder that came along with her, as if it were her own shadow.
And, given the situation similar to yours in which Wanda found herself in that same class, it was she who was sitting there next to you, taking note of everything the teacher said about that historical event that honed the details of the modern country founding; Wanda was just a pretty smart type of student, it's true. The girl urged you on in a superhuman way.
Yet, at that morning and like every other morning before, the two of you hadn't even exchanged enough sentences for you to actually engage in a conversation with the other girl. In fact, you hadn't even spoken to her at all.
You knew she was deep enough in her notes to having someone to piss her off. With the chin supported by the hand supplanted by the left elbow raised to the face of your table, your gaze headed towards Wanda, who was seated to your right and attracted you like a damn lodestone, in an inevitable magnetic dazzle; in the same room in the company of several people, Wanda was always the one who caught your attention under her fingertips to keep.
Just the appeal, the idea, the unknown, they were enough to find you rambling about your classmate – Wanda interspersing her diligent attention between Agatha and her own dark-covered notebook where the digits of her fingers, lined with rings, wrote so cunningly in a black ink pen, one opalescent knee crossed by the other under the table, the miniskirt exposing her pale, firm thighs that were suddenly engulfed by high dark stockings that rose above the confines of her knees.
And it admired you, how her brown hair seemed to modulate accentuated shades of honey color when laid out by the rays of sunlight that entered the room through the thick glass windows that adorned the walls adjacent to the tables you occupied respectively. How her irises looked like two sparkling emerald stones when highlighted by a profuse smoky dark eyeliner liner around her waterline – her naturally thick, long lashes adorning her stylish, heavy makeup.
There was the leaf-shaped pendant in dark silver dangling from a thin chain that flowed across her attractive bosom, between the sharp collarbones that poked out of her thin black blouse, adorned with strands of long, silky light brown hair; the necklace between her breasts, the exposed skin there looking so soft, a tiny mole situated high on her right breast that you just wanted to know what it would feel like to kiss and feel through your tongue.
“Miss Y/l/n.”
The teacher's voice called out of your thoughts between the heads of young people, which caused a sea of eyes to all turn to you, like creatures from another world, a pack of animals in the forest looking to a flashlight.
Even Wanda's gaze got caught, which for half a broken second turned to you only for when, upon catching your face already turned towards her, she only turned to the filled pages of the notebook placed between her forearms, like if you really were just an eminent pest. She doesn't know who I am and yet she doesn't give a damn about me, huh.
“Can you answer the question, Miss Y/l/n?”
Miss Harkness's tight, dark curls swayed in your direction when you look at her, standing there on the other side of the classroom and in front of the blackboard cluttered with notes made all in powdered white chalk.
“Eh,” you mussed, somewhat unimpressed by the teasing smirks that were beginning to form on unfriendly faces, containing in your grunt a sudden roll of disinterested eyes.
“What's the question again, please?”
“Pff, sucker.”
A voice pierced the veil of silence that had fallen over the other youngsters, the voice of that smug boy Tony Stark, which soon erupted into group giggles that spilled back and forth into the classroom like a flock of flustered parrots.
“Alright, alright, cut it off for Christ's sake!” Miss Agatha Harkness cried out somewhat aggravated, waving both her hands in front of her body in a rather weary way.
“None of you here is in position to laugh and you all know it very well! Would any of you like to answer the question for Miss Y/l/n instead, huh? Somebody? Nobody? Well, that’s what I thought.”
The teacher's simple, elaborate tone sounded an octave higher than usual, drawing your attention towards the woman in question. You looked at her, but Wanda's gaze burned to the flesh of your right cheek, before glancing at Miss Harkness another time.
And then, a hand with nails tinted in dark polish rose above the others' heads, not at all hesitant in her actions as she did so. Wanda, of course, was willing to speak up when no one else did. You looked at her with an air of interest, straightening your posture against your hard, clear plastic chair.
“Yes, Miss Maximoff?” Agatha nodded, to which the young girl immediately lowered her right arm.
“The Church created the Court of the Holy Office in the thirteenth century, and it was supposed to prevent people who had deviated from Christianity from leaving. They used various mechanisms of persecution and punishment for that,” narrated Wanda with exquisite mastery.
“That's what led to the Inquisition and, after some time, the Salem witch hunt, which actually started in France in the fifteenth century.”
You focused your eyes on her for a couple of seconds longer than what would be considered healthy for the habit to do. It was because of looking at her so intently, however, that you found the other girl giving you a single, chaste glance out of the corner of her eye, which then retreated away, as if in an internal game with both parts of her brain; one wanted to look at you, and the other didn't.
“Finally, great,” Agatha brandished.
“At least someone here is paying attention in class. You are correct indeed, Miss Maximoff. See, Miss Y/l/n, this is what happens when you actually listen to your teacher and not just daydream looking at your classmates all morning.”
"I– what?! I didn't—!” A heat spread from the tips of your ears, all the way down to your cheekbones, your neck, and your shoulders inside your unbuttoned shirt.
Someone stifled a laugh on a cough from behind your seat. Fuck.
Wanda remained silent, and you wouldn't even dare look to the side, at her, who so relentlessly strayed her curious gaze in your direction, her chin slightly tilted at a broken angle to the side of her left shoulder. Mortification in bright crimson still burned the flushed skin of your cheeks at the pretty girl's gaze.
“That's what you heard, heartbreaker,” the teacher waved her witch-like hand, “Now, please, everyone pay attention here for another fifteen minutes until class is over, will you? I swear I want to be here as much as you kids do.”
And then there was another bout of chatter from Miss Harkness in a waistcoat buttoned over a white shirt printed with corny light blue flowers. Perhaps, if you hadn't covered your eyes with the open palms of both your hands, you would have caught the tiny fond smile that tugged at the corner of Wanda's peachy lips.
