#wanda reader
Text
𝐤𝐧𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐞 𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐭 | 𝐰. 𝐦𝐚𝐱𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐟𝐟
summary: to get what she wants Wanda will do anything - including hurting you.
warnings (18+): smut, strap-on sex (r receiving), non-con, a bit of dacryphilia, breeding kink, loss of virginity, forced pregnancy, toxic relationship, manipulation, heavy angst. MINORS DNI.
pairing: Wanda x fem!reader
word count: 3k
masterlist|
(please, don't flag the work)
༺ᱬ༻
At dawn, gray and foggy, the bitter winter temperature would arduously exceed the limitations of common sense degrees demarcated by popular thermometers.
The vehement peak of the serene dawn, as placid and peaceful as it ever was to be, had been swallowed up by a broad blanket of white, chaste snow; blizzard which had interspersed, crossing from north to south along the entire longitudinal extent of the ten thousand hectares located near the tiny town of Westview, New Jersey. You weren't born in there and, in fact, you barely knew that place at all.
The whiteness of sprays of snow in flakes of polished ice continued to crumble through the openings of the dense clouds, and a pale veil of frost took more and more possession of the tiles above the roofs and the tops of the enormities of the hills around the town, inferring a white and crystalline color.
You retained your own private assumptions about the phenomenon, however, and attributed it to increasingly distressing global warming (come on now Tony Stark, you could very well reverse global warming if you really wanted to!). But maybe you still held such a mundane concern at your core just to keep a sober dose of normality within you, and not give in to the long chants of long lonely days, as maddening as they could be.
The days that had passed gradually slipped one over the other, consubstantiating, consolidating into a single amalgam, and you no longer knew what to do to ward off the acute boredom that was consuming your nerves little by little like an autoimmune disease – there was no book to read or movie to watch that would wriggle your soul out of the lonely corners of a world you'd been segregated into, walls slowly closing in around you one by one. You were alone. Utterly alone.
Through the dim glass of the wide window of your solitary room, you gazed, with your gaze watered by the apathy that is intrinsically sprinkled in your irises and sluggish limbs and heavy in your joints like lead, the occluded sky of dawn – the few gloomy trees raised in the neighborhood surroundings like fortresses of dark, thick foliage, swaying on their own axes as the constant wind dictated outside their painted plaster walls.
With a sliver of fresh skin on your right temple pressed against the cloudy glass, so cold to the touch, your dead eyes followed the willow tree of snow outside as if it were natural, as if it was common to snow at that time of year and as if she wasn't using the situation to her whim, wherever she was at that moment, as much as she was everywhere at the same time.
Right, screw global warming. You were living like a little snowman cloistered inside your own particular snow globe – free from your point of view, but trapped inside the dome.
The truth was that Westview was a huge board full of pieces all situated in their proper squares, the vast majority composed of pawns as maneuverable and disposable as they could be, endlessly, always ready to be used and discarded and then replaced – and you were the queen of them, the most important piece to be cherished, but like everyone else, at your core, you would be just another component part of the grand scheme that Wanda Maximoff ruled with an iron fist. One wrong step and you were out, checkmate.
In a time that then sounded remote, an echo of a dream derived from a memory already forgotten, perhaps seven or eight months ago (you only calculated the passage of time by the gradual expansion of your belly, which then encompassed a larger roundness than a basketball), you were free. You were young and you were free and the world was a little less terrible than it could be.
But Wanda had kidnapped so much of you, in fact, disfigured you into a bizarre parody, a grim reflection of who you once were – but of your own free will you gladdened to the end in an elan worthy of praise, in the greatest pose of a soldier who is willing to kill and die for the glory of your people, despite the notion that you were fighting a vain, lost battle.
At the end of the day you were still her possession to be used and abused however Wanda saw fit. She saw everything, and everything she controlled.
You were nothing but a poor college student, still so full of spirit, and your captor was an esoteric entity versed in superhuman capabilities, the wielder of celestial powers who, according to herself, was also a multidimensional traveler – whatever meaning it held, or at least what she meant by such an eccentric statement as that.
All you knew was the things she could do and undo with a simple, banal hand movement, and how it affected you.
