#billy maximoff
incorrectquotesmcu · 4 months ago
Y/N: The boys haven’t eaten their sandwiches.
Wanda: Okay, just throw them out.
Y/N, helping Billy and Tommy pack suitcases: Look, I’m just as surprised as you are.
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queenkoriandr · 3 months ago
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Young Avengers in the MCU so far...
Abby Ryder Fortson as Cassie Lang* (Stature) in Ant-Man and the Wasp (2018) *Will be played by Kathryn Newton in Ant-Man and the Wasp: Quantumania (2023) Jett Klyne as Tommy Maximoff (Speed) in WandaVision (2021) Julian Hilliard as Billy Maximoff (Wiccan) in WandaVision (2021) Hailee Steinfeld as Kate Bishop (Hawkeye) in Hawkeye (2021) Elijah Richardson as Eli Bradley (Patriot) in The Falcon and the Winter Soldier (2021) Jack Veal as Loki Laufeyson (Kid Loki) in Loki (2021)  Xochitl Gomez as America Chavez (Miss America) in Doctor Strange in the Multiverse of Madness (2022)
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wanda-maximoffvs · 4 months ago
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avengerscompound · a year ago
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The Vision/Maximoff Family dressing as themselves for Halloween 
(and Tommy who dressed as Uncle Piet)
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jenwallters · 3 months ago
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billy & tommy maximoff + ice cream song Doctor Strange in the Multiverse of Madness gif request by @snowonebutyou
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smolbendyhorn · 4 months ago
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Wanda Maximoff/Billy Maximoff
Pietro and Tommy comparison is found 👉🏼 pietro/tommy
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wmarximoff · a month ago
devoted wife | w. maximoff
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summary: you are a devoted wife who is capable of doing anything for your wife's welfare; including letting Wanda release the unhealthy nature that resides within her.
warnings (18+): dark Wanda, dark(ish) reader, brief smut, breeding kink, strap-on sex (Wanda receiving), choking (r receiving), smoking, slightly toxic relationship, explicit depiction of blood, explicit depiction of violence, explicit depiction of dead body, manipulation.
pairing: Wanda x fem!reader
word count: 3k
A/N: i literally wrote this here in one sitting so it's probably not my best work, but i was really inspired by the Love and Death teaser and this idea just wouldn't get out of my head. but hey, don't read if dark topics aren't your cup of tea. this shit is just pure madness.
anyway, enjoy!
The smoke is like a pair of dancers dancing a waltz above your head, making love in the air. This time is no different from the last time it happened or even the second to last, although the sky is particularly cloudy and the weather tastes like conformism that is stabilized by a bitterness that consumes you within your stomach.
You inhale from the cigarette you smoke, seeking comfort in the fume, and hold and spray the tobacco through your nostrils, in almost enviable sync with the watery sound that can be found behind your shoulders, which are tucked inside a gray hooded jacket like the fur of a wild wolf; other than the circular call of a remote owl, the only sound heard is the tiny, breathy moans that Wanda lets out here and there as she grunts when she takes gulps of oxygen.
A few unconscious mutters are gasped, puffs leaking from between your wife's peachy lips, who's out of your sight because the right side of your hip is snug against the icy bodywork of your off-road car.
The night is as unsettling in your bones as the fateful sight of a car accident would be, and the song of the night birds hidden among the branches and foliage of the tall trees, with an audience of nightly eyes, brings you a certain ghostly feeling that you are a prey, and not hunter. Yet, in your simplest cognition, you are nothing more than a devoted wife.
And you remember when you first met Wanda, nearly two decades already spent in each other's company. Westview, a tiny town in upstate New Jersey, was not used to welcoming new faces into its suburban structures; and that is why the Maximoff family, made up of an immigrant couple and their two twin children born on American soil (a boy and a girl, both of your age), was an object of study adopted by all the little more than six thousand inhabitants at the time they moved into your neighborhood.
Her brother soon began to walk in the footsteps of the Westview High cool kids troupe (Pietro was a born athlete), but Wanda was like a shy shadow of her older twin, who lived holed up behind thick book pages, with an introverted presence that soon usurped your attention when your attentive gaze scanned her face, who sat at a desk placed to the right of yours during literature classes.
You asked her about five months after you met her properly, and she accepted the proposal just two days later – in college it was a little different with the proposal, because you proposed at a fine restaurant and she accepted at readiness, rewarding your with the purest of smiles gleaming at the commission of her pearly lips, an act showered with a limpid, chaste glint of love that showcased her two front teeth, which were vaguely larger than the rest and gave her a bunny appearance, because she had the habit of fortuitously scrunching a flash of skin from her nose when engendering the act of smiling.
But something withered in Wanda after the first year of marriage between the two of you, a couple still so young, with so much to do in partnership with each other. Your sweet wife was restless when you came home from work, and it was hard to say what was on her mind. Wanda, while possessing a rather emotional nature, was never the type to open up easily, and it was customary for her to bottle up her own feelings when they bothered her too much, when she didn't quite know how to deal with the will growing inside her.
Until she told you, once, after days turned into weeks all had with a certain distance between you and her that, in all your honesty, had your heart constricted inside your chest.
It was late at night, and your room was barely dipped in a haze of yellow light that emanated from a small lamp on the bedside table – you with your eyes wandering over the sentences of some novel open between the palms of your hands, holding the book close to the tip of your nose, as Wanda lied with her milky back turned to you, who assumed that your wife had long been snoring beside you, enjoying a deep night's sleep.
“Something's missing,” her voice came suddenly, prompting your chin to snap back to her, who still hadn't turned to look back at you.
“What's missing, baby?” it was a question you didn't know would prove to be a watershed for the line of normalcy that ruled your life when in a small family of two.
When Wanda shifted in bed, rustling the sheets to turn to look at you, her eyes, once green as a polished emerald stone, were made dark and deep like the moss that grows in the dampness of tree bark, untouched by the sun, away from life. It was that look you'd never seen before take over her pretty features, a numb emptiness that lacked filling, a will found in the confines of the soul that inhabited her body. She looked like a silent doll, staring at you with that verdant expanse that seemed to be able to read your thoughts.
Icy electricity ran along the length of your spine. You never thought that Wanda could give you the chills.
The need building inside her, expanding, taking shape and greater proportions, was thunderous and all-encompassing. It was an itch, a predatory addiction. A strange psychic deficiency, which you could never remedy on your own; it was out of her reach, that was not your role in her life. You were assigned the role of wife, partner, which you gladly accepted, for better or worse, just contenting yourself with a smile on the face of the one who was your muse, your obsession, your sanity and your madness.
But Wanda soon realized that you alone wouldn't be enough to satisfy the needs pulsing inside her, like preludes to a coming calamity; in her eyes was the warning of the apocalypse.
Not in the way she wanted, because when the length of her fingers pressed against the pulsing muscles and arteries of your throat, on one particularly wild night when she, with the hollow of her bare alabaster thighs snugly fitted to the red toy strapped to your waist, riding you like an animal in heat, something in her came to the edge and she allowed herself to fall, increasing the pressure, depriving your brain of the oxygen necessary for your body's full functionality.
It was as if she wanted to squeeze the life out of you. To see what your reaction would be and what would hers be too.
Your vision darkened as she came in a sharp moan, perhaps more from the lust from the power she exerted over you than from sexual the act itself, tightening her grip on the sensitive skin of your larynx. And you couldn't breathe, but you didn't need oxygen; you needed her. She would fill your lungs with life. Though she let go in time for any permanent sequel to do you irreversible damage, five hideous bruises marked you as her property in purplish-red streaks, like a galaxy dotted across your epidermis.
But when the notion dawned on you, when you had to cover your wounds with a coat of makeup, your somewhat hurt reaction to the violence calmed her nerves. Although, if she really wanted to, you'd let her steal the oxygen from your chest.
In an orgasm achieved on the day that marked your second year of marriage, a couple of months later, you offered your wife the idea of conceiving a child together. It seemed natural for a couple who'd been together as long as the two of you to dream up the idea of starting a family that would exceed two people, after all.
“I bet you'd look so hot pregnant,” it was said in a groan punctuated by a panting breath, as she rode your strap moving her body over yours the way she always liked to do, “Can you imagine that, Wands? Me putting a baby inside you?”
And she sighed a, “Fuck, Y/n!”, moving even faster with her hips, reaching for you, going for a much-needed orgasm. When her fingers bit into your neck a second time, you didn't care at all.
It didn't take more than a few tries for the twins to come; Thomas, fifteen minutes older, followed by William accordingly. Two boys who could be nothing but the embodiment of your love for her; the gift you wanted her to bestow. And the firsts of childhood witnessed by the caress of a mother's gaze did lift Wanda's spirits; for a while life was simple, the two of you too busy to allow yourself to think about anything but bottles and pacifiers. But what was spreading through Wanda's senses, until then asleep, haunted her again like an ethereal creature scraping the inside of her skull.
You saw the earnest way in which she directed furtive glances at other people who were becoming commonplace figures in her everyday life; other women who lived as secondary characters in your lives, just innocent lambs beside the wolf in disguise. But you loved her. You preyed for her good, who was the love of your life, who had been the mother of your children formed in the graces of her womb, her flesh and blood. And then, there was consent.
At some point, you gave your blessing for her to do so, because you knew it would make her happy, make her complete in a way that even your family couldn't; because she licked her lips like a thirsty person looking for water to quench her thirst – Wanda suffered from an impulse, just a lapse, a little unrestrained slip, and you were there to hold her hand every time she fell into perversities of her own temptations. You were the tightrope that kept her balanced within her own mental faculties.
The first was Agatha, there was no way you could forget; she was the boys' elementary school teacher and had a wide smile accompanied by full brown hair that made her look like an evil witch in a children's cartoon. Wanda consumed her completely, and you watched every wretched action your wife performed toward the woman older than the two of you. And then came Sharon, a friendly blonde store clerk. Darcy, a college student, and Jennifer, an aspiring lawyer. They made Wanda happy, and so were you too.
Kate came over the weekend you made it from the big city to the Westview welcomes, when your father's birthday celebration was held, sixty years or more than that.
Your parents seemed elated with yours and Wanda's presence in the small town, because it also meant the company of their only grandchildren, whom they both cherished and the feeling was mutual between the boys (Tommy was interested in asking Alexei about his time served as a low-ranking soldier in the remote Soviet Union, and Billy would ask Melina to read to him books that contained in their pages words that his scant childhood cognition, however cunning, would not be able to pronounce without the help of an adult, and it so happens that he has always been very close to his grandmother).
Natasha, your older sister, was out for military service, but Yelena, the youngest of the family, was the one who came from college, and brought along with her the company of the tall Kate Bishop, the girlfriend who she said that one day would be her wife.
Kate was a nice girl, and you were happy for your sister, who was all touching and hugging with her partner.
Over the course of dinner she engaged in an avid conversation with your father about sport archery (which she had been practicing since even younger than your children, she reported when you, across the table, asked her about it and was promptly greeted with a warm response), and she incontinently repeated a dish of stroganoff prepared by your mother, who served her with gusto.