It didn't take long, with some minutes passed right after lunch time, for you to sneak into the four closed walls of a second-floor women's bathroom stall so that, in such a way, you could give yourself the courtesy of blowing smoke from your cigarette, scorching in peace. With your back resting peacefully against the laminated plastic of the scrawny cabin wall, you leaned your back, staring sluggishly at the pale plaster ceiling. It’s not like the time and space around your miserable existence matters all that much.
The cigarette that appeared between your parted lips had a flickering tip like a firefly in the night flickering in the dark night, and the smoke that just sailed up to the ceiling was thin and wavering, fading from reality like a utopian idea.
Near the flush valve, painted onto the white tile, an elaborate graffiti in black marker pen penned two names joined by a mathematical plus sign – something like “KATE + YELENA” etched near your right elbow, a promise perpetuated in the inerasable act of a young heart lacerated by a still budding idea of what warm love would be pulsing inside someone’s chest.
Behind an opaque veil of cigarette smoke, you considered doing the same with your own name and Wanda Maximoff's, until you suddenly gave up on the idea as it was supposed to be an impulsive lapse in need.
So you just sighed, shaking your head from side to side, getting rid of those silly thoughts as if you had quaked them out of your brain. The only sound that erupted through the silence encrusted in the cabins was that of the avid drip of a poorly closed sink. Dripping. And dripping. And stopping. Until a trio of female voices burst through the front door.
“Shit–!”
In an act of open desperation, you just dropped your still lit, half-smoked cigarette down into the open toilet, into the still water.
“I swear, that's what she said,” the evident tone of voice that reached your ear was distinctly that of Pepper Potts, the girl a year older than you who was the head of the cheerleading squad.
“Rogers dumped her because he's dating Barnes!”
“That's weird, I thought it was Wilson this time.”
Just behind her, the second voice couldn't be anyone other than Monica, the only child of principal Rambeau and that, like her friend, everyone knew who she was; a genuinely nice girl from the lacrosse team who turned out to be Pietro's crush for as long as you knew him.
“No, Wilson used to date Barnes who now dates Rogers. It’s hard to keep up, I know.”
Pepper clarified it to her friend, and for a second it sounded like she was planning to start a new sentence about the ups and downs of her peers' social-love life when, after a broken half lapse of silence within those with walls, the strawberry-blonde girl’s voice was then charged with a queasy tone, which indicated a nose twisted in repugnance that you couldn’t see behind the cabin’s closed red door.
“Ugh, what is that smell…?”
“Cigarette smoke, I guess.”
Your heart slammed and disarmed inside the middle of your chest, because the answer was based on Wanda Maximoff's delightfully low voice. She was there, in the company of her friends who reapplied makeup to their faces. Well, fuck. You gulped like a criminal in trial.
You scarcely dared to breathe accurately between your nostrils, but it's not like your lungs, at the sound of her melodic voice, know how to do anything but just inflate and deflate sparingly like a pair of flat tires.
“That’s disgusting,” Pepper clicked with her tongue on the roof of her mouth.
“It must have been Y/l/n, everyone knows she comes here to smoke after lunch,” said Monica, who seemed to have a crooked joyful smile in her voice.
“I swear, Wanda, she was practically drooling on you earlier today. Heart eyes and all, totally head over heels. It was actually kinda cute to watch.”
“She… she was?” it was small, almost inaudible from your listening hiding position, away from the eyes of those who spoke.
There was something shy that could be pointed out in Wanda's voice, but there was something also glistening with the tiniest glimmer of hope that you couldn't help but notice. Something that lulled your senses and made you ponder about the direction of this conversation so intimate that, for a second, you felt like you were crossing an invisible line of common sense. Maybe it was wrong. A mistake. Or perhaps it was just a weird type of unconventional luck, even.
It was like you couldn’t be there at all. Because you, in the wrong place at the wrong time, were just invading Wanda’s privacy; that’s how it felt, at least. It was as if the walls of the cabin were going to swallow you and squash you to death like the stomach of a dark creature.
“I really don't understand what you see in that girl, Wands,” it's Pepper's turn to say, “You should just give Jarvis a chance. He asked you out to eat Indian food, didn't he? You love Indian food.”
“I hate Indian food,” Wanda reiterated to the other girl, “And he doesn’t give a damn about me, anyways. He just likes hanging out with people who have high grades. And you just want me to date him because he's Tony's brother, and if I do date him you'll have someone to go on a stupid double date with.”
“It's not that, geez,” was the head cheerleader's reply, “It's just that he's on the decathlon team like you and he's graduating this year, so you can date a college boy in your senior year. Damn, I'd like to date a college boy my senior year."
“You're already in your senior year,” Monica reminds her, “And you’re dating Tony.”
“Yes, for that very reason.”
Something about that suggestion didn't appeal to your taste at all, still tucked inside the cabin as you were. Just the thought of Wanda dangling from Jarvis Stark's arm, a known prick among the students other than those who made up his intimate circle of handpicked relationships, was enough to ignite an acrimonious revulsion in you, which even seemed to want to devour your muscle cells from the inside out.
That bitter feeling running down the side of your tongue, pouring out between your teeth, was nothing to do with your half-smoked cigarette which then floated down the toilet like a sunken ship. And you just didn’t want to think so hard about why the slightest mention of the idea of Wanda dating Jarvis fueled such a revolting feeling within your ribcage.
“Besides,” the Potts girl continues her own line, oblivious to your deep displeasure.