The fact was that you were alone, isolated, confined to an unknown town where escape was infeasible and outside contact was nothing short of scarce, subject to the pleasures, daydreams, paranoia and whims of a woman deeply troubled by her own inner demons, that you supposedly hated, but couldn't get away from even if you wanted to. Not when she was growing on you like a parasite, literally and figuratively speaking.
It was clear as the snow outside – conceiving Wanda's offspring in your womb (albeit at odds with your own individual desires at first, but attempts to shed such a burden proved, at first, flatly flawed and highly unnerving to Wanda's exhausted mind, who wasn't used to being a very reasonable person), whom she held so dear, there would be no way to nurture a flame of hatred for that woman that would not be extinguished quickly; no matter how little you knew about her for as long as your pregnancy lasted, Wanda's humanity, so disparate from the morbid cruelty at the bottom of those abyssal green irises, resided in the bosom of motherhood for which she cherished so much.
In the intimate caresses exchanged between her gentle blackened fingertips and your swollen belly, there was a kind of love so subtle and genuine that it almost erased from your memory the fact that you didn't want to be there in the first place. Her contact with that embryo was covered by a lapse of vulnerability, and that's why that witch once proved to have been as human as you were.
At a certain point, goodness was already given for those intentions, when there was not a shadow in her very existence. Deep down you just knew she was good. But it was no use if kindness was eclipsed by a haze of cruelty.
The faint gleam of her smile was enchanting, and the jadish irises were drowned in waves of tears that pooled behind long, thick dark lashes, right at the waterline of the one who so affectionately gazed at your belly by her rotten right fingers. At some point, you knew, you just knew that Wanda had given as much love to the world as she had to the unwanted child in your womb. You wondered what it was that had stolen Wanda's innocence so voraciously that, in the end, she ended up stealing yours too.
“Twins,” in one night she came, and Wanda had smiled at the utterance of her own words, never breaking her gaze from the skin stretched just below your navel, “My boys.”
Her touch felt cold, plastered like a corpse's hand. Everything about Wanda was somewhat cadaverous, reminiscent of the dead – although a veil of purity always overshadowed her dying features (for that witch was indeed beautiful), the dark, sharp circles under her eyes and the deep fleshed cheeks made her a spectral creature, unreal, with the waxy pale skin that so accentuated those emerald eyes that squandered a nuance of intense feeling.
You were never quite sure how to pinpoint what was going on inside her mind, although she always expressed that there was something there to look for.
“How,” you muttered with your eyes focused on anything but her, your shirt pulled up to expose your swollen stomach, not a smile found on your lips' commission to reflect that woman's.
The situation in which everything of the last few months had culminated in your stomach was in knots – the idea that it was done, and now you had nowhere to run from her.
“How can you be so sure, Wanda? Twin boys... that's a pretty... specific guess, I think. It could just be a boy, it could be a girl,” in the room lit by the orange flames of a fireplace that turned Wanda's hair as red as blood, you blinked, “It could be anything.”
“I just know,” lisped the woman who owned the long auburn locks that fell below her breasts, sketching a ghost of a vaguely nostalgic smile on her well-shaped lips, like someone wistfully remembering something that is gone and will never come back.
“I… just know it's them. My… our boys.”
There was a brief pause interspersed by the crackling fire in the dry wood, a breath held within bristling lungs.
“Thank you, Y/n.”
Your eyes finally turned to Wanda, who was crouched in front of you. She looked at you in gleaming green like she did the first time she made you bleed, when she emptied herself inside you, condemning you to that sick moment of intimacy with her.
“I know you don't understand this right now, not this version of you at least, but,” her jaw moved slightly, speaking at length in her speech, as if she were speaking like a child, seeking to express clarity. As if she had to plan her words carefully.
“I love you, детка . Everything I've done so far is because I love you, Y/n. You and our boys, our family. Everything I did was for you. I hope one day you can understand that and forgive me for what I did.”
Your eyes stung and sickly bile rose to the surface of your tongue at that controversial statement of hers. She knew it was wrong, she was fully aware of it. You could never imagine that whatever resulted from that one-sided relationship between the two of you could fall under the nominations commonly associated with the definition of “a family” .