But you can't help but notice the way Wanda looked at her from behind her glass of red wine. Thinking, scheming, studying in her brain methods of making it happen, of twisting and breaking something she wanted to crush between her hands.
Something fell into you, and you were barely able to answer the question Billy asked you as your gaze traced from your wife to the girl oblivious to her situated across the table, to near your younger sister's left shoulder. How Wanda's mouth really seemed to water in the presence of a girl young enough to be her little sister, for a meat she'd like to taste.
When Tommy called out to her, though, she looked away from the dark-haired young woman to look at you, who were standing next to your son standing between the two of you. And then, she smiled reassuringly, her lips brushed with a thin layer of red wine that did nothing to diminish the doses of sweetness in her features; and you were delivered, because she was yours and you were hers. Even if, behind that genuine smile, there was an enormous strength, a will equipped with an animalistic voracity, like a secret voluptuousness between you and your wife.
All it took was her tongue between your legs for her to have you where she wanted.
When, in the next night, your parents went to spend quality time with the boys at a nearby ice cream shop and Yelena left to go to the store to buy the missing ingredients for a homemade cookie recipe, Wanda sprang into action and, like a fool in love, you followed after her, tailing the emotional collar which she had screwed around your neck along with the wedding band on your ring finger.
You were different, you weren't disposable. You were her favorite possession.
There was no denying it. There was no way to leave her. There was no way to stop it. Even when her hand caressed the cheek of a Kate so absorbed in a banal and commonplace act between sisters-in-law, even when Wanda lured her like a treacherous viper, just waiting for the fatal pounce on the helpless little mouse.
And, well, if Wanda was the snake, you allowed yourself to taste the red apple she offered you. Your primary sin was loving her. It was to be a devoted wife.
You, therefore, take a little more and throw the rest of your cigarette on the floor, crushing it with the sole of your shoe, ending the act when the sound fades, and there are only sharp gasps to be heard through the night.
And, after fumbling with your fingers for a handful of garbage bags placed near your right ankle like an old dog, you stick your left hand inside your front trouser pocket as you bring your hips away from the bodywork of the car, wrapped in a color of red like the skin of a ripe cherry, departing in conversational strides to the front of the vehicle, where a pair of glowing headlights are like the demonic eyes of a creature in the midst of darkness, engulfed in the hollow heart of the forest that surrounds the city boundary.
A stream of yellow light reflects off the sharp edge of a metal ax that drips onto a thick viscous material that is an amalgamation of brains and entrails, and it is Wanda who has the sturdy wooden handle pressed between the fingers of both hers hands, her wedding band bathed in a splash of still-warm blood. And, well, indeed your marriage is bloody like your wife's blouse and hair, who lets the scarlet-soaked tool fall to the floor with a hollow thud, as if she's eaten too much and is too full before digestion.
She digests the moment, the atmosphere. She digests you.
Wanda no longer deals any blows against the crumbs of that shapeless, gory and mirrored thing all over the floor that was once Kate's head, now open and with all its inner contents on display – a disgusting gray mass that soils her shoes and the hem of her pants.
Wanda is happy, exultant, vibrating with a belated contentment that she can barely contain from the shots of adrenaline coursing through her veins when caught in the violent act of inflicting pain on anyone other than her or yourself. And she doesn't look any less pretty, even when she's covered in blood spatter, dirt, hair and guts. And if she's happy, you're happy. Because you are a devoted wife.
“All done here, honey?” you call out to her, brandishing the garbage bags held up by your right hand.
“All done,” she smiles as she comes towards you, pupils dilated and dark, “Thank you for doing this for me, baby.”
“I’ll always do everything I can to make you happy Wanda, you know that.”
And her answer is a kiss with the metallic taste of blood that slides between your teeth.
And for a second you try to think about Kate, who made your kids laugh until they were ready to cry and who also pleased your parents, and how Yelena's crying would break your heart once she realized her girlfriend would never come back home again. But Wanda's discomfort would shatter your soul. If her addiction was to the dismemberment of living people, yours was to her happiness.
“Baby,” she murmurs against your lips, a puff of warm air entering the gap of your mouth, fresh blood pouring in a single drop toward your chin, “I love you, you know? You're the only person I need in my life, Y/n. Only you."
And her words make your heart rumble inside your chest in an exultant pulse of joy. Because you're just a devoted wife. Or maybe just a mind as sick as Wanda's.
“I love you too, pretty girl,” you smile, “I am devoted to you.”
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marximoff · 2 months ago
déjà vu | w. maximoff
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summary: as you slowly reconnect with Wanda, you feel a familiar feeling of déjà vu.
warnings: heavy make out, smut, strap-on sex (Wanda receiving) mentions of smoking, mentions of drinking, canon typical violence, angst.
pairing: Wanda x fem!reader
word count: 10k
A/N: this chapter sure was long awaited (i know it was you horny gays) but before the hot sapphic sex everyone wanted (emo wanda my beloved), this chapter deals with a character study of both r and wanda, to understand a little more about who they are rn as people
((by the way, I'll be taglisting the chapters from now on, so if you want to participate, just say something in the comments
|series masterlist|
|part one| |part two| |part four| |part five| |part six|
A carton of almond milk, a jar of peanut butter, a dozen eggs, a stick of butter, a can of peas, a bag of soft multigrain bread and a sizable bottle of wine are the components of the plastic basket that Wanda carries slung over her right arm.
She doesn't know that she forgot to get a can of corn too.
But the basket is kind of weighty and she might as well use her magic to levitate the items around her own silhouette, but she prefers that way, holding them down herself with her own arm strength.
Sometimes it's good to keep the sense of normality active. Even if normality just means carrying a basket full of groceries around the supermarket.
She then looks at the face of the brown watch buttoned at the base of her left wrist and checks the time, blinking her greenish eyes after squeezing a long, full yawn in the back of her throat.
A gray-haired old lady (Mrs. Sharon Davis, an elderly widow, all wrapped in her pale blue cardigan) in front of her appears to be in a conflict with herself to find some of the change interred in the lowest of her silver wallet.
And Wanda scrutinizes the establishment around herself, between the shelves stocked with groceries and the glossy linoleum floor; the weary gaze wavering absorbedly over her own white-fabric sneakers and contingently fixing on a dark, even smear on the floor between them.
 Old Mrs. Davis still hasn't spotted her desired coins, and she's been digging into her wallet for the silver pennies for a good few minutes now.
Wanda listens over her shoulder as someone pulls into a shopping cart right behind herself and lets out an audible groan, evidentially annoyed at the delay of the old lady with her change, but Wanda doesn't see the point in bothering to torment herself.
It's not yet six o'clock and she'll be peaceably walking home, for Westview is a small, undisturbed, reticent suburban town where everything is so close and easy to find. And she knows that, with her house being just a few blocks away from the locality of the modest market, she won't be long in coming to prepare dinner for her and her boys (whom she has left securely at the house, both doing their math homework).
She smiles tenderly to herself when she thinks about Billy and Tommy.
After all, she knows she's never loved anyone as passionately as she loves those two little boys (the grace of her life, the reason for her morning smile and for the blaze of keenness pulsing within the fond fortifications of her warmish heart).
For her they are everything, and that is why she would do anything for them – they are the epithet of the purest form of love that Y/N had ever gifted her with; the culmination of their love converted into two vulnerable little creatures that are made up of the best of the two of them.
She just knows, like a good mother who understands both her children so well, that at that moment, the twin boys are probably watching some silly cartoon on the television set beside the broad fireplace found in the corner of the commodious living room.
And she is placid in a supermarket line, getting a whiff of the eccentric consequence of the odd combination of the full-bodied aromas of cleaning product and some sturdy feminine perfume – an even slightly nauseating aroma, kind of overpowering and suffocating.
(In some aisle away from her, a child is heatedly asking his mother to buy him some treats)
Wanda then ponders about making something a little special for dinner, and recalls about the delicious kugel recipethat her mother used to prepare in the length of her childhood days, back in devastated Sokovia, so many years in the remote past that encompasses the beginning of the disasters that marked her life.
The memory that gushes over her is sentimental and bittersweetly recurring to her core; she deliberates about the sporadic months of starveling and a small humble family of four, when her father was lucky with his sales and there was a sufficient amount of money left to buy the soldiers' leftover ingredients.
But then, she retrieves back to the years of her late youth, all lived in the restful caresses of the compound in upper Manhattan. She was still understanding about how to breathe without having Pietro to hold her hand. She was learning to live on her own.
She was coming to terms with the truth that living didn't inevitably have to be a bad experience at all; not when Y/N showed her that there could still be delight in the little things in life.
And it was Y/N who used to marvelously praise the dish when Wanda found comfort in the act of cooking, and she always repeat a few slices every time Wanda cooked it so long ago, when they were just two teenage lovers (and eventually also young wives, both living in a small bubble of love and companionship on the edge of a comfortable wooden cottage surrounded by dozen of yards of apple orchards).
There was the sweet virtuousness of the warmth of two young girls' lives at that time. It was the first time that Wanda was really fond of being young (of breathing and having a beating heart, of having a life to live valuing every little detail of it).
She memorizes the exultant smile of her ex-wife, looking so light and beautiful even while talking with her mouth full (a half-crocken smirk drawn to her left-side, like the smirk also articulated in the innocuous characteristics of her little Tommy after he was born, which reminds her so much of the radiance that used to gleam in the sweet features of her former companion).
Her ex-wife wasn't always a lonesome and distant creature creeping in the corners of her mind, and it genuinely aches inside her chest to remember that.
Y/N always devoured lavishly every traditional Sokovian dish she has ever prepared and promptly asked for more – and then thanked her with a chaste kiss placed on the pulp of her lips, which promptly evolved into the building of an intimate, sweaty moment with two bodies rubbing greedily against each other.
But she soon lets out a crestfallen, rather disillusioned sigh, repressing herself for having gone back to those secluded memories amorously stored in the edge of her brain in the first place (of the concept of two adolescent girlfriends absorbed in love in the purest sense of the word, emulating the seriousness of a relationship with adult bearing, but never losing, at its core, the youthful sweetness worthy of teenage lovers). Two girls playing love in a world that was a little too hard on them.
She glares ruefully at the bulbous base of the red wine bottle and then lets out a sorrowful exhalation.
Her relationship with Y/N felt like it was straight out of the old sitcoms that she always appreciated so much, where no problem was a genuine obstacle and that, by the end of the day, the two lovers would be in each other's affectionately secure arms again (and that perhaps she let have an effect on her a little too much, when dealing about decisions made early on in her adult life).
But then she reminisces that she was merely turning eighteen years old when she became a wanted on an international scale, and that, prior to that, she had also grown up in a war-torn country.
She never knew how to behave like a normal person per se – whether that was before or after she became able to expel bolts of magical energy from her fingertips. She never quite knew how to fit into the role of a child or a young adult in the first place. Not by herself.
There was no time in Wanda’s life to understand precisely how to fit these labels (she was protesting with so much loathe constricted within her heart, volunteering to save her homeland, being made of little more than a lab rat by the clutches of a bunch of mad men, being used by the being that promised her greatness, but only ended up costing her the life of her darling brother).