“Unlike that Y/l/n girl, Jarvis has a guaranteed future in his father's company for when he finishes his graduation. And look, don't get me wrong, but that girl is either going to end up in jail or dead or both, and that's probably before she even turns thirty. Ugh, c’mon Wanda, she's just another freak. You can do way better than that. I mean, you even have a shot to be prom queen this year if you start dating Jarvis.”
“I don't wanna be prom queen, Pepper. Everyone already knows it's going to be you and Tony, anyways,” said Wanda, in a tone that emulated lapses of discomfort towards the other young woman, “And don't say that about Y/n, that's not true.”
And it surprised you, in fact, because you had never heard Wanda be so incisive with her words before. Or even someone using such a tone of voice when addressing Pepper Potts.
“She's not… a freak, she’s funny. And smart. And she’s actually pretty sweet when you really get to know her. I... I never talk to her much when she comes over to my house because she's always hanging with Pietro and Darcy, but... she just... she just seems nice to have around, you know? Something about her is… soft. She once made me laugh until juice almost came out of my nose.”
Your heart skipped a beat as your memory traveled back to that day, at a dinner night guided by the traditional house stroganoff, were Ms. Maximoff made sure that your presence was there, at the dinning table with her and her children. The tips of your ears and the skin of your shoulder burned to embers that carried the ashes of that night, but it was as if that heat itself soothed the anxious twinges in your bristling veins.
It was the first time your eyes were ever pleased to witness a sincere laugh burst from within Wanda’s lungs.
And no one had ever looked as stunning in front of you as she did back in that day so many weeks ago, with her head thrown back and her eyes squinted, cheeks flushed in such a lovely rosy layer of flesh, shoulders swaying inside an ancient rock band shirt, peach mouth open only to reveal the two front teeth partially larger than the rest, like a scrunched nose bunny.
So genuine and so pure that your heart turned on itself – and if you dared to do so, you would say it was that day she usurped the rights of your feelings.
“And, uh...” Wanda's voice was small this time, in a timid, measured edge, “She's... she... she's pretty. Like, really… really pretty.”
It was like an electric current that ran from your ribs to the flesh of your cheek, heating the tops of your cheekbones. The saliva in your mouth, still vicious like a full-bodied drink, only evaporated and disappeared, making the wetness pooling in the palms of both of your sweaty hands even more evident. It was as if fireworks erupted in a hot red roar inside the walls of your stomach.
“She’s hot! I once heard that she had a hidden tattoo somewhere,” it was Monica's turn to cry out in an air of laughter.
“She’s a freak,” growled the Potts girl again, in an eye roll, “And you two are just too squeamish for your own good. She’s not the only person with earrings out there, Jesus.”
“Seriously, Pep, look at Wanda, her type is obviously not those preppy boys like that Stark douche. Girl, her type is delinquents. Bad girls. You know, just girls as a whole. Someone to listen to, I don’t know, Iron Maiden with her or whatever emo shit she listens to.”
“Yeah, got it, geez,” muttered the older girl in a bad way, “It's just what I think.”
“Well, you thought wrong then.”
“Really, Monica, just shut up–”
A few more frivolous conversations drifted over the trio of girls, who took off out of the bathroom minutes later, striding farther and farther away when the subject in question strayed into something that was of no interest to you at all. You blinked once, and then twice. It was like being at the bottom of the ocean and coming back to the surface abruptly.
You breathed. You just breathed. Soundlessly, your right hand slipped to the latch of the laminated plastic door, which opened out in a continuous squeak.
You gulped down the saliva sitting on the back of your tongue. Meeting your eyes in the quadrangular mirror placed in front of the cabin from which you exited, the air still reeking of the remnants of your cigarette mixed with Wanda's perfume, it did not surprise you at all that your cheeks reflected in the glass were like two reddish cherries burning over your boiling flesh.
“…Fuck.”
A few succinct days were passed one after another in front of your secret incident in the girl's bathroom stall (there was no more dignified labeling for such an occurrence than an incident as pleasant as it was also uncomfortable, it's true).
The entire seventy-two hours that followed were then grounded in several thoughtful cigarettes burning between your aching lips, the lighter's flame flickering in the ashes of broken reasonings, considerations and daydreams taking puffs of smoke, all which circled in your brain as if it were the moon that gravitates around the planet, as if space itself had usurped the oxygen from your bloodstream and changed it to Wanda’s name.
Wanda. Your cigarette smoke burned Wanda's name in your lungs. Your eyelids blinked Wanda's emerald gaze out of your sleepy eyes. Just Wanda. Only Wanda. Wanda Maximoff, red, green and black, a dream and a doom.
Your everyday contemplations then became the shelter of the other girl's tender jadish irises blooming in shades of a cordial green, like the green of spring pastures, and only the Maximoff girl could have been able to capture your attention even when you were within the walls of your own room, away from her piercing vision.
You couldn’t help but glance so assiduously at her when she was wearing nothing but partially buttoned black shirts on her chest and increasingly revealing miniskirts, whose fabric didn't even bother to cover the hollow of her soft, pale thighs worn down in tall, dark stockings.
Like a delightful reverie, she came in a spectral crimson form at night, only to disappear early in the morning sun. Four days were enough for you to bury your face in the middle of your pillow and let out a cavernous and frustrated yell vanish there, in vain trying to engage in a battle already lost since its beginnings against something that.
 Like the addictive nicotine contained in the extensions of your countless smoked cigarettes, every cell in your body clamored for more of her. It was as if your lips would bleed if you lacked the taste of her kiss for even one more day.
If Wanda were a witch endowed with mystical gifts, you would sure be bewitched by her addictive charms with an intangible scarlet grip around the outline of your neck – for the length of the halls between class periods, the cafeteria packed with students heads at lunchtime (campaigns for prom royalty were starting to brew little by little) or even on the bleachers smeared out of the faculty buildings by the warm sun, you searched with intent eyes for the slightest trace of her stunning presence, like a hungry dog hunting something down to satisfy its starvation.