You already had a family to call your own and belong to, a father and mother and siblings too, and from them you were usurped by her. That couldn't be a family, not that relationship structure, not you and her. Not when you weren't even twenty and barely even aware of what, say, Wanda's last name would be.
That night you cried yourself to sleep. And, like every night before that, Wanda listened until you fell into the softness of your own sleep clouded by layers of thick, salty tears.
But the warm, abstruse sweetness behind Wanda's hideous facade made her as seductive as the apple would have been to Eve, and the fragility that rarely saw the light of day made her seem so small compared to the times you feared for your life as she chained her hands behind your back and sternly brought her hips to meet yours over and over again.
You've also heard her cry before going to sleep. It just so happens that she was the one making you suffer, while you just had to put up with her external suffering.
Wanda was a complex puzzle to understand, so fluctuating, fascinating and unpleasant at the same time, like a new flavor to try, bad at first, but then becoming dangerously charming to the palate. And you didn't know whether you wanted to put those pieces together into one uniform image, or throw them in the trash and close the lid.
In fact, if traced back to the beginnings of your gloomy model of relationship (at least in the most primitive sense of the word, summarized only to the exchange of physical touches between two controversial animals, to, moreover, the imposition of physical contact from one part to the other), it was as if Wanda saw what she solemnly did to you as an artifice, a mechanism, a forced method to an end you never chose to have. It was as if she was just performing a necessary sacrifice that justified the means she chose to use.
She apologized again and again because that inside of you stung and hurt when she ripped something inside you, and she worked hard to make you like it too, even though you barely knew her at the time, and in fact just waking up from the stillness of your sleep to the uncomfortable feeling of a foreign body on top of you, with your legs spread wide and streams of fresh crimson blood dishonoring the sheets down your thighs, ripping you in half like no one before her had ever done.
“Shh, it's okay Y/n, it's okay. It's okay, you’re okay детка.”
She lisped that night with the palm of her right hand screwed to your lips, stuffing your protests behind your teeth (scorched-tipped fingers sweeping strands of your hair behind the shell of your ear, Wanda in a red tiara looking like would cry as much as you already did). The first time you saw her, that strange woman invading your room and also you, she seemed as uncomfortable with what she was doing as you felt with her tucked inside your innocence.
“I know it hurts, baby, I know, I…” Green eyes then pulled away from your face contorted in sharp pain, as if, for half a second, she couldn't even look at you in that state. As if, in your room, she would burst into tears with you.
“I'm very sorry. I'm really, really sorry детка , but I have to do this. It’ll pass, alright? Will pass. It’ll fit, we'll make it fit, okay? Just take a deep breath. This will be quick, I promise. I,” Wanda choked on her own words, “I'm so sorry, Y/n.”
And it went on for quite a few sluggish minutes – the headboard hitting the wall rhythmically, hard and slow behind your head, your white cotton underwear crumpled and discarded at the foot of your bed, your eyes focused on how much the sharp points of that scarlet tiara that seemed to protrude from the top of her skull resembled two demonic horns as they rose and fell in the dark of your room, above you.
When your conscience woke up, the very next morning and in a room you were not at all familiar with, the wet pain between your legs was the final sentence given that you were already her property. And you tried to run away, wander the streets of Westview, cry out for help from your new assigned neighbors, but they were smiling like machines, nothing was wrong. Nothing was ever wrong.
And the visits continued, scheduled for sunset; the fall of the veil of night was the apogee of your fate – in that house with dismal walls, dark shadows lightened by the tongues of fire that burned in the hearth, Wanda came in the form of that crimson specter to do what she had to do. And time had washed the regrets from her soul, when did the pleasures of the flesh begin to burn hotter on her skin.
“Dерьмо,” Wanda anathematized one night in a sigh under her breath, moaning in a thick accent in the roof of her mouth as she stood behind you, blackened fingers digging deep into the skin of your hips as hers pierced into yours.
“Dетка, you feel so good, s-so good, Y/n...” she gasped, your white-knuckled fingers screwed to the sheets moving beneath you both, “Fuck, I missed you so bad...”