In the cramped confines of a bleak, sullied cell, with only a modest television in the corner to entertain her mind away from the needles and the brutality, there were not many allusions of love and passions that elapsed through her life outside a square screen.
Wanda was aware that she just mimicked other people's movements and transcribed them into her own actions, as if it was all just a show and she was its young star, trying to intomb in her core the path of catastrophe and violence that had always shadowed her closely; it was only the years of strict therapy, self-knowledge and self-care, right after being blipped and coming back, that edified her to be her own person in a truly healthy way. There would be no more extremes in her life.
Her cohabitation with Y/N at the time facilitated, of course – even though her wife had changed a lot in the time that followed since the blip, at first, things had worked out well between them. Or as well as possible under the anomalous circumstances.
The two of them took care of the (still) newborn twins and of each other, always with great tenderness and affection while they did it. At least that's how it worked for the first year after their reunion – until Y/N got into alcohol's graces for good, that is.
Their relationship had always felt rather light and jovial before Thanos snapped his fingers. And after that she might even have come back, but it was indeed her marriage that had turned to dust in that remote dreary day in Wakanda. In all honestly, she's not quite sure what's changed in that meantime that she's been away (dead, she was dead). And it's uneasy to ponder about it, but sometimes she does – she can’t help it.
Her corporeal existence had disintegrated into a sift of life, crumbling into her own ashes. There was color, and then the dreadfully wide expanse of emptiness (death); she, as a self-aware being, ceased to exist with just a thought and a snap of two fingers.
Her consciousness faded before she could even realize she was doing it – the palms of both her hands constrained firmly against the wound in YN's stomach that was leaking bundles of fresh blood. And Wanda never relatively questioned her existence before that (she only questioned why she ceased to exist in the first place). Returning to dust, as people of faith would say.
Five long years that slipped through her fingers and dripped onto the floor in the form of a veil of dust.
It still feels odd in her guts, even ten years later, to remember that there's a void somewhere in her life that would be filled with the time that was thieved from her by the Infinity Gauntlet. A void that had once been filled by the subtle presence of Y/N's love.
(Once, when the twins were about a year old after the blip, Y/N drunkenly knelt down with her face defectively reclining on Wanda’s thighs and questioned her as to why Wanda and the babies where the ones erased from existence while she stayed behind, abandoned like an old piece of furniture that no one wants to use anymore. Wanda never knew how to answer it, but they got divorced about a month later)
But she imagines that it, the crumbliness of their relationship, has something to do with the fact that they were both a little precocious in getting married before their twenties properly speaking; maybe if they were older and more experienced before doing it, she thinks, standing in line at the supermarket, maybe then they wouldn't have had the sorrowful culmination that they did (the crying faces and the broken hearts).
Maybe they could have risen together, and not just drifted further and further away as the days passed.
Maybe Y/N didn't feel guilt-ridden every time the twins cried in need to be held or fed. Maybe Wanda wouldn't have queried her for the love she no longer knew how to give – she is fully aware of the fact that she has always had a somewhat pushy nature, after all.
Maybe this, maybe that.
She doesn't know why she's been thinking about maybe so much these past few days. But it's not her fault that her ex-wife happens to be so pleasing to the eye.
The person behind her in line grumbles again, and there is a mischievous chuckle that reaches her ears with airs of grace. Wanda is sincerely considering summoning some coins with her magic for Mrs. Davis.
“Oh my God, this wine is divine!”
It is Sarah Proctor who addresses Wanda, the key to undeniably everything in this town. Wanda knows it's the other woman because a sudden pulsing urge to fade away takes over her nervous system as soon as the voice echoes behind herself.
She is the high-nose blonde woman who lives up the street, is a devoted member of the Westview Elementary School parent-teacher association (in the year before Wanda had witnessed her make a young teacher leave the room in tears after a meeting), proudly cultivates the most exquisite yellow roses in the neighborhood and wears a pair of classy yoga pants that would fit a young teenager with half of her age. A self-proclaimed wine mom.
Her daughter is a classmate of Billy and Tommy, and the children often attend both the Proctor and Maximoff residences – which occasioned in Sarah a vague idea of intimacy that only endures in the head of the blonde woman with bobbed hair.
She has already invited Wanda several times to Westview Pool Club girls' gatherings, but Wanda politely declined with an odd smile and a trivial wave of her hand, because she's never been the socially outgoing kind of type—and she's always been under the impression that every attempt Sarah made from approaching her were due to the fact that the other woman knew of her past as an Avenger (as did most of the small-town citizens), and so was trying to turn her into a kind of living-tourist-spot for the eyes of the rest of the world to witness.
(Rumors had it that Sarah would run for mayor in the upcoming election, and having a former Avenger as the face of her campaign certainly sells well with the predilections of the American public. Little does she know that Wanda won't vote for her)
“Oh yes, it's one of my favorites” Wanda retorts, talking about the dark tall bottle of red wine prudently deposited inside her plastic basket “It's been a while since I've had a drink, so I decided to buy a bottle to open this weekend”
“Some special occasion, I suppose?” Sarah articulates a suggestive grin, but Wanda just frowns uncertainly, half squinting at her neighbor.
“What- no, no. No” she flashes a half embarrassed, half awkward smile, chuckling nervously while doing so “Y/N is staying with the boys for the weekend, so it's just a special little thing for me. All by myself. A quarantine-style staycation. A whole weekend... just to myself"
“Y/N, huh?” Sarah raises a well-crafted eyebrow in a pique of curiosity “Your ex-wife, right? I remember seeing her at the twins' birthday party. I mean, she's pretty, yes, but she's quite the quiet type, huh...”
“Yeah, she was never one to talk much… but neither am I, honestly"
“A pair made in heaven, indeed” Sarah then flashes a smile, but the taste that slides across Wanda's tongue is bitter and kind of hard to swallow.
She shifts her body weight uncomfortably from one leg to the other.
“But wait, she's also an Avenger, isn’t she? Yeah, she's the one in the black and white outfit! Oh my God! Who wore a jacket over it and had that kinda mean attitude, all punk rock and stuff?”
“Herself” Wanda agrees, pressing her lips together in a long, clumsy line. She just wants to go home and cook her damn kugel.
“Oh my, how did I not notice this before? I remember seeing her in the news once, when I was in college. I also had a taste for delinquents back then, if you know what I mean”
Wanda feels a hot twinge high in her face and she bites the inside of her cheek in a rather timid act (but there's no denying that Y/N's somewhat rebellious attitude has always had a lewd effect on her legs as a young teenager with a schoolgirl’s heart).
“She and Black Widow, I think, saved the life of the mayor in that bombing on the Fourth of July in... 2015, 2016, maybe? Yeah, I remember that! She's the one who's super strong, isn't she? Who held up a scaffold once and saved those kids”
 "That's her, yes"
The brunette muss in a limp voice, which seems to draw a slightly indecent laugh from the blonde woman with her shopping cart full of knick-knacks and silver hoops clicking in her earlobes. It is from her that the aroma of sturdy perfume comes.
“Well, I imagine that super strength of hers comes in handy in some… situations”
“Situ-“ but then she blinks just one time “Oh”
Mortification hangs over Wanda like a bucket of paint spilled over her dark-haired head.
She opens and closes her mouth like a golden fish, frowning, and her cheeks don't take long to reach strong shades of scarlet, glowing red like one of the tomatoes inside Sarah's cart.
It's inappropriate, and she knows it, but she can't help but feel a certain tingle in her breasts as lapses of memory enlighten her thoughts with the ghost of touches coursing along her body. Then she thinks of Y/N's warm, measured breath against her earlobe (of strong hands pinning her wrists above her head, of a tense, impassive hip against her own hip, of the cracked headboard and the broken bedframe). A movement and a moan. An electrical discharge in her bowels.
And then, fuck...
Just Y/N tearing her insides apart.
The other woman smiles viciously, and Wanda suddenly wishes she hadn't put on a sweater before leaving the house, because she can actually feel herself starting to perspire at the expectant look her neighbor bestows on her.
She's never been one to deal with such intimacies with anyone other than her ex-wife (merely some casual, unsuccessful and sporadic blind dates that's never been more than a few kisses and a few touches here and there, by no means ending up in her or anyone else's bed).
But she permits herself only to flash a wan grin towards the other woman when she realizes that, in front of her, the old lady has lastly found her damn change.
Fucking finally.
And then, with the memory still boiling hungrily in her innards, like a hungry beast devouring her from the inside out, she takes a large step in the other direction, trying to walk away from Sarah as humanly possible, as if the other woman carries with her a toxic cloud that sickens everything that comes in contact with her.
If Wanda couldn't probably get a nice lawsuit for that (or worst), she'd turn Sarah into a disgusting slimy frog.
“Well, I, I, I need to go, Sarah, but it was really nice meeting you around here. Bye” the enchantress raises her wrist, bidding the blonde woman goodbye with a wave of her hand and a small, introverted (half-awkward) grin.
There is barely time for an answer to be formulated on the part of the housewife. Wanda's cheeks are still red hot as she (virtually) dashes through the small supermarket's automatic double doors like a fugitive on the run. Mrs. Davis drops a coin on the floor on her way out.
You don't know exactly how long you've been raising and lowering the joint of your bent elbow above your head. It doesn't feel right to do it, just as it doesn't do it if it feels wrong. It's just necessary – it’s like cracking some eggs if you're in the mood for an omelet for breakfast.
You just have the fullest conception that a few good minutes have passed since the beginning of all the activity, and as in the rehearsal of a play, you are repeating the gestures until you overcome them with great proficiency and your culmination comes out perfect, from your liking.
And you don't bother to intend to stop doing it anytime soon – such a guttural, animalistic and barbaric action. At this point, the movement is already instinctive after being recorded in at the core of your memory, an automatic message engraved between the ligaments of your neurons.
 You've done it innumerable times before, and you know you'll do it a few more times after this one.
You lift your right arm, lowers your implacable fist constricted like a steel ball, the resonance of smashed cartilage and wrecked bones echoing in your eardrums, all instructed by the figure of a bloodthirsty invisible conductor within the ramparts of your own cranium.
The face of the bewildered guy lying beneath you looks like a loaf of raw, misshapen meat as you repeat a cadence of sequentially delivered punches against his facial bones.
And he, who is at least twice as big as you, lets out a piercing howl of pain from the cavernous depths of his throat, as even a wild bear would do if attacked deep in a forest.
But in that alley on Long Island there is not a soul available to help him to get rid of your uncomplacent fists – not at the end of a passage that is unpopulated, far from prying eyes that could creep in your direction during the action which takes place there, a beacon of environment squeezed between two amorphous walls of scorched bricks, which gives the illusion of a single long, damp, narrow street. 
A sphere of blood is clotted on your face, like an eccentric gemstone, a dark red pearl splattered under the arch of your left eyebrow. And you pant heavily, your veins stiffening.
You've never been one to refuse punching a motherfucker in the face – your forte has always been pounding up things, whether on the countless missions conveyed alongside your teammates or at work during your teenage years, taking advantage of your inhuman gifts to have something to eat at the end of the week.