And you could barely be sure in your own limping functions of what it was that led you there when it was that your feet, in untied shoes, marched under a stifling blanket of the scorching spring sun, even if the excuse paramount was that you just wanted her brother's company by your side to smoke a cigarette – even if Pietro wasn't into smoking conventional cigarettes at all, just like you also weren’t into smoking what he had to offer either.
 Stepping hard on the concrete of the sidewalk without a definite purpose at the heart of your rash actions, like a maze with only one exit, your feet instinctively led you up the two entry steps of the Maximoff residence – the newly painted one storey house that contained within its structures two bedrooms and only one bathroom.
That's where your right index finger, so accurate, searched for the bell to press with the tip of your digit and, after the miserable seconds that followed the act, who came to meet you was that same brunette girl who stole the gift of sleep during the nighttime.
Wanda looked a little different on that scorching Sunday afternoon of sunny skies and wispy clouds sprinkled around the cerulean sky dome, without any hint of dark makeup to adorn the moss-colored puddles that flanked her sharp pupils to be found in her natural beauty, albeit the long coffee-colored strands that were tucked behind the contours of her ears, in the usual casual way she liked to stylish them.
“Y/n?” it was a stunned tone at your offered smile as her chin tilted toward her left collarbone, one corner of a dark brow cocked in an expression nothing short of stupefied, her eyes enlarged in size.
“Hey, hi Wanda. How’re you doing?"
“I–I,” she huffed for a bit, “I'm fine... I'm fine, thank you. You?”
“Oh,” you smiled, “I’m great, thanks.”
Wanda's rosy mouth tightened into a line at your sight, and you couldn't help but notice the fact that the way she shifted her weight from one bare leg to the other beneath the dark material of her front-buttoned skirt, as if she wasn't quite sure what to do there at the door of her own home – surely you weren't a face she expected to find there.
Seconds passed in a slow swoop when a bird hummed in a nearby tree. Wanda just played fidget with the handfuls of rings that adorned the pale extensions of her right fingers, twisting, pulling and touching them with her left fingernails carpeted in dark nail polish chipped at the tips. There was a cigarette leaning behind your right ear.
“So,” you then began rather casually, and your voice drew her attention from her own clean shoes, as the other girl saw herself as being imbued with a somewhat restless silence, “Is Pietro at home? I sent him some texts, but he hasn't replied for a while.”
“No, he… he left a while ago,” she hissed a little too quickly, like a hamster's squeak, “He's grounded. You know, from burning a hole in the pillow that day.”
You cinched a flash of fur between your brows in a funny way, breaking a curious little smirk at the corner of your lips.
“He's grounded,” it was echoed slowly, as if to get your bearings, “But he left...?”
“Yeah,” Wanda shrugged into her plain blouse, “My mom took the afternoon shift at the diner and Lorna went out to play at her friend's house, and he's been bugging me for ages about setting up a date with Monica... and she agreed to go out with him today, so… he went out with her.”
“Huh,” you mumbled thoughtfully, “That's cool, I guess. I mean, he talks about her all the damn time… it’s kinda annoying actually. Even if it’s cute.”
“Yeah,” she half-chuckled, not moving her lips that much, “I know.”
There was a silence that bordered the two of you for a few more seconds as in an intangible fence made of mutual discomposure, a view a bit awkward to witness from afar, almost like a lighthearted conversation taken disinterestedly between two strangers inside a crowded bus or in a long bank line just to pass the time.
Wanda was still fidgeting with her own fingers, soundless in a dull quietness as if a lump stuck in her throat forbade her to speak words to you, and you just unpretentiously shoved the palms of both your hands into the back pockets of your baggy jeans, your side teeth nibbling the flesh on the inside of your cheeks as you did.
“I,” you muttered under your breath, nodding your head at an unasked question, filling the gap of silence between you and Wanda, “I think I'm gonna go home then—”
“You–you can wait for him here if you want!”
You blinked for a second, lifting your eyebrows to the middle of your forehead, almost touching your hairline. Wanda's pink lower lip was pressed between a wall of her upper teeth, and her cheeks flushed with a remarkable heat. Cute, you thought with yourself. So goddamn cute, oh my God... you wanted to hold her in your arms just to place a warm kiss in the middle of her forehead skin.
“Fine,” was a casual agreement, “I'd like to stay, then. If that doesn't bother you, of course.”
She then shrugged, “No, being alone at home is kinda boring sometimes. And, well,” her right fingertips swept behind her ear a strand of hair that had come loose from its previous spot there, “You… you're cool, Y/n.”
Your lips tightened when, even with her head aiming halfway down the floor, Wanda looked at you in a flash of moss green that flowered between her dark, thick, heavy doll-like lashes. Into the crop top you wore over your shoulders, your chest heaved and deflated severely against your ribs.
“Right. You're cool too, Wanda.”
She smiled in a singularly kind way because you did too, before closing the door behind you as you entered your newfound hostess's house together. As you passed close to her shoulder, there was the scent of strawberry shampoo and a cheap, lightly woody perfume like cinnamon that intoxicated your bloodstream as the scent wafted through your nostrils.
There was at you core the stimulating temptation of your perceptions to stick the tip of your nose through her long locks, only to further indulge your senses with her scent, but you held back your actions before skidding into a lapse of daring to definitely do it.
“You... You want something to eat?” Wanda spoke a little tenderly, half-cumbersomely even, not sneaking a glance at your face as you followed her into the walls of the small house, “I baked a cake.”