“I-it hurts,” you squealed beneath her, your right cheek rubbing against your pillowcase, your teeth clenched, your jaw set, “W-Wanda, Wanda wait– go slow, you're– you're hurting me, Wanda, please slow down–”
“I'm going to come,” she suddenly announced, indifferent to your protests, “Fuck, I'm going to come inside you, Y/n.”
The cognition of such a sentence haunted the nerves of your spine. At that point, you already had basic knowledge accumulated about her – she was called Wanda Maximoff, she was from another universe and, as a factor of greater relevance to emphasize, she was capable of performing and handling magic, something that for you, until that moment at the time, was nothing more than a fictitious topic. And, if she was qualified to run an entire city on her own, she might well be able to turn something as frivolous as coming inside you with a fake phallus into a permanent action and one fraught with the most undesirable consequences.
“No-!” you immediately chafed then, trying to crawl your body away from hers on the bed sheets, “Wanda, don't– don't do that– Wanda–!”
But with a pull and a jerk she held you steady, your hips up, ribbons of scarlet energy restraining your wrists bound to the bed, just to the side of both your temples. And the notion that you couldn't even move caused warm tears to pool in the waterline of your eyes, clouding your view of the raised wall to the left of the double bed located in the heart of that partially lit room by the dull bulb of a bedside lamp.
“Hold still, детка, I-I'm almost,” she growled, her hips hammering against yours in essentially violent movements, “Almost there–!”
“No, pull out,” you whimpered, “Wanda, pull out, don't do that, don't do that, Wanda– Wanda, please–!”
“I need to do this Y/n, I fucking need to–!”
“Wanda, please–!”
She didn't pull out. She never pulled out – the point was not to pull out, it was that she emptied herself inside you, painted your insides with that magical secretion that only a few weeks later proved to be appropriate for the purpose Wanda had in mind. And she didn't touch you anymore, not that way, when her goal was achieved – with the plan completed, all she had to do was wait for your organism to do what it had to do. And so the months passed, snow fell on that simulated dome. Her visits weren't as frequent anymore.
“Why me?” you asked her once, as she stroked your belly through your thick crimson wool sweater.
Crouched down in front of the couch, Wanda raised her eyes to you like she always did when she was trying to communicate with the child she had shoved inside you.
“Because I love you,” was her answer, of course. A wave of ominous disgust twisted your insides at that oblivious response, as if Wanda were genuinely alienated from the reality of where she was your captor and aggressor.
“You barely know me, Wanda,” you spat, “And I barely know you. This isn't love, you're using me like a fucking incubator. You’re sick and you fucking know it.”
She lowered her head in front of your prickly speech, a lock of reddish hair piercing an emerald iris of hers, while Wanda's left fingers, dark as pitch, kept stroking your belly through a layer of clothing. She compressed her lips into a long line, and you held your breath. From your point of view, Wanda, stripped of that crimson armor she always wore and then tucked into casual clothes, sweatpants and a sweater as thick as your own, looked small and confused like a child, a little girl.
“You used to know me,” she muttered quietly, “Where I come from, you used to know me. We were married. We had our boys. You... for as long as it took in Westview after I had you back again, you were my world after I lost everything.”
You blinked once.
“Westview?”
She looked at you again.
“Yes, Y/n. Westview. They took you from me, more than once. But the second time they took our boys too. So I,” there was a pause in her speech, “I had to look for you in another reality. In a reality where nothing could ever get out of my control again.”
And for half a second you looked back at her.
“Wanda,” the palm of your right hand slowly snuggled against her left cheek, which approached your touch in an almost pathetic neediness, when was it that you looked into her eyes, “You’ll never have control over me, no matter how hard you try.”
She closed her eyes as a tear trickled down her cheek.
“I know.”
When the twins were born, you didn't want to hold them. And, begrudgingly, Wanda understood. She understood that she could never have you, not after what she had done to you, but to her consolation at least there were those boys left for her.
And she had been benevolent in letting you go, as if she had released a bird from its caged captivity, erasing from your memory any and all discernment of what your relationship had been like for ten months or so, abstracting from the confines of your mind the idea of how much she had harmed you by excluding herself from your memory. You went back to your old life, and she started a new one.