You've never had a dilemma in whacking someone’s ass. Even more so when that said someone had committed a hate crime against a racial minority and got away with the trial, because that's the way it is in New York City.
The recurring metallic scent of fresh blood squirts in a jet of reddish color, thick and gleaming across your rigid, compact knuckles. The gruesome fragrance is no stranger to your sense of smell, and you're not quite sure whether you want it to be or not.
But it is what you are; as an inherent component of your biological chemistry (like the serum gushing through Steve's veins, altering him from inside out, or the magic pulsing within Wanda's core, changing the structure of her brainwaves), you know that hostility is a primeval part of your nature longer than the placid ends of an ordinary, quiet life.
The peaceable domestic life lived alongside Wanda is long gone, and desolation and wrath are your only roommates within the walls of your morbidly valueless apartment.
You've been living like a cornered animal for fifteen years in programmed mode, always exposing your fangs and your claws at any sign of danger, just self-destructing, dying little by little, not craving to exist for one more day after laying your head on the blandishments of your pillow and staring blankly at the ceiling, whirling through your usual drunken state. Just desiring to somehow wreck your imperishable body that can't be cut or torn by human hands or tools.
People much well-intentioned than you are long gone, and you, by some implausible probabilities, were (cursed) fortunate to have endured thorough all the catastrophes that life directed at you.
The car accident as a child. The blip as a mother and as a wife, as a friend.
The damn journey by the mountain of Vormir, in which three of you went in the grip of that appallingly isolated planet, and only two came back with a chest full of oxygen and life pumping through your nervures. The avid combat for proprietorship of all the six Infinity Stones, and the provenance of the final snap that brought back peace to the equilibrium of the universe by eliminating the existence of its greatest known threat at the time.
You just seem to live confined in this unbearable cycle of misfortune, and it's not fair to others that you are the person left to tell the story of those who are gone.
If only you could, you would swap places with the true heroes who gave their lives for the greater good. You would even be honored to do so yourself.
Your chest heaves and deflates severely within the molds of your leather jacket fitted around your shoulders over a short-sleeved plain shirt, your veins bulging with rushing blood, and you rise to your feet, setting up your knees, and step back to inspect the big man who lies defeated to the floor of the alley, amidst a pool of his own blood and filth typical of places like this — your jacket sleeve shimmering with bundles of fresh blood, a coat of gleaming sweat limping glistening on the beam of skin on your forehead, near your hairline.
He is still alive, groaning in a vital position, and is severely battered. And it was never your intention to kill anyone. He probably learned his lesson. Maybe you should break his legs, just in case.
A tremor rolls under your black sneaker feet as a loud motorcycle passes by in the distance. Sirens also pass presently afterwards, coming and going with their blue and red outcome.
But there, squeezed inside the claustrophobic walls of the dim alley, you are far from any possible intervention. You then register a single shake that travels along the outline of your left leg as your cellphone pulses inside the back pocket of your old jeans, shivering against your hip bone.
 You take an elongated gulp of air before diving into your flickering pocket and hooking the device through your fuming, blooded finger length. You know your pupils are dilated and dark.
Your gaze is empty and brittle as you scrutinize between the digitally formed words before your motionless eyes.
Frequent bursts of oxygen are a method of neutralizing the pulses of adrenaline throbbing in the artery inside your neck. But the taste that slips between your teeth is acid and sour, and you lock your jawbone at the information that is cognitive to you.
Hey, Y/N. Are you really going to come get the boys tonight? I saw in the weather forecast that it will rain later, so I wanted to check with you just to make sure
It’s Wanda
By the way
Yes, you know it's Wanda (your sweet Wanda, the trace of humanity lingering inside your icy chest), that she texted you. And it doesn't astonish you at all (not anymore), because not many people contact you lately during the sunny period of the day.
You two have been keeping in touch the last few days, after all, you told her that you wanted to be more present in the twins' lives. And it's not an untruth at all, but your sly creaking anxiety makes you feel like it's a kind of uncertainty inside your throbbing stomach walls.
Maybe it's not the right decision, the voice inside your head spoke. Maybe at this point in life they don't need you anymore. Maybe this is a breakthrough, or even the commencement of a calamity worthy of a Greek novel, you're not quite sure yet.
You turn on your heels and spin your back on the battered man, so you can send your reply to your ex-wife's number without looking at the ferocious outcome of your latent tantrum.
yup, your avid thumbs type along the digital keyboard provided on the screen of the small electronic device, i’ll be there in 1 hour or so. hope they like cheeseburgers.
And then you slide your upper teeth along the flesh of your lower lip, somewhat unsure of how to proceed.
try to enjoy your staycation btw. you deserve it
You don't know why you sent her that stupid emoji.
It's not like you're a teenager reproducing a failed flirtation attempt with the girl you have a crush on anymore.
But a lapse of realism is present as your vision aims on the blood folds on your stinging fingers folded around the cellphone, and you feel a heavy ball of constricted lamentation taking shape in the back of your throat when your sorrowful eyes scrutinize thorough the lines of your hands and find there only odious signs of a cavernous viciousness (a raw, physical cruelty also reflected within the mirror of your shattered soul).
In the background, the man is still groaning in pain. And you're not sorry you broke him in a beating. No, no. You're just sorry for yourself, because you didn't bat an eye when you did it.
Vaguely the memory of Wanda placing chaste kisses along your hands invades you, and you realize you wouldn't want her to kiss your unseemly fingers right now (because you find her too pure to dwell on the filthiness of your touch).
The skin on your hands abruptly itches and feels dull, and you don't feel like having those plagued fingers around your children’s immaculate faces anymore.
The twilight of dusk breaks with the trepidation of an ingrained thunder, which rumbles all in a glow of white light that splits along the longitudinal path that comprised the pleasant suburb that is Westview.
So, this is an opaque afternoon resulting from the middle of the rainy day, gray and hazy in its chilly essence, with tenuous threads of a torrential drizzle protecting the foundations of the two-story house on the slopes of the street, making the dewy ivy rustle on its ground, dripping slowly from the eaves of the ceramic tiles.
Standing on the porch of Wanda's house, you ponder that you should have listened to the weather forecast when it was said that during the afternoon there would be a period of rain. Your dark hoodie is really soaked through and your hair, pulled back in a high half ponytail, is damp against the skin of your own forehead. You feel kind of stupid.
Compact, opulent, slate-colored clouds were uneven against the emerald green of the panorama of howling houses, hills and trees, like the leaning of thick smoke from a desolate fire.
A fierce storm, nevertheless, is not anomalous in the face of the oscillating spring climate of the state of New Jersey, which is not a real stranger to the rainy weather of the season. Thus, the nonstop drizzle is not the atypical episode of the day altogether.
The conquering event of such a rank happens when Wanda opens the door and finds you there, standing with your elbows dripping cold droplets water in the light wood entrance, and then pulls you into the cozy embrace of the pleasant climate established within that domestic environment of her own home.
“For God’s sake, Y/N, you're soaking wet!”
She reiterates, surveying you with an apprehensive gaze that runs the length of your head to toe, her slender ringless fingers still pressed worriedly around the outline of your right forearm tucked beneath the humid fabric of your damp blouse – but Wanda doesn't seem to realize as she's still carries with the action, and you kind of don't want her to let go of you anytime soon, so you say nothing about the warm touch tingling on your cold skin.
“Yeah, the rain started when I was halfway there and there was no way for me to avoid it, so I just went with it” you mutter, with a certain lack of interest smoldering in your quiet voice “Sometimes I wish I still had a car...”
“But you didn't bring an umbrella?” Her gaze is accusatory in your direction, the tone of voice sounding dangerously concerned inside your ears.
“Well” you kind of sigh, shrugging your shoulders within your hoodie, without looking her straight in the eye “You see, I, hah… I didn’t think it was actually going to… you know… to rain”
And then you look at her, and the exact facial expression you'd expect to find there makes its way until it slides all over her face. She’s pissed off.
“But I told you it was going to rain!” she then frowns at you, looking a little exasperated while doing it, her beautiful features drenched in an irritated tone of incredulity “Seriously Y/N, you need to listen to what I say more! What if you get sick?”
You flick an eyelid at the grumpy figure of a very upset Wanda standing right in front of you, exhaling aromas of tea and crimson color. It's funny how the pique of nostalgia slips through your bones – there is an air of familiarity when a subtle sense of déjà vu settles into your cognitive system, like the feeling of coming home after a long trip. You feel at home. You feel belonging.
This image is very cherished to your spirit, and you can't help but to articulate a small grin that feels light in your heart in front of your ex-wife, who then aims towards your gaze with a gleam that is an assortment of misunderstanding and irritability flickering in the greenish irises, the color that look like two emerald stones embedded within her eyeballs, curving a single one of her sharp dark eyebrows in an high arching cut.
You feel married to her again for half a fraction of a second – it's like your remote newlywed routine all over again. And the feeling is actually good.
She looks so pretty. It's like you could kiss her lips right there.
“What? What's so funny?”
Wanda questions you in an almost petulant way, and you let out a pleasant chuckle as she tilts her head slightly to the side of her right elbow, her chin pointing toward the tip of your nose – her typical irritating movement as the harbinger of an angry reaction to anything that troubles her spirit.
“You know I'm physically incapable of getting sick, don't you?” you declare, still with a smile carved along the outline of your own lips, and Wanda crosses her forearms close to her chest in an even vaguely embarrassed way in front of you.
She was always a stubborn bratty type anyways.
“It's that super durability mutant thing or some shit like that. At least that's what Banner told me once, and he's a smart guy, so I believe him” you casually shrug, “I haven't had a cold since I was, like, thirteen. Shit, I don't even know if I remember what it's like anymore. You don't have to worry about me, Wanda"
“W-well,” she exasperated in a timidly cute way, even a little childish in essence, pressing her open palms against the sides of her hips well-guarded by a pair of pale mom jeans – the attire so far from the miniskirts and chains and torn clothes she used to wear when she was younger, at the apex of her mean girl phase.
Today isn't the first time you've noticed that her waist got wider as a result of the prudent ripening endowments of late adulthood blossoming into her beautiful body-type. It suits her well. You want to touch her skin through the fabric of those flimsy jeans and the thin white cotton blouse; your fingers itch to do it.
“Just because you don't get sick like other people it doesn’t mean you can walk around in the rain whenever you feel like it. You look like a wet dog right now, you know”
“Alright, alright, I get it” you raise both your hands to shoulder height in a placid gesture of surrender “No more walks in the rain”
“You're impossible, Y/N” she then rolls her green eyes into their sockets, but you just smirk jokily at her reaction.
It only takes a nonchalant magical flutter of Wanda's wrist, with her right five fingers all enveloped in a fading mist of crimson steam, for the well-versed witch to make your garments still swell on your body, expelling from the bristles of fabric, as even in a chemical separation reaction, the water molecules that soaked them in the first place.
It's like a huge hair dryer blowing hot air the entire length of your body and then unexpectedly stopping as if pulled from the socket, making your skin temperature pleasant again like a sunny embrace all around your body.