“Wait, wait, you cook?” you turned your gaze to the girl next to your left shoulder, who let a chaste smile crack between her lips.
“Well,” she muttered, “Sometimes, yeah. Not as often as I would like to, though. It's usually only when Lorna asks me to do it.”
“Cool,” you reciprocated her small grin, “I'd like a slice, if it's not too much trouble.”
When you went to sit on the springs of the dark sofa, out of the way of Wanda, who in turn headed for the nearby kitchen, your eyes proceeded to a small square television set in the corner of the room, above a somewhat rustic wooden furniture with silver handles, which on its monochromatic screen flashed a reprised episode of some old sitcom in shades of an artificially colored image like in one of those advertising flyers from sixty years ago.
Wanda came over to you a few minutes later all filled with a corny, fun-to-watch script between a blonde actress and a tall actor wearing a suit, in rather quick strides in her converse sneakers, carrying with her, in her right hand, a glass plate that contained a generous slice of white cake that looked like a feather-flavored pastry.
“Here,” she then handed you the utensil that was gladly accepted by your hands along with a grateful smile on your face, before sitting in the sofa to your right, with her bare knees joined together like a pair of magnets.
“Thanks, really. But hey, Bewitched, huh?” With a jerk of your chin, you pointed at the television in the corner of the room, under the open glass window that let aureate glimmers of a cozy sunlight take over the room.
Wanda acquiesced with a nod that shuddered her soft, dark locks, her lips twisted into a shy little smile. The rehearsed laughter of an unseen audience cluttered the four walls of the living room.
“Yeah, my mom always liked all that old American stuff when I was a kid, so I guess it got passed on to me somehow,” she finally looked at you, sounding even a little more undisturbed when engaged in narration about her most intimate tastes.
“I mean, Pietro doesn't like it very much… he says it's boring. And Lorna is just too small to pay attention to anything that lasts longer than five minutes, so… someone had to keep my mom company when she got home late from work. But it never bothered me, really. I... I like sitcoms.”
When a chuckle escaped between your parted lips at her own revelation, Wanda soon tried to justify herself in a quick, slurred speech, like a sinner validating her confessions in the eyes of the Lord.
“I–I mean, I, I know it's silly, but–”
“Hey, who said it's silly?” you offer her a succinct, complacent look that has her reaching for a sip of oxygen, “That's actually pretty sweet of you, Wanda.”
“You… You really think so…?” she looked at you, waiting for a hesitant answer.
“Well, yeah,” you shrugged, “My mom used to watch these old sitcoms all the time too when I was younger. So I think it's cool. It's really nice of you, Wanda.”
“Right,” there was a blistering twinge that brushed her pale cheeks, as her lips echoed a “Cool,” rather pleased with herself.
The tines of the tip of the aluminum fork in your possession, then pressed between the face of your right index finger and thumb, made to dip and break the loose dough of the plump cake placed right on top of the small plate that was supported by your left hand, before taking a significant amount of the sweet dessert so that it could be taken all the way up to your half-open mouth.
You hummed fortunately against the softly sweet taste on the face of your tongue. It was delicious on the palate, in fact, still warm as if fresh from the oven, with a comforting touch of nostalgia for something you had never experienced before – it was as if Wanda was sharing a tiny fraction of her Sokovian childhood with you. It tasted of sunny country afternoons and homemade desserts dotted with a coat of maternal affability. Tasted like pure, simple happiness of old infantile days to the sharpest feeling of the sentence.
Realizing that you were indeed eating something she had so selflessly prepared just a few minutes earlier, an emerald spotlight with an expectant green gaze engaged your facial expressions, as in an analysis project by Wanda, whose subject matter of study was none other than yourself.
“Man, this is really, really good!” it was a cry bordered by a half-child affinity, before you went back to reaching for more of the cake with the tines of your fork.
“You liked it?” Wanda's face glowed with exultant euphoria, shimmering a veil of pale green on her pretty irises, “It’s ptichye moloko, my mom used to bake it all the time when Pietro and I were kids back in Novi Grad.”
“Right, don't tell her I said that but I'm sure yours is better.”
“What?!” Wanda smiled a little dumbfounded, as her left shoulder bumped against your right bicep in a light-hearted way, witty in her comfortable good-humor that was slowly unfolding in front of you, “You haven't even tasted hers, Y/n!”
“Yeah, sorry, but as much as I’d be willing to literally die for your mom's cooking, you baked it, so I'm automatically sure yours is better.”
The high flesh of her cheeks burned in deep shades of rosy-crimson at your utterly sincere statement.
After a few episodes of the old television series (no less than five, but certainly more than two and a half), with the walls of your stomach already satisfied in your abdomen with that generous piece of cake made with a strictly followed recipe in the traditional Sokovian style, Wanda's gaze, who was then chuckling softly at some harmless silly joke made by the main character, dropped to your right profile, burning the bone in your jaw in scheming thoughts.
“When did you start smoking?”
Sweeping your eyes away from the colorful figures on the television, you glanced at the girl sitting next to you, finding a pretty face brightening before your gaze, “Sorry, what?”
“Your cigarette,” her index finger pointed at the small cylindrical object blistered behind your ear, skimming against your silver earrings, “When did you start smoking? If... if you don't mind talking about it, of course. Sorry if I'm being invasive."
“Oh, that,” you recalled suddenly from the presence of your addiction, bringing your right fingers to pick it up between your digits.
“It’s okay, I don't mind talking about it. But... I think it's been a while, actually. When my mom left my dad started smoking again and, well... I wanted to sneak some from him to see what it was like. About two years ago or so, I guess. Something like that."