Time has come and gone. You had no sense of the past, and no one in your social circle even seemed to notice your absence for nearly a full year – it was like a dream, a memory, a lie. A kind of collective amnesia. You moved out of your parents' home after graduation and obtained a steady job in your field of work. And, after a while, you decided that it might be good to share your life with a second person – soon enough, a relationship blossomed between you and a dark-haired woman you met during a snowy winter day in a coffee shop.
Your girlfriend was a few years older than you and a single mom, but it turns out you got along great with her kids, and she was the best partner anyone could ask for. And when, on a warm summer day in the city park, Wanda offered you a strawberry ice cream cone right after presenting Billy and Tommy with their respective favorite flavors each, you genuinely smiled at her.
“Thanks, baby,” and then, you kissed her on the cheek. Billy asked Tommy to play tag, and the older twin accepted.
Wanda smiled at you. She smiled at you as if she didn't know how much she had already hurt you. “You’re welcome, детка.”
#wanda x you#wanda maximoff#wanda maximoff x reader#wanda maximoff x y/n#wanda maximoff x you#wanda reader#wanda x y/n#wanda maximoff imagine#scarlet witch x you#scarlet witch x reader#scarlet witch#scarlet witch x y/n#elizabeth olsen#elizabeth olsen x reader#elizabeth olsen x you#elizabeth olsen x female reader#marvel#mcu#marvel cinematic universe#fanfic
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
important notice 📢
spoilersssss tua s3
drunk(almost)!five at bachelor's party surprisingly can sing!
his first song is on solo and dedicated to you!!
song: can't take my eyes off you
right. it supposed to be luther's moment with family bound but this drunkard want to let you know how much you make him feel like in cloud 9 just by existing.
you're so precious to him ok? like look at those eyes. full of hearts. his head over heels for you. drunk!five is like a man who admire his love under the window... and hisses whoever gets close to you.
and with coincidence, you watch him perform on second floor.
he sings while looking at you. yes the guys noticed it.
"pardon the way that i stare, there's nothing else to compare.", "five.." you don't know whether to squeal and giddy like a high-school girl who got their confession received by their crush or concern of his coping mechanism of their hopeless situation.
"the sight of you leaves me weak." [five], "hey, hey, hey! this is about me getting married- not to lovely dovely with your wife!" [luther], "i know your romance with y/n is pure and shit but ew five, you're getting cringier than before." [diego], "i think he won't listen to us with this state of his. he's so drunk in love." [klaus] with viktor still amazed, seeing this side of his brother even he witness it most of the time.
five doesn't give a shit about them and continue singing. he's such a dork. <3
reblogs and comments are highly appreciated! -pamcake
edited
#the umbrella academy x reader#umbrella academy x reader#five x reader#five hargreeves x reader#reader#x reader#tua x reader#wanda reader#pamcake's writings 🥞
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
I don’t need a partner.
Five Hargreaves x Wanda! Female reader.
Request: Open
Plot: Five Hargreaves just got his first job and finds out he got assigned a partner, a very powerful and pretty one.
Notes: Y/n has powers of Wanda Maximoff. Also In this five spent only a few years in the apocalypse. Like the day he turned 18 he was welcomed by the commission. Then he reappeared as his 18 year old when he went back to 2019.
Warnings: Non but cursing. Also this is really shit but this is my first five fic in a long time. Season 3 spoilers
Length: Very short.
Five Hargreaves never thought he would ever be in a situation like this. He left home and ended up in the apocalypse then after a few years, the day he turned 18 he was contacted by the Commission.
Catching his breath as blood drips down his clothes, sweat mixes with the blood on his face. Body’s laying all around him as the knife he used to kill them still in hand. A breath escaped his mouth in relief that it was over but also in disappointment he had to kill.
His head perks up at the sound echoing through the alleyway, but only red fog was seen covering up both entrances. The sound belonged to someone walking in high heels and he gripped the knifes handle.
“I have to say I was expecting to be disappointed” the voice spoke from close behind him. Five turned around and held the knife up pointed at the person.