You find yourself dry in a matter of seconds, from your socks to your underwear, thanks to her remarkable magical gifts.
The tingles consequential from the scarlet mist touching your skin still slither down the length of your body. It is familiar and eccentrically comforting – it's like eating again a candy that you used to eat during the preludes of your childhood; tastes like home and happiness.
“You know what, your powers come in handy sometimes, I’ll give you that” you say in a mocking tone of voice, and she raises a single eyebrow in response.
"I'm still considering throwing you out for dripping water on my carpet, just so you know"
Wanda just casts a weary glance in your direction, but there's a slight lighthearted tone that resides in the green outline of her graceful irises, as if an inside joke has taken hold between you two.
She smiles, and so do you, because you feel comfortable while doing it – a pair of complicit grins from someone whose chest is filled of joy and fullness. The atmosphere that sets in is comfortable, and you feel more relaxed being close to her.
You don't really do it, but it feels like your fingers are entwined with the fingers of her own hand – the specter of touch is written between the two of you, and it's as if your soul can really feel hers at its core, like two magnets that can't stop attracting each other instantaneously. You've always gravitated towards Wanda's overwhelming presence, and things won't be any different now.
“Come on, the boys are watching cartoons in the living room” Wanda says, then turning her back on you so that you follow her lead to the intimates of the house, “You can stay until the rain stops”
You follow after your ex-wife without further circumlocution, the two of you passing through the small and comfy entrance hall as you go after Wanda into the large rectangular living room, your hands always tucked inside the single pocket of your hoodie as you accompany her with phlegmatic steps in your essence.
Your shoulders feel even lighter as she turns to you and casually offers you the sweetest smile you've ever seen in your life.
Torrential rain is still pouring down from the sky outside the house, and the boys Billy and Tommy can be seen wearing warm, comfortable clothes, both the twins snuggled up against the back of the gray linen sofa, their little smart eyes looking smilingly at each other’s faces and not towards the television screen, where some cartoon that seems unfamiliar to you is shown.
They seem to share some secret that only two people with some primal connection as to what unites them would be able to do it, but the sounds of banter irrigated in the air of childish shenanigans reveals the mockery between their giggles.
They are brothers and they are twins, yes, two parts of a whole, born of the same womb that they shared from the beginning of their existence as two living beings, but you were always a little happier to realize the closeness established in the friendship between your children. Billy and Tommy are each other's best friends.
The pair then seem to make themselves aware of the presence of their two mothers as they enter the room, and the smiles of both children scintillate in enthusiasm as the pairs of eyes look up and acknowledge your appearance a little further behind Wanda's still figure, following her very closely, ceasing the small section of chitchats they had between the two of them.
From the sofa the boys joyfully call out to you, beaming in your direction. You can't help but do the same to them.
“Hey, my demons spawn. What are you up to there, huh?”
“We were preparing something! Okay, so, mom,” Billy speaks in response, barely seeming to be able to contain the glee of excitement inside his tiny body.
"Listen to this-!" Tommy complements his brother's phrase, in a tone of enthusiastic anticipation.
"Hey, I want to start it!" but the other twin intervenes promptly, almost indignantly.
Tommy frowns, turning up his freckled little nose towards a rather annoyed Billy, who is sitting next to his left elbow. The little boy briefly tilts his head to the left side towards his brother, and you know you've seen similar action in Wanda's characteristic mannerisms.
“No, I want to start it!”
"I want to start it!"
“But I want to start it!”
“I want to start it!”
“Why don't you both” Wanda then promptly interferes with the small disagreement between the boys, increasing her mother's reproachful tone of voice a little, preventing, at the beginning, that the intrigue takes a somewhat bigger proportions “Start it together?”
“Yeah” you support her in a complacent tone of voice “You two came up with the idea together, so the right thing would be to do it together too. Whatever it is, I mean”
The two of them mutter almost in almost defeated tune, fidgeting together on the couch. You think that they look cute while they're there, tiny and sitting like two baby rabbits.
"You ready?" Billy questions in a low voice, turning to the brother beside him.
“Yeah” Tommy mussed back, nodding in agreement.
“Okay,” says Billy then, almost proudly, “Three, two, one, go”
And then, you can barely contain a smirk when the boys, in different and discrepant voice tones, begin a silly chant in their thin children's voices. In the corner of your peripheral vision, you notice that Wanda also lets out an amorous smile, melting into a comfortable puddle of kindness, dying in love with her two singing little children sitting across from the two of you.
“We like ice cream like any child should” they hum together, vocalizing playful tones as they proceed through the song's component words, “And if we get some ice cream, we pro-mise to be… good!”
Then they look towards the two of you, displaying expectant smiles written all over their childish faces. And you and Wanda exchange glances, and the smile she offers you is very similar to the one that graces the curve of Billy's lips.
"Nice try, smarty-pants, but you haven't even had dinner yet"
“But mama” Tommy replies in a pleading tone of voice “We really want ice cream!”
“Yes, we want ice cream!” exclaims Billy in agreement "We can't wait!"
“Well, we can have dinner first, then ice cream. What do you guys think?" you offer them, your eyes darting towards Wanda's face "But you need to have dinner first to grow to be strong and healthy, and ice cream is for dessert only. Right, mama?"
Wanda looks in your direction, and then smiles. And you smile back, because the situation is prone to do so. You, for the first time in so long, feel welcomed and hassle-free in the presence of others.
The air inside the house is blissful and warm, so unlike your empty, disdainful apartment forgotten somewhere on the West Side of Midtown Manhattan. Wanda doesn't feel like your ex-wife right now – at least, that's not how she looks at you.
“Right” her eyes flash pale green beams towards you “Let's have dinner first, mommy”
You wake up in the middle of the night, but maybe you just haven't fallen asleep at all.
The sheets that grace the bottom of your body are soft and comfortable, and the pajama set you wear is not your property. It's late in the course of the long night, and like so many that have passed before this one, you just know you wouldn't be able to rest your relaxation anytime soon.
How could you even do it? Perhaps you stayed longer than you realized detailing the gloomy ceiling of Wanda's guest room, counting in your mind as you scrutinized every passing second so that you still had control over something (time being something), so that you wouldn't go mad at being dismembered alive by each of your own inner demons.
If the beginning of the night was watered in jubilation and a serene comforting coziness on your part, the firstfruits of the dawn soon came to frustrate you in the form of intrusive thoughts quite harmful to your twisted mental health.
The torrential rain didn't stop anytime soon, and after having dinner with Wanda and the boys (in a very warm congregation, you were sitting at the table with your family, eating the same food as them and breathing the same oxygen, always supported by grins of pleasure as you chatted eagerly with each other), and the twins were slow to fall asleep after two generous mugs of chocolate mint ice cream each.
Your ex-wife insisted that you stay for the night after the two of you carried them upstairs and deposited them in their respective tidy beds, showering each of them with chaste kisses to the tops of their childish heads – Wanda's little staycation was long-forgotten by then.
You let out a disturbed sigh, both palms of your hands polishing the length of the dull face of yours.
What the fuck, you think, what the fuck are you doing there? This may even be your family, but this is not your house. It's not your home. Not anymore.
Reverberating through your insides you find the throttling need for a drag of a cigarette eating away at the bottom of your lungs like a harmful parasite sucking the life from its source, and then you get up to do it, because lying down feels like it consumes you from within in a profuse haze of bubbling anxiety that bursts from your stomach to your mouth, making you feel so weak inside.
It has always struck you as a somewhat ironic cynicism on the part of the universe that you, who are possessed of an impenetrable shell on the outside, suffer so much from the brittle fragility of your own interior – hard skin does nothing to protect a broken mind.
The lavender bedclothes had begun to tighten the muscle in your neck after a while, and in the room just down the hall, you assume Wanda sleeps comfortably cuddling in her bed.
When searching inside the single pocket of your hoodie, the well-folded garment on top of a plain desk in the corner of the room, soaked in the darkness of the shadowy environment, the absconse pack of cigarettes from a brand that you are quite familiar with, that keeps you company in the acrimonious moments of solitude, you take a single cylindrical unit towards the spaces open to your drooping mouth and then you find the cold lighter with your fingertips, leaving for the entrance door of the room offered to you by your ex-wife.
After descending the stairs, stepping one step at a time with your bare feet, you are surprised that the door leading to the backyard is already open before you are even there, and the cold night wind has blown inside the house like a curious, invisible animal, installing an icy feeling of dysphoria within the broad walls.
But before you could search with your watchful eye for some intruder who went beyond the icy specter of the night, in avid state of alert, you notice an apollonian silhouette hunched outside, sitting on the step outside the door, with a long waterfall of soft hair in the color of a raven's down running halfway down her spine.
The restlessness that weighed heavily on your shoulders eased as the familiar full-bodied scent of hibiscus tea mixed with the sweetness of a mild strawberry shampoo slithered into your nostrils and filled your lungs thirsty for smoke and tobacco.
As you approach, you see that Wanda, wearing a sheer silk robe over a red nightgown, is accompanied by a large cup that exhales small clouds of steam, with the tiny bundle that carries the tea herbs submerged into the hot water inside the dark container.
"You really have loud thoughts" Wanda's small, soft voice ripples through the air and then hugs your body as your ex-wife turns toward you with a lingering slowness that, to you, is as familiar as the taste of your unsmoked cigarette.
Her eyes glow an intoxicating green hue amid the darkness of the night, only supported by the silver light of the moonlight coming from outside the residence.
You feel like a frog being studied on a silver platter in some high school biology class.
Wanda's diligent gaze always seemed to be able to penetrate through the cracks of your soul – she always understood you as if she were an expert when dealing with any subject concerning you.
You let out an uneasy sigh, oddly scratching the inside of your throat as you do.
"Sorry if I woke you up, it wasn't... it wasn't my... intention"
“It’s okay” she mumbles serenely over a sip of hot tea, the pulp of her nacarine lips being moistened by the hot liquid she's ingested.
“I still haven't been able to sleep anyway”
And it's no surprise to you, because you slept and woke up next to this woman for several of the component years of your life span, and it was always well known to you that Wanda is a woman quite affected by long sleepless nights, not being able to afford to actually close her eyes and be fortunate enough to have a good night's sleep.
Countless were the nights turned to morning dawns, when you both resided under the same roof in the compound back at the Avengers Tower, so many years before you were there, standing in the middle of her kitchen, silently watching her perform the simple act of drinking tea at her backyard door.
“Still having trouble sleeping?”
“Once in a while”
Wanda answers you, and with her eyes she indicates the empty space next to her right elbow so you can sit there.
“Sometimes I need to relearn how to sleep all by myself”
Without saying a word, you cross the entire length of the kitchen, passing by the island and the marble sink, to be seated on the marble step that freezes your warm skin, next to the woman who smells of hibiscus with strawberries and deep scarlet tones.
Her eyes recognize the figure of the unsmoked cigarette between your fingers, unlit and forgotten like the insignificant little rolled-up tobacco paper that it is, and then she looks toward the profile of your silhouette, blinking once with her thick eyelashes as she does so.
“You start smoking again?”