You shrugged it off, because the matter had been over for longer than you cared to remember, and there wasn't much you could do if your mom just didn't want to stay anymore. But a warm grip slid across your skin as Wanda's right hand settled over the bare skin of your forearm, and there the tip of her thumb gave a cordial caress in affectionate circular motions, when her eyelids flicker so courteously into your face.
She was just a sweet girl after all, albeit under dark, torn clothes and dangling chains. Such a virtuous soul in the face of the oppressions of such an overwhelming world. When your eyes locked in midair, one trying to understand the glimmering behind the other, even the rehearsed lines coming from the television in the corner weren't enough to loosen the knot that was tied between you and Wanda.
“I… I get it, Y/n,” she mussed, leaning a little closer to your body, “I mean… it was hard when my dad left as soon as we arrived in the country. Quite hard, actually. My mom, she... she bought wine, for a while. Lots of wine bottles. I mean, she's better now, but I think that's when Pietro started doing... those things he does.”
The girl nibbled on her lower lip, and you, up close, just followed her with your eyes as she did.
“I didn't mean to bring you bad memories, it's just that...” her voice trailed off, getting smaller and smaller, as the tips of her ears reddened like two ripe peppers, “You... you look pretty when... when you smoke.”
Your heart missed a beat, and the oxygen just became unpalatable there inside that scrawny room filled with some disembodied laughter chuckled by the television set long forgotten in its sunny corner.
Setting the unsmoked cigarette aside, your right hand then dared to reach up on your forearm to search for what you've been searching for in the last few months, just snuggling your open palm against Wanda's soft cheek where, like the caresses bestowed by her finger, your own thumb tried to stroke a tiny freckle high up on her sharp cheekbone.
“Hey, look at me,” you asked in a tone bathed in tenderness, which she matched in a trace of pale green in her flickering irises, “It's okay Wanda, you didn't do anything wrong, don't worry about it. And on top of that," you half-giggled, “I think you're pretty too, you know.”
The thick dark lashes flickered out of her eyes, a half-formed mantilla of limping anguish, setting the stage for a color imbued with traces of what would be dizzying hope, flushing bright red on the pale alabaster skin of her accentuated face.
“You think I'm pretty...?”
“Of course I think so,” you nodded, your pupils dilated in close juncture with hers.
“You're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen, Wanda. I wish I could make you laugh every day of my life just to see you smiling. Your... your smile is beautiful. And the way you sit and fiddle with your hair, or the way you care so much about everyone… everything about you is beautiful. Not a single day goes by that I don't notice how beautiful you are.”
She swallowed when you did too; an abyssal gaze that slanted magnetically down your face, to the outline of your lips as close to hers as they were.
“Can I…” she breathed beneath her ruffled voice, “Can I kiss you, Y/n? I really want to kiss you...”
What happened next, on the initiative of a Wanda who didn't even wait for half a second when you nodded in restraint, was a needy kiss that tasted like cake, cinnamon, cigarettes and, at the end, a hint of crystalline need not contained. Your upper teeth kind of clashed with each other at first, though that didn't stop you or Wanda, who just hooked her gentle fingers into the outline of the skin on your neck. Your brain needed oxygen, but your chest just needed her; her touch, her tongue, her red.
“Please,” Wanda mussed with her swollen lip against your, her eyes heavy, warm air caressing the pulp of the commission in your mouth, “Please tell me this is as important to you as it is to me.”
“It is,” you muttered, going back to more of the taste of her tongue, “God, Wanda, you don't know how long I've been wanting to do this…”
The girl kissed you again with excruciating need, as if she really wanted to keep your soul tied to hers between the flicks of your tongues, as you felt the commission of her lips against yours twitch in a goofy smile, both hands roaming in search of the strands of your hair to hold them between her fingers, as if she wanted to breathe in from them the scent of cigarettes that so soothed her heart.
Wanda ran her hands down the length of your back, the roll of frigid rings feeling icy against your warm, bristly skin, hugging you around the waist as you wrapped your arms around her waist, your noses touching, mirrored smiles on your lips broken by kisses that were increasingly equipped with a mutual meaning that pointed to a need pulsing in your veins. 
“Can I...?” she understood the meaning behind your little question when your left palm brushed lightly against her enclosed breast, covered by the thin material of her dark blouse.
“Yes...” was a breathy sigh, “P–please, yes...”
There was consent in a tiny nod of the head, and a tiny groan breathed out from the back of her throat that reverberated through your bones as you pressed your palm lightly against her mound, one erect nipple protruding behind the fabric for, there, you've found her lacking the material of a bra to slip between your skin and hers, massaging the warm, soft flesh between the lengths of your cunning fingers.
“Fuck Wanda,” you groaned because she did too, “You're so beautiful…”
You just can't help but do it when your teeth came into contact with the pale sensitive skin of Wanda's throat, where you captured between your lips a pinkish lump of flesh glistening with a thin layer of sweat and buffed it with the tip of your tongue as if it were just a sweet dessert, feeling the burning saccharinity of the girl's naked skin as the caresses aimed at her breast became somewhat more continuous and erratic in the movements of your left forearm.
But you caught yourself surprised, when you felt a gentle grip on both your shoulders and saw that Wanda, with care as if handling the most fragile of flowers, was pulling you to fit over her, guiding you to the top.
She laid the length of her spine against the inconvenient length of the sofa, causing your wandering eyes to land on the piece of alabaster skin that had become exposed as the hem of her blouse rose, revealing, there, a band of abs marked by tiny dots sprinkled here and there, like a particular galaxy.
“You're so fucking beautiful, Wanda” was said between kisses and strokes of tongue over Wanda's abdomen, when you writhed inside the clothes that seemed too stuffy for her there, laying under your body.
“Y/n...” she moaned, but there was no word that could complement your own name whispered through her peachy lips.