But his heart stopped for a second and eyes widened at the girl in front of him. She was everything he pictured paradise to look like, or maybe just his own paradise. But the smile on her face didn’t match her mischievous voice.
“And who the hell are you?” His face went back into a glare, no matter how beautiful she was he didn’t know her so if he had to kill her. He would.
“Y/n, you’re new partner. I was sent here to make sure you got the job done.” She stuck out her hand for him to shake. Five looked down at her hand but didn’t take it but letting his hand with the knife fall.
“I don’t need a partner” She giggled at his statement.
“I don’t either. I could kill you in a spit second, before you could just puff away” She stepped closer and he stepped back, his jaw tightened and knife right back up.
“But, I figured two people who survived the apocalypse could be of use to each other” She winked at him and turned back around walking through the fog.
He stared in confusion trying to work through what she said. “Two people survived- Hey, wait” he chased after her only to get out of the fog and find nothing and just a empty street.
☂———————————☂
“Dad who the hell are these assholes” Ben speaks as his siblings walk on the balcony above him. “Shit” The other set of Hargreaves say together looking at their brother- Well, in another timeline.
Everyone started to talk and soon enough a fight broke out, Ben punching klaus and Luther sticking up for him then that caused him to also get punched. Then a whole fight broke out between everyone.
Then here five was, looking up at the sight of you. “Five” your voice just like the last time her heard it.
“Y/n” he asked getting up from the floor and walking up to you. You just smiled, batting your eyes at him. He pulled you from your waist and pulled you closer.
“Ew, are all you guys perverts” Jayme groaned watching him kiss someone who isn’t there. She took matter into her own hands once again and kicked him, sending him flying down the stairs.
One second and he looked up from the ground again at the sound of fighting, his brother, Luther being attacked by the sparrow academy.
“Bigger isn’t aways better” Marcus said punching him and Luther just took it. “Is that what you tell your girlfriend” The bigger man took a swing but he just jumped up.
But before anything else could happen everyone had the same feeling. Whisper echo through the house and soon red fog came out of the floor.
Five quickly jump up and made his way too the area they all where. He pulled Luther behind him and looked around, this could be another trick.
“What the hell is this shit” Ben screamed angrily while they all search for the source. The crash of the main doors flying open and across the room hitting the stairs.
“I’m going to fucking kill you” A angry woman screamed and fives eyes widened. Oh, fuck.
A woman came into view and everyone stiffened and ready to fight. “You’re a fucking idiot do you know that?” She glared at five and he sighed, putting his hands in his pocket.
“Good to see you too, darling” She used her magic to lifted him from the air and over to her. Her hands glowing red as she set him down in front of her.
“Darling? You left without saying a word. Then the next thing I know I’m teleported to 1961. And you know how I knew it was you, little shit? The blue fucking portal, I mean really? You drag me into shit all the time, but you keep leaving me alone every time.” Your voice made everyone flinch.
“Who the hell is she?” Luther whisper to Marcus but he shrugged and muttered something about not knowing you.
“Then I’m back in 2019, but it’s not the same timeline. So what the hell did you get into-Wait, is a cut on your face?” She raised a hand up to his cheek and wipes of the blood.
“I’m fine” he put a hand onto of hers and smiled. She looked around the room and glared each of them.
“Who the fuck hurt him” She stood back and not only did her hands start glowing again but so did her eyes. Five laughed as they all watched in fear.
“Oh shit that’s the girl you dreamed about” Jayme said from behind her. Y/n turned and took one glimpse into her head and knew she hurt him. Well, hurt him the worse.
Y/n moved her hands and Jayme was set flying into the wall, red energy glowing around her.
“Only I get to hit him” She turned back to five and smiles at him. “I’ve missed you” Five went to kiss her but a sting across his cheek stopped him.
“You’re still a fucking idiot” She pulled him into a kiss. He didn’t seem to mad about it because he knew he deserved it.
“I’m so confused” Luther watched them kiss and get a little heated like no one was watching.
“Little bro as game” Klaus stood up and almost falling, but a big stupid grin found its way to his face.
“Of course I do” Five pulled back, you giggled.