“Yeah, it's been a while, actually. Not that I'm proud of it”
Your gaze shifts to the small cylinder, turning it between the digits of your index and middle fingers of your tender right hand.
“That shit helps me calm down, I guess. Or at least I like to think so. I don’t know"
Silence touches both of you shoulders, and there is a moment for Wanda to sip more of the tea that has spilled into her cup. When the drink is gone, then all the way into her stomach, she places the container on the floor, close to her left ankle like a tame kitten, safe from her company.
You are still hesitating in the uncertainty of whether or not to light up that damned tempting cigarette.
“Earlier today,” she begins, immediately drawing your attention to her pretty face, and you're met with her pink lip as she clamps her upper teeth over the contour of her wet mouth.
“You and me and the boys... it was good. They like having you around. And I... I like it too, Y/N”
She hums in the sigh of the night. You feel a crackling feeling swelling inside your swollen chest, but you don't say anything in sequence, because it's Wanda who continues to converse in the silver moonlight.
“I had forgotten what it was like. Me and you acting like family. It's good, It’s… really good"
You choke relatively. For Wanda, a heartbeat rumbled in her ears. And then she looks at you, and you look at her.
And suddenly, you don't want to light that cigarette anymore – because she leans her chin forward, leaning her head towards you, and you do the same when your body cries out for her, lips colliding in midair like the consolidation of a wish, a scarlet fever supernova bursting within your own chest.
And then, the full-bodied freshness of hibiscus darts into the half-open breach in the gap between your lips, pressing a velvety tongue against the slit between your teeth, discharging into your mouth a red-sour-sweet flavor, definitely good though, but rougher than usual as the two of you now share a needy, somewhat sloppy, even animalistic kiss.
Even if there is indeed a need on Wanda's part, and you just need someone to scare you away from the evil inside your head.
 Your ex-wife, in a thoughtless act, dives with her clever hands into the thin fabric of the tank top that clothes your impenetrable skin, grabbing the sides of your waist in a needy way, as if all she wanted at that moment was to feel you, as if her entire existence existed based on physically feeling you snuggled into her icy body.
She blinks, consenting to the overflow of her feelings, enraptured by the image of your cheeks burning and your chest heaving.
And she does what she thinks is right to do, which seems to be the only option possible in this small moment of affection and dedication, filled with an ember that if she could name it, she would call it love - because she knows she love you, even if she didn't say it out loud yet.
You are the love of her life, and she is the love of yours.
Wanda then hurls herself even farther forward, a nymph figure smitten with idolatry, and takes her prize, pressing the commission of her red lips against the outlined mouth with the flavor of melancholy that could belong to none other than you, so exotic, and never the same.
You feel the smart hands rest at the end of your spine with an almost practiced disregard, seeking nothing but feeling at first, far from the lascivious idea of consolidating the carnal act. Wanda just wants to feel you close, all to herself, comfortable in her grip.
Between a set of pink lips, a tongue is present, and this tongue curls up in another in a not hasty and exaggerated way. It's elegant. It's careful. It is harmonious.
But a slow kiss unravels, and Wanda holds her breath and returns in search of more of her favorite flavor to keep in her mouth, only to be promptly reciprocated by a devoted you, a soft nostalgic familiarity edging your silhouettes connected by the lips beneath a star-studded sky, with an absorbed perfection that no one else but the two of you would be able to achieve.
Up and down, side and side; surrounded by genuine attunement, lips moved carefully, following an invisible line that dictates your not so reckless actions.
A waltz of delicate, tangible lips that still fit together so perfectly, so neatly, that you might as well cry.
But the pacified kiss soon takes the form of a fervent kiss as you pant hot against your ex-wife's lips, and the fervent kiss becomes little kisses sprinkled around her neck that soon dissolve into a hollow moan, into a world where there didn't seem to be any more worries as long as you were in each other's arms.
In her own time, Wanda drags her teeth along the lower lip of your mouth, which groans deeply in response with a tingling in your throat, a tiny fraction of time passing until, like a buzz, quick, rough lips take refuge again in a tongue inside your mouth, and you feel an icy hand grasp your breast in a primitive way.
Clever fingers, soaked in crimson, traveled to your scalp, and a light mouth caresses yet another moan of yours. In a heartbeat, Wanda swings a leg over your knees and sits right on top of your lap, grabbing your wrists to put your hands around her waist.
The feeling is familiar. Toxically familiar.
It is the red invading your senses, intoxicating you with dense doses of scarlet.
You know very well that, even before the enticements of alcohol and cigarettes, your primary vice has always been the crimson sweetness of Wanda's body.
And, well… you're not known for being resistant to the temptations of your addictions.
A crimson marble glow glistening under the palms of both your hands. Sweat glistened in the hollow of your groin across your burning hips.
Wanda riding on your lap, naked as a Renaissance painting displayed in the dim light of a museum, her chest heavy like a marathon runner. The long, thick length of the red strap brushed against a specific spot on her inner walls that made her delirious and increasingly pivot her hips toward you, seeking more, brushing against each other like two animals in heat.
There was nothing rational in that animalistic act.
The symphony in the room was that of skin beating wet against skin; of her lascivious wetness voraciously swallowing your cock.
You could see it from the single, retracted drop of sweat that poured into the valley between her own swollen breasts, the two mounds swaying just before your lascivious eyes; a delight modulated to your stormy gaze, profuse as sea water, which clouded your young girlfriend's body with a predatory look, immersed in illicit labor.
Your insides tingled in a white-hot tingle, both clits sliding through the material of the strap, the insides of your thighs strong and wet against Wanda's pulsing center.
Her tight pussy pressing against the erect silicone phallus between your legs, the red of the material buffed with the sticky juices from inside of her. That was her bed, her sheets wet beneath your sweaty bodies, the walls of her room reverberating the pornographic grunts and moans from deep in her throat.
“F-fuck-!” she clenched her teeth, her nails lacquered with black nail polish carving red paths in the muscles of your back, “Y/N, fuck, right there, ah-!”
Her thick Sokovian accent spilled into your ears, and something primal and cavernous rumbled inside you, like a spark that explodes in a raging fire.
You wanted to own her.
You wanted to consume her.
You wanted to eat her alive; fuck her until the mold of your strap was forever etched into the walls of her greedy cunt, which was increasingly squeezing the silicone phallus, a delicious pressure forming a red knot just below her belly button.
“Ah-! Ah-!, pozhaluysta, pozhaluysta-!” she gasped in her native dialect, loud and clear against your ear as you fucked her as hard as possible “Trakhni menya... ya pochti u tseli, ya po-pochti u tseli... Ugh, dorogaya!”
“Fuck, are you close?”
“U-uhum! ” she kind of moaned, both eyes squinted two lewd lines “Please don't stop, don't stop Y/N, ah-!”
The scream was loud as you dropped her suddenly onto the sheets, her sweaty back slamming against the thick material of the mattress, her dark hair spilling across the pale material of the pillow.
You slipped your hands between the folds of both her knees and brought her lower back close, barely giving her time to miss your strap inside her dripping cunt before guiding the red material between her sticky folds, resuming the vigorous action of fucking your way against her coccyx.
Your strong hand pressed itself (as did the bone of your jaw) against the upholstered headboard, and there a rip was deferred by your own touch – as it had done to a plucked pillow, and a lampshade shattered to the ground.
The lamp above your heads flashed white. Wanda's eyes glowed a profuse scarlet that swallowed the moss green of her irises, the darkening of her dilated pupils making her eyes look like two bottomless wells of lust.
You buried your face against the beam of sweaty skin that joined her neck to her collarbone, and placed a generous, savage bite there.
"Fuck- I’m cumming, I'm cumming!" she decreed, panting against your bare neck, pressing her fingers against your buttocks in an incitement to the act they so indomitably committed.
“Cum for me Wanda” you murmured against her ear “Cum on my cock, pretty girl”
The bed hit the wall again. And again. And again.
You didn't stop at the first orgasm. Nor in the second. Nor on the third.
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marvellegends · 4 months ago
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WANDAVISION (2021) - 1.09 • "The Series Finale"
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daylighxt · 4 months ago
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Elizabeth, Julian and Jett // Wanda, Billy and Tommy . 👩‍👦‍👦
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lornaria-lore · 4 months ago
Welcome to the Madness - !! SPOILER !!
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Nat: isn't this nice? A quiet night in the compound, no distractions just us heroes playing a board game
Wanda: Yeah quiet
Wanda: Nat...
Wanda: Why did you corner me in the kitchen and make me play this game?
Nat: I promised not to tell
A blur of a body speeds past knocking the board over
Wanda: was that my brother?
Pietro eating a sandwich walking in: Not me sestra probably Tommy
Billy running through the room as well: Hey mom! Did Tommy come through? *Goes to run but Wanda stops him*
Wanda: Billy why are you and brother here?
Billy: Mama and Scar brought us, said we could work on our powers, isn't that cool?!
Y/n and SW running in
Y/n: Damn I think we've been caught
SW: Wands you can't be mad, you wanted them to work on their powers, what better place than the avengers compound?!
Wanda: I did say that...
Wanda: Just be careful okay?
Pietro: last one to the roof is a dorkasaurous rex! *Everyone speeds off*
Nat: Want me to get the wine?
Wanda: Get the vodka
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kram6496 · 3 months ago
Y/N: what do y’all want for dinner?
Billy: Mac and cheese!
Tommy: pizza!!
Wanda: how about a nice grilled chicken and salad?
Y/N: we have a winner!
Billy: no fair!
Tommy: oh man!
Wanda: sorry boys. Queen takes castle. 
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pedropcl · 2 months ago
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twentyseight · 4 months ago
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out of reach
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smolbendyhorn · 4 months ago
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Pietro Maximoff/Tommy Maximoff
They even having matching stripes down their arms in the middle two! :D
Wanda and Billy Comparison is found 👉🏼 wanda/billy
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wmarximoff · 17 days ago
For the requests, I’d like to ask you if you could write something with Wanda, fem!reader and the twins where one of them has a nightmare and his mothers comfort him. Then the next day turns into a family day full of love and funny moments!!
take a break | w. maximoff
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summary: ever since you left on a mission far away, Billy has been having nightmares that have been worrying Wanda. all your family needs is for you to come home soon.
warnings: none, actually. this is just pure family fluff.
pairing: Wanda x fem!reader
word count: 4k
A/N: sorry for the delay anon (this really took a long time to come out), but my classes haven't been helping much. but even with the delay, here it is! hope you like it!
Wanda's right thumb had its cheek pressed against the long screen of her phone, in that digitized green icon found right in the center of the device's screen glass that indicated the beginning of a phone call. The name of the contact marked her wife's – there, next to it, was a small red heart emoji to distinguish her from the others, a symbolic trophy for having married her. And it was calling, the vibration of the device possible to feel through her fingers.
Wanda then lifted her forearm beneath that unbuttoned cardigan made of fine crimson wool, fitting the face of her phone against the length of her right ear. For a brief second, her upper teeth clenched and chewed the length of her rosy lower lip, in an act that served to replace the usual fidget she was used to doing with her fingers when faced with somewhat agonizing situations.