Blood burned hot on the sharp red cheeks of Wanda's ivory face, her lids closed as if to hold back the tears of arousal that threatened to slip down her doll face. The rosebud mouth with the brief traces of your lustrous saliva was, every now and then, moaning in the form of a shy, smothered request.
Her lips were apparently forming delusional words, but your conscience no longer registered them, because you were too busy just watching her. Wanda was rosy, dusted with droplets of sweat, covered by the veil of ardor without realizing she was surrounded by a red haze of lust. Perfect, really. Your fingers hooked on the hem of her dark blouse, and in a slow flick of your wrist you pulled it over as you tucked the garment under Wanda's bared collarbones, revealing a pair of bare breasts there.
Watching with delight the flushed girl's unrestricted enjoyment of her satisfying freedom from the pieces of cloth that covered her silhouette, you propped yourself up on your elbows for a voluptuous view of full breasts partially covered by cascades of dark hair, blushing breasts in its perfect contours, of clear and erect nipples which you found yourself seized by a desire to squeeze between your lips and encircle it between your tongue.
However, as you threatened to resume the posture so that he could have those desirable breasts between your teeth, Wanda put a hand on your collarbone, preventing you before you even completed the act. You blinked at her face, lifting your head.
“Are you okay…?" you whispered, to which Wanda only looked away with her dark green gaze to the side, “Wanda, what is it…?”
“It's just that I've never,” she stifled, but at your encouraging gaze, something in her compelled to continue her speech, “I've never done… you know, that… with anyone… before.”
You bit your bottom lip. Well, fuck.
“It… It's all right. I've only done it once or twice, too, and I don't think one of them even counted properly,” and then, a hesitant half second passed, as you looked at her again, “You… do you want me to stop here? I don't mind stopping if you want me to. I want this to be pleasurable for you, not that you feel pressured to do it.”
“No, it's just that,” Wanda looked at you with two dark pools outlined in earnest green, pink eyelids and puffy lips, “Could this… not be a one time thing? I… I don't want to do it if it's just a one time thing.”
Your heart rose high in your chest as the idea dawned on you that Wanda wanted more than you did because you were willing to do what she wanted.
You just smiled small as you brought your face close to hers; you studied her carefully in a brief sunny moment (your crush, half-naked and fragile, had a lock of dark hair falling over her forehead and her brows furrowed, but her eyes were simple and sincere), drinking in her radiant red beauty like a drug addict – the feminine silhouette splashed with sun and, in a way, even with a synoptic veil of purity that accompanied your muse in the utopian world of dreams, like a poor helpless girl.
Gently, you kissed the corner of her rosy mouth.
“It was never intended for this to be a one time thing, Wanda,” you kissed her again, and then again and again, “I… I really like you, you know? I... I care about you. Much more than you can imagine, I promise.”
“I like you too, Y/n,” she mussed in a low voice, her forehead pressed against yours, “Really like you.”
But then, your touch approached the hollow of her groin.
“Y/n...” Wanda's tone softened, as if she was slightly embarrassed, “Y/n, please...”
“You touched yourself before, Wanda?”
The middle of her legs fluttered as it was that, even if in a partially measured way, Wanda just nodded shyly, her warm forehead still touching yours.
“Damn, you're so hot… so hot, pretty girl…”
Mouth wide and swollen, you let out a knowing smile, and gently lowered your head in a languid, lingering action, a withdrawn ecstasy making you feel compelled to bring your full lips to Wanda's soft mouth, who returned you in a wavering and sloppy kiss.
Making yourself helpful, you dipped your fingers towards the legs not completely closed under the hem of the other girl's skirt, locating between them, shrouded by the thin silk of an underwear, the fragile and swollen aroused clit, inciting a delicious moan that popped out of the girl's mouth to crash into your parted lips.
Your mouth throbbed at the sight of her like this, the gloomy, empty pupils doubling in size at the work of art that was born out of Wanda's orgasmic experience – her dark hair swept back in a purely sensual gesture, the tight mouth swallowing desperately sucking in a hiss of air, the length of her pale neck completely exposed. Her round, perfect breasts with erect nipples of a strong rosy hue, her eyelids closed and her dark brows furrowed. So desirable. So intoxicating.
You wanted to have her right there, on that little couch that would be the witness of your willingness to give her everything you had in you. You increased the pressure on Wanda's little bundle of nerves through the rising damp garment, almost even torturing her at your whim, only to see her writhe beneath your own body and groan indecently and disconnected.
A yelp was raised as your mouth closed around her right nipple, which you pampered for a while, still lingering in your low caresses, until you migrated to the other to lick and suck it into the hollow of flesh inside your cheeks. But something in you wanted more; you wanted to taste her, feel her run down your throat. And she shivered in anticipation as your mouth sailed south of her body, fitting your nose beneath her dark skirt.
“Red, huh,” you thought aloud, at the tiny wet wedge of clothing that was the only barrier erected between you and Wanda's source of pleasure; a thin lacy panty of crimson fabric, whose middle gained wet tones that made it darker at that specific point, “It suits you.”
Fingers tightened in a firm grip on the ridge of your scalp as you placed a chaste kiss on Wanda's clit, albeit over the fabric of her panties, who choked on a sudden loud yelp.
“Y/n, fuck–!”
“I don't think I've ever heard you curse like this before,” you mussed, licking the skin of your own lips, “This is new. I'll take them off, okay? Wanna taste you.”
You threaded your fingers around the inside of Wanda's black skirt, and bringing the straps of the red underwear to you, you had the girl completely naked, exposed, desirable, as soon as you moved your elbows and made your way towards what you were looking for.