When she was younger, she'd do it with a handful of silver rings that she liked to carry around her fingers, twisting and tugging at them with her fingertips, but it had been a good few years now (certainly a decade or even little more than that) that the only adornment to be found there could only have been the thin golden band of a wedding ring, placed there by her wife, whose simple ornament was a small cut ruby gemstone that used to shimmer scarlet in the sunlight on summer days like that.
The phone, therefore, was held diagonally close to the high, sharp of Wanda's firm cheekbone, beneath a long strand of brown hair like a smooth coffee wave. And, with her hips leaning against the edge of the dark marble kitchen counter, her eyes a sizable glint of tension spreading around the jadish irises, Wanda waited.
She just waited, listening to her own breathing – the call unfolding, awaiting the reception of that person on the other end of the line whose call was directed.
She wouldn't like to say that she was restless, even a little schismatic, but it was kind of how her nerves felt as they bristled at that moment in question, being inside the tiled, pale-walled kitchen, an open window that allowed the glow of daylight from the backyard to flood the room in a golden pool of warm sunlight.
From where she stood, just a few feet away that crossed the ground floor of that domestic environment, her field of vision reached the back of the heads of the two dark-haired twin boys seated well on the living room sofa, both facing away from their mother, while on the television shined the color of some video game with wild explosions and bursts of digitized powers.
So she waited. She waited because there was nothing to do but wait; an agonized vein brandishing within the walls of her skull.
It didn't take more than seconds for the answer to come, however - even though, to Wanda's apprehensive perspective, the seconds took the form of minutes, and the minutes made up the whole of an hour, until your voice came from the phone pressed to your wife's intent ear.
“Hey, baby,” was what you said at first, to the deepest delight of your wife's spirits.
For Wanda, her heart blew out and she snorted, exhaling a limp sigh through her nose.
“Hi, honey,” had then greeted the enchantress, slowly dissipating the simple grip of her fingers against the phone, “Hi… hi. Hi malyshka. Hey.”
“Hey...?” there was an intonation of confused questioning, sort of as if you were smiling ambiguously on the other end of the line.
“Wanda, honey, is everything okay? You sound kinda... weird. Did something happen? Are the boys okay?"
“We’re okay yeah,” she sighed, the tips of her left fingers sweeping a strand of long hair behind her free ear outline, “It's just…I'm just relieved you're okay, baby.”
“Ah, my love,” you smiled small, even though so far away she didn't see it, she only felt it.
“Of course I'm fine, Wands. The mission is going well and so far I've only had to kick one colonizing alien ass, so... I consider this a victory. Hah. But I’ll be home to you and the boys soon, right? Soon, baby.”
“They miss you. And I... I miss you too, malysh...” Wanda hummed, releasing the breath she hadn't even realized she'd been holding in her lungs.
“I miss you too, baby,” you sighed, half apologetically, even if nonverbally doing so, “You and the boys. But I'll be right back, okay? Be right back. Just a few more days, honey. By the beginning of next week we will be back to Earth and I will be home at the first opportunity. Promise.”
“Yeah, I… I know,” she repositioned her lower back against the hard marble counter, “I'm sorry I called like that and worried you, but it's just… Billy's been having those nightmares again, and... I wish you were here, Y/n."
“You don't need to apologize for anything, Wands. You know I love talking to you. And I… I wanted to be there too,” at your words she smiled lovingly against her phone, just moving up the corner of her peach lips.
“But hey, is Billy having these nightmares again? Damn, he must be scared. He’s fine? Is Tommy okay? He tends to worry a lot about Bill at these times.”
“He's fine, both of them are. But, he... he dreamed of you, Y/n. That you were having problems with the mission. And you know he has this magical connection to the astral plane, that sometimes he sees things that no one else sees, so I... I got worried, malysh. I thought it might be real this time.”
Her voice was stung, a thread sustained by a feeling that, even on the other side of the galaxy, she knew how to say that it hurt inside your chest.
“I'm fine, Wands,” you reassured her in a tiny tone, matching hers, imbued with affection as if you were even cuddled there with her on the blandness of your own bed, whispering security words in her ear.
“I promise I'm fine. We're all fine around here. And soon I’ll return to Earth, right? Just one more week, honey.”
“Okay,” Wanda mussed in a comfortable echo, recalling the facts as if to soothe her own worries, “Just one more week.”
“I love you, my little witch. I can't wait to go home and kiss you all over that pretty face of yours."
“I love you too, Y/n,” she smiled. “Very, very much. Just be careful out there, okay?”
“I'll be careful, honey. I’ll come home in one piece for you, I promise.”
With the eventual termination of the call, there was a measly second that Wanda took to look down at the blistered ruby in the outline of the wedding ring on her left finger.
With her right thumb she stroked the crimson-cut gemstone, studying it in an affectionate gaze that mirrored the first time she'd done it so many years ago, allowing a small, chaste smile to creep into the pulp of her lips. Only one more week was the intended promise. Wanda could always wait for you for just one more week.
But it was in a wide, crackling globe, flames still tender in their avid assiduous incandescence, just around the corner of the galaxy, where you found yourself so far from Westview, New Jersey – from Jersey to the world, and from the world to the vast longitude of the universe.
A enormous structure, blazing in stubborn embers, it projected a warm orange luminescence (like a stone of carnelian) straight into the macrocosm around it – the sun was a dwarf star situated in the wilderness of planet Earth for about forty-light-years of distance between their sidereal bodies, surrounding a giant, dead carcass that floated in space without a definite purpose in its principle.
In its orbit, in front of a triad of extrasolar rocks (the carcass of a deceased and monstrous Celestial creature), a celestial body integrated along its system a rotund belt of asteroids coming from the enormities of that dead being, heterogeneous cosmic dust circulating closely, like embers sprawled across the vastness of the eternal cosmos.
However, in the midst of such malformed rocks that had come loose from the body of the Celestial being, metallic infrastructures suspended like bridges were interconnected with each other in the spaceport of Exitar, in Knowhere, in a single chain of mercantilism in the local trading post, like a copious trade point erected in the most profuse concave of outer space.
With traffic areas branching from the spaceport towards the rocky edges of the asteroids, prefabricated housing complexes were crammed into multiple open circuits; shacks made of sheet metal, establishments no less than clandestine, saturated with an immoderate frenzy of travelers from all corners of the universe.
As a former member of the Nova Corps, born and raised on the planet of Xandar, located just outside the Tranta System, in the middle of the Andromeda galaxy, your life before Wanda was adorned by intergalactic travel on behalf of the Nova Empire that had given birth to you, until the moment when one of those missions to search for an interplanetary criminal guided you to the remote planet Earth, to meet the Avengers (and, consequently, with them, that beautiful girl with the piercing emerald eyes who would one day become your future wife).
It was customary in your nature, therefore, to venture into hyperspace. But that was your past, a long time, so far from your current reality – now you were a wife and a mother. The universe around you rotated at a different rotation than the others. Your whole life was back in New Jersey.
The spaceship had been parked there for you to enjoy a drink at a bar near the spaceport by an informal invitation made by that Quill guy, the Star Lord of the Guardians of the Galaxy himself, where the bay was integrated into amidst the caliginous vastness of hyperspace.
But those who descended behind the harbor, however, where the urbanization of buildings in vivid neon flourished (city and docks were segregated by a narrow border of space dust), were that admired young girl who was Kamala Khan, the teenage superhero then named as Miss Marvel, in the company of Monica Rambeau, to which you chose to stay behind and keep an eye on the ship.
“Hey kid. What are you still doing here, Y/n?”
The voice that reached your ears was that of Carol Danvers, however, as the golden-haired Captain in a beer-colored funnel cut approached you in relaxed strides, right into the spacecraft's cockpit.
Though she had lived long enough for her age to be even comparable to your mother's, Danvers was still decorated with exalted features in her firm jaw and well-shaped brows, appearing in her physique a healthy time in her life close to yours, and may even pass for a woman of similar age to your own. No soul who glanced at her would suppose that she was already closer to sixty years of age than thirty, or even approaching the graces of being forty.
“Wanted to stay here and miss out on all the fun? I heard that Kamala’s gonna challenge Quill to a dance off.”
“And I bet she's gonna crush him. She’s got the moves.”
Your giggle was half-airy, rehearsed, which Carol didn't miss, as she sat with both her elbows on her two bent knees inside the red, blue, and gold tactical outfit she so honorably wore, in a high-chair next to the one you were sitting on. The alien city sprang up in glowing neon enormities in front of the windshield of the parked spacecraft.
“So,” muttered the Captain, always so direct in her speech, her vision interspersed with a lock of medium-length, dirty-blond hair.
“Problems at home, kid? I saw your wife called you earlier. Is everyone okay? Did something happen?"
"No... I think?" you sighed.
“I mean, yes? They're fine, I think. I don't know. It's just that I'm kinda worried, Cap... Billy's having those nightmares of his again. It happens sometimes when I spend a lot of time away, he's a really worried kid. And, well… it's been almost a month, hasn't it?”
"Billy... your little boy, right?"
“Yeah, the youngest,” and then you sort of laughed, something that prompted a good-natured hoist of a dark brow from Carol.
“I mean, they're twins, but he's the youngest. Tommy keeps reminding him of this when they argue. I try to keep my composure, but… it's funny to watch.”
There was a goofy smile, with a healthy air of nostalgia that lit up the irises in your eyes as your chest swelled into your own blue and gold tactical outfit characteristic of the Nova Corps, little by little like a balloon, of maternal, affable, love of unparalleled uniqueness – it was your children you spoke so proudly of, after all.
Your children with Wanda, a unique combination of your best and hers too. Your greatest prize to keep and treasure in life.
“Sorry, it's just that… I miss her. Them.”
“It's okay, Y/n,” Carol reassured you, giving you the tiniest smug smile, “I… I know how it is. You know, being away from your family for so long. Your wife, your kid. To be… be away from the people you love.”
And then there was a look with a meaning you had no idea how to unravel, whereupon the Captain's smile faltered into a wavering shiver, fading like a scribble on the beach's edge washed by a wave of salt water. In the crimson material that made up the upper part of her suit, her Herculean shoulders seemed to tense into her broad-shouldered muscles for a while.
"You feel like you're missing things, don't you?" there was a haggard outline in the dark gaze of the woman older than you.
“That maybe you can come back and… things are different than they were when you left. That what you left behind no longer will be what you will find when you return.”
You blinked once and Carol maintained a thread of silence that lasted for a few counted seconds, her dark eyes roaming the metallic floor of the spacecraft.
It didn't take long for your cognition to dilute the Captain's lines like a jigsaw puzzle with the pieces neatly fitted in your brain; the individual hidden in the reflection was Monica, of course, who had once seen the Captain as more of a figure than her team leader – in another life, at another time, Carol, then in an enduring relationship with her mother, had been a maternal figure to that woman who now went by the name of Photon.
The blonde took a profuse gulp of oxygen before again lifting her steady face towards you.
“We'll drop you off at home in two days, Y/n,” the other woman then said, even though she caught you off guard with the new information.
"What?!" you raised both your eyebrows to the middle of your forehead, frowning, “But we still have to go to Morag and then to Xandar! That–that’s another week of travel!”
“I'm sure Nova Prime won't mind if we delay a few days after we've managed to catch a criminal none of them have been able to catch before,” Carol half shrugged, placing a strong open palmed hand over your right shoulder.
“No need to worry, kid. You deserve to be home with your family, take a break for a while, spend time with your wife and kids. Some things... some things are not worth losing in life.”
There was a second of thoughtful silence adorned by the aluminum of the ship's interior.
“Well… thanks, Cap,” you acknowledged her with a sincere smile, as the blonde woman stood on her navy-clad knees.
“Don't worry about it,” she placed both hands at her sides, in a typical triumphant hero pose that caused a ripple of comicality in her actions.
“But how about a drink to celebrate your vacation, huh? I promise I won't tell your boss if you don't."
When you rose from the high-chair, standing before Captain Marvel in all her glory, you only laughed thinly, shaking your head playfully from side to side. It would be fun to surprise you dedicated wife a little, back on Earth.
The nighttime darkness was still brewing solemnly over the placid sleeping Westview when Wanda opened one eyelid and then the other, both blurred with a comfortable feeling of pure sleep. She let out a languid yawn through her soft lips, and blinked for a long time. Her right wrist wandered up to her stunned face, emerging from the den of the silk sheets, and brushed against her left eye, which throbbed with an imaginary itch.
Even with her foggy vision, she managed to catch the neon green numbers “03” and “35” that glinted on the dim face of her digital clock, placed on the headboard just beside her bed, next to a porcelain lamp.
But before she could turn across the length of the vast double bed she shared with her wife, she felt a soothing touch spread up her left thigh to the exposed skin above her navel, and a bashful nose set in between her warm locks of dark hair, close to the skin of the nape of her neck.
Your firm arms encircled her from behind, and, with melodious lips, you had placed a long kiss on the contour of her neck, in the region of its junction with her left shoulder, to which the strap of the scarlet nightgown she wore on her body had fallen.
“Y/n...?” she mussed, still a little sleepy-drunk, though soon waking up in front of her face, “Y/n, what are you…? You... you came back. You came back early...”
You smiled against the pale skin at the back of her neck, where you kissed her warmly a second time that night, inhaling the scent of her moisturizer and shampoo.
“Not as early as I expected, actually. I wanted to get back before you guys went to bed… but hey, it's late” your tiny voice rang through the room, which before was dominated by a constant silence, broken only by small cicadas in the distance.
“Go back to sleep, sweetheart. I’ll still be here when you wake up in the morning.”
"You will?"
Wanda purred like a sleepy cat, her heavy lids returning to her emerald eyes. Barely, and somewhat needy, she snuggled against your warm body, pulling you close, a lazy little smile playing across her wet lips.
“Of course I will, baby,” you mussed, “I'll be here for you.”
“I missed you, detka. I've missed you so much…” Wanda sighed softly, her hand going over yours in a sleepy, needy grip.
“I missed you too, sweetheart,” you whispered against her ear, nestling your forehead against the fragrant back of Wanda's neck, your fingers warm over her stomach, roaming the skin present there in imaginary traces.
“I really missed you so much.”
Once again there was silence. For a brief moment, you could feel Wanda's grip a little tense against your forearm that encircled her waist.
“Wait… do you still have your tactical gear on?”
“Eh,” you snorted, “No?”
And there were a few minutes spent like that, just between the sleepy caresses exchanged between you and your wife.
Kisses and touches reciprocated at the height of dawn as in a guarantee that you, in fact, were there for her, in the comfort of your bed, when was that the bedroom door opened slightly, as if what had done was just a summer breeze that had passed through every room in the house. You lifted your head from your wife's hair to find out what was going on there, at the foot of the bed.
Tommy's tiny left fingers were screwed into the doorknob, while the little boy's right hand was bringing with it Billy's forearm, who was standing behind him. The older twin was wearing pajamas with small dinosaur figures on his torso, while the younger boy was snoring to the blandishments of a half sleep in pajamas full of racing car figures.
“Hmm, boys…?” Wanda hummed, calling out in a sleepy voice that faded into the dark.
“Mama?” Tommy called back in a groggy sleepy thin voice, his iris eyes lavishing the same hue as yours half pressed down in a newly awakened, still half asleep mood, “Billy… Billy had another bad dream—”
The younger's voice, however, was energetic as it reverberated through the room, before a smudge of racing cars darted towards you, slamming into your chest as Billy spilled the room to knock you backwards, back to length of the mattress in an avid laugh.
Tommy, then awakened by his brother's avidity, soon tried to go with a bright smile to you, who snuggled both the twin boys close to your body warm.
“My little demon spawns! Hi!” you instantly erupted, placing warm kisses on the two boys' cheeks, “Hi, my little dudes. Hi. My God, I've missed you two so much..."
Wanda poured her sleepy face towards you, and you sighed, holding a steady gaze with the other woman – and it was a look elaborated in such amenity which Wanda bestowed upon you, with so much esteem and appreciation for her green irises, that you have not been able to contain in your core the radiant sensation of a warm softness, swelling your chest in profuse benevolence.
A constricted knot formed at the bottom of your esophagus, just to the middle of your torso, and your throat constricted in an exorbitant rush of unsyllabic emotions, which constrained the pulsing organ inside your chest, just so that the latter, in turn, would expand, so that the blood running through the branch of veins in your body would radiate into a tender, warm sensation of latent love.
“When did you come back, mom?” questioned Tommy, who had his small body supplanted by your right forearm.
“Please don't take too long to come back again, mommy."
Billy begged in sequence, his little face hidden in the gap that joined your neck to your left shoulder, pressing the material of your shirt between his hands as if he didn't want to let you go anytime soon.
“We miss you,” the little boy mussed against your skin, “I dreamed that you got hurt and couldn't come home anymore… I was scared, mommy. I was so afraid you wouldn't be able to come home anymore.”
You snorted, spraying the oxygen trapped in your lungs, an explosive softness in your heart light as a feather. You didn't want him to feel that way about you; that none of them would feel that way anymore. And so you blinked, flinching for a while, when it was that your vision clouded over in an aggregation of a sudden warm feeling that ached in your chest.
But Wanda came to the boy's support, gently in a caress imbued with maternal affability as she stroked the length of his back through the comfortable fabric of his pajamas, placing a long kiss on the back of Billy's head, between the short locks of light brown hair, giving off a mild scent of children's shampoo.
“Mommy's here now, baby,” she said in a low tone, looking at you over your son's head, “She's here for us.”
“Yeah,” you smiled small, turning your head at two broken angles to so, then, kiss each boy's forehead into your arms, “I'm here with you guys now. I’m here for you. All of you.”
The bright innocuous hue of cyan blue lit up the high morning sky, when did Billy and Tommy, quite energetic in their bustling activities befitting two bustling rosy-cheeked children, chuckled and kicked a football at each other across the backyard to enjoy the warm summer sun.
They did right after breakfast when you urged them to do so, with no room for further disagreements – Wanda, drenched in the sun, had spread a soft blanket on the green grass for her to get well. Your wife was reading a book of classic Sokovian literature while you ran after your two children.  
Even if Tommy was just a white-shirted, green-sneakered embezzler cavorting across the grass, in nimble impulses which even amounted those who an average child would reach, you, in turn, after a long hour of kicking the ball to Billy (because Tommy wasn't much of a team sportsman himself) was just a figure lying on the sultry serenities, spread across the blanket with a swath of sunlight interspersed with your forearm, the tip of your nose pointing skyward.
You filled your chest with air, feeling a warm touch on your convex cheekbone, accompanied by a warm finger stroke. When you looked up you saw Wanda's face loaded with a small smile, sitting next to you – her brows furrowed and her eyes sweet, full of tenderness. Silently, she had smiled back at you, not showing her teeth.
“Hi, little witch.”
“Hi, detka,” Wanda whispered in a snuggled breath, tracing the perimeter of your brow arch with the soft digits of her delicate index and middle fingers.
“Your kids tired you, huh?”
“What's fighting a whole bunch of intergalactic bandits compared to playing soccer with your kids on a Sunday afternoon, right?” your voice was low and gentle, and she flowered a wry smile along her lips.
“But hey, I need to tell you something.”
“Something, huh?” Mouth dry and eyelashes fluttering as her eyes closed, Wanda made a vague sound of curiosity camouflaged beneath a limp smile.
“Yeah,” you propped yourself up on your elbows then, lifting your upper body from the checkered picnic blanket.
“I… I'm thinking of leaving the troop, Wanda. For good. I’ll be staying at home with you and the boys.”
On your wife's part, there was only a confused frown.
“But… baby, you,” she compressed her lips for half a second into a long pink line.
“All your life, you've always… you've always liked what you do, Y/n. I don't want you to give up doing what you love just to stay home watching some sitcoms and gardening with me—”
“Hey, hey,” you soothed her with a complacent smile, interspersed with sunlight as you adjusted your posture, “I want to do this, Wands."
Your left hand was splayed on Wanda's pale right knee, warmed by the blazing sun between the vault of the sky, the skin exposed by the red length of the fine summer dress your wife wore buttoned to her chest, granting there a caress to comfort her nerves.
“I really want to, you know? And I mean it. My whole life I've been going from planet to planet, fighting bad guys and getting my ass kicked, but… I think it's time for me to settle down, I guess. To spend more time with my family. With my amazing, gorgeous, perfect wife and my amazing—”
“Mama, Billy hexed the ball to keep hitting me!”
You and Wanda exchanged sunny looks for a measly second.
“Well, they’re,” you raised both your eyebrows, “Something.”
“They definitely are,” Wanda chuckled for a bit, before leaning forward to kiss your shoulder under the flannel shirt you wore open to your chest.
“But are you sure, honey? This is... a considerable change in your lifestyle. And I don't want you to give up anything for me.”
“Of course I'm sure, my love. I don't wanna miss any of this” you gestured between you and her with your right hand, “Anymore. I don't wanna be away from my family, Wanda. I wanna be here and share every moment, every experience, with them. With you, my little witch.”
You soon felt a gentle touch on the top of your cheekbone, accompanied by a warm finger stroke. Tilting your gaze to the side, you came across Wanda's face laden with a small smile – your wife's furrowed brows and sweet jadish eyes, warm as the sunbeams illuminating them. You'd smiled back at her and, in a gentle cut, with your eyes closed to just feel the moment, you bent down to capture the pulp of Wanda's lips with yours.
“Mommy!” Billy brandished from a distance, “Tommy is kicking the ball high so I can't catch it!”
“No I'm not, mom, he's lying! He's a doofus!”
“He’s lying that I'm lying, mama! And I'm not a doofus!"
"Eh," you sighed against your wife's lips, the tips of your noses brushing, your eyes so close together that her dark pupils were like two abyssal pools bordered by an emerald outline.
“Duty calls, right?”
“Didn't you say you wanted to live that life now, mommy?”
Her giggle came right after an amused eye roll from you.
"Very funny, little witch," and before you stood up, you once again stole a peck on Wanda's lips, "Very, very funny."
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