From that intimate region flowed a honey of pleasure, exhaling a bittersweet odor, pink as the inside of a strawberry, bringing water to your predatory mouth. Wanda's fidgety pale legs were spread apart, and her partially shaved pussy was on display. You took your index and middle fingers to the sensitive area, and dragging the tip against the entire pink and wet extension of the inside of Wanda's labias, you collected the viscous liquid with strong flavor, drawing a strangled moan from the other girl.
You brought your smeared middle finger to your lips, fervently sucking Wanda's nectar, tasting just as you supposed it would be on the tip of your tongue; as addictive as the nicotine in your cigarette. You took them out of your mouth with a violent pop, only to then unroll your tongue to slide it into the other girl's untouched hole, which pulsed and throbbed, rubbing against the purest nothingness.
Wanda moaned, dripping against your chin. Your pace was slow at first, but you searched for more of her, and Wanda gave you what you wanted. She squirmed and grunted and squeezed your hair between her fisted hands, tangling them in the circulation of her silver rings. And your tongue wasn't very experienced indeed, but you knew what to do. The tip of your right index finger pressed against the rosy entrance as your head came out from under her skirt.
“Can I put in…?”
You felt her cunt pulse against your digit.
“Y-yes,” she yelped, “Please–!”
You kissed the inside of her thigh before carefully dipping your finger into that warm grip. And there was some resistance at first, her furrowed brow glistening in a layer of sweat, and you kept your wrist steady when it was when you again got on top of Wanda, who buried her head in your chest as you did.
“It hurts?” you asked against her ear, and she just shook her head in a hesitant move.
“N–no, but it's... it's weird,” she sighed, “I never... when–when I did, I never...”
“It's okay, pretty girl” you kissed her hair, “Gonna move now, okay? Let me know if it hurts or if you want me to stop.”
A cunning finger reached across Wanda's intimate region, reaching for what you begged to be reached, making its way towards what it sought, and, as an inevitable consequence, penetrated her through her point of entry.
In the face of the action, Wanda arched her entire spine, splitting a visceral groan from her vocal cords – for she had barely become familiar with the finger when the movement began, giving her something new to feel.
You skimmed her, filled her and understood her as nothing more than a girl with needs (needs that only yours could supply). Then Wanda squeaked; the hungry hands for something to keep within themselves searched for your shoulder blades tucked inside your crop top, and there, over your back muscles, the nails dyed in black dug breaking into the skin. Your foreheads supported each other, because during the carnal act, each other was just what you both had and what you both were.
Your forearm pumped down Wanda's skirt towards a hot, dripping grip, and as you hooked your single finger inside her tight walls, there was a moan from the other girl as you kissed it back down the inside of her throat. You kissed her sweaty forehead, then the prominent cheekbone of her flushed cheek, and a sliver of skin down the tip of her jawbone.
“Here?” touching her on a specific spot that caused a dizzying reaction, that's what you asked.
“Y–yes, please don't stop Y/n, please don't stop, please... I–I, I'll–”
“Fuck, come for me, pretty girl.”
“Y/n!”
Her velvety walls squeezed your finger before Wanda came in a loud weeping moan against your ear, pressing you against her body as if this were the last day on Earth, and she would never see you again. Silently, you just held her back, inhaling her scent from the shirt balled up over her exposed chest. You just stayed there, drinking from the moment, because you belonged to her.
The serenity that came from the unspoken heartbeats coming from Wanda's breastplate was enough to establish, at your core, the most complete and genuine feeling of latent rest that you could bear.
With your eyes closed, the room immersed in a pool of accentuated silence, you were able to hear her breathing for much longer than you could count, as she brought you unparalleled peace and immeasurable calm as nothing else had done before. She was there, and she was yours.
With your head resting on the girl's chest, lying on top of Wanda was like basking in a ray of sunlight – tender and cordial like coming home after a long journey.
The unclothed skin superimposed over the open palms of both your hands was warm and sunny, as smooth as the finest silk, and your hips were hitched in a precise, if not perfect fit—the remnants of the apex ascended in a moment of pleasure smeared the inner sides of her thighs, like a ghost of what had once been the height of the carnal act in which you were so vividly engaged minutes before.
The austere digits of your fingers amused themselves with ruffling the ends of her dark hair, cradling them around your index and middle fingers, until finally Wanda descended from her apex, her chest heavy beneath your face.
“Y/n,” she called out to you, as the seconds ticked by and the minutes settled in, “I think I wanna date you.”
Because you couldn't help but smile at such a modest return, bordering the ethereal innocence of a legitimate child, you brought your mouths together so that you could press, to the pearly lips of Wanda, a long, tongueless kiss. You ended it only to laugh, the tip of your own nose brushing the other girl's.
“You think?”
“I-I’m sure of it,” she blushed.
“I wanna date you too, Wanda,” you confessed, even though it wasn't a secret, “Is that okay with you?”
 “Yeah...” she smiled – weakly and languorously when in a wave of post-orgasm fatigue, but still a genuine and sincere smile, “Yeah, it is. You’re cute.”
“Nah, pretty girl,” you shrugged, “You’re cute. I’m… something else. I’m a freak.”
“No, no, don’t say that. You’re the most beautiful girl that I’ve ever seen, Y/n,” she whispered, “And I wanna kiss you again.”
“Well, then,” you smiled towards her jadish irises, “Let me do the honors, pretty girl.”
In such a way, you approached Wanda so that you could kiss her jaw, while your hands, clasped between the sofa and the shoulder blades of your beloved, held her in a soft and pleasant embrace. Then you kissed Wanda on the patch of skin that joined her neck to her shoulder, her collarbone and her throat. And on her lips, over and over again.
And neither of you, in that newly found little bubble of love in each other's arms, even heard the front door open.
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