“Who’s next?” Your eyes turn red again and looked at the sparrow academy.
They all ran out the door and you followed slowly while making it hard for them to do anything. Giving them hell, torturing them while smirking.
“That’s my girl” Five watched as you run after them.
#the umbrella academy#five hargreaves#five hargreaves x reader#Wanda reader#marvel#the umbrella academy x reader#luther hargreeves#the sparrow academy#tua netflix#tua x reader#five Hargreaves x you#five Hargreaves x y/n
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
déjà vu | w. maximoff
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
enjoy!
|series masterlist|
|part one| |part two| |part four| |part five| |part six|
《《《《《《《ᱬ》》》》》》》
A carton of almond milk, a jar of peanut butter, a dozen eggs, a stick of butter, a can of peas, a bag of soft multigrain bread and a sizable bottle of wine are the components of the plastic basket that Wanda carries slung over her right arm.
She doesn't know that she forgot to get a can of corn too.
But the basket is kind of weighty and she might as well use her magic to levitate the items around her own silhouette, but she prefers that way, holding them down herself with her own arm strength.
Sometimes it's good to keep the sense of normality active. Even if normality just means carrying a basket full of groceries around the supermarket.
She then looks at the face of the brown watch buttoned at the base of her left wrist and checks the time, blinking her greenish eyes after squeezing a long, full yawn in the back of her throat.
A gray-haired old lady (Mrs. Sharon Davis, an elderly widow, all wrapped in her pale blue cardigan) in front of her appears to be in a conflict with herself to find some of the change interred in the lowest of her silver wallet.
And Wanda scrutinizes the establishment around herself, between the shelves stocked with groceries and the glossy linoleum floor; the weary gaze wavering absorbedly over her own white-fabric sneakers and contingently fixing on a dark, even smear on the floor between them.
Old Mrs. Davis still hasn't spotted her desired coins, and she's been digging into her wallet for the silver pennies for a good few minutes now.
Wanda listens over her shoulder as someone pulls into a shopping cart right behind herself and lets out an audible groan, evidentially annoyed at the delay of the old lady with her change, but Wanda doesn't see the point in bothering to torment herself.
It's not yet six o'clock and she'll be peaceably walking home, for Westview is a small, undisturbed, reticent suburban town where everything is so close and easy to find. And she knows that, with her house being just a few blocks away from the locality of the modest market, she won't be long in coming to prepare dinner for her and her boys (whom she has left securely at the house, both doing their math homework).
She smiles tenderly to herself when she thinks about Billy and Tommy.
After all, she knows she's never loved anyone as passionately as she loves those two little boys (the grace of her life, the reason for her morning smile and for the blaze of keenness pulsing within the fond fortifications of her warmish heart).
For her they are everything, and that is why she would do anything for them – they are the epithet of the purest form of love that Y/N had ever gifted her with; the culmination of their love converted into two vulnerable little creatures that are made up of the best of the two of them.
She just knows, like a good mother who understands both her children so well, that at that moment, the twin boys are probably watching some silly cartoon on the television set beside the broad fireplace found in the corner of the commodious living room.
And she is placid in a supermarket line, getting a whiff of the eccentric consequence of the odd combination of the full-bodied aromas of cleaning product and some sturdy feminine perfume – an even slightly nauseating aroma, kind of overpowering and suffocating.
(In some aisle away from her, a child is heatedly asking his mother to buy him some treats)
Wanda then ponders about making something a little special for dinner, and recalls about the delicious kugel recipethat her mother used to prepare in the length of her childhood days, back in devastated Sokovia, so many years in the remote past that encompasses the beginning of the disasters that marked her life.
The memory that gushes over her is sentimental and bittersweetly recurring to her core; she deliberates about the sporadic months of starveling and a small humble family of four, when her father was lucky with his sales and there was a sufficient amount of money left to buy the soldiers' leftover ingredients.
But then, she retrieves back to the years of her late youth, all lived in the restful caresses of the compound in upper Manhattan. She was still understanding about how to breathe without having Pietro to hold her hand. She was learning to live on her own.
She was coming to terms with the truth that living didn't inevitably have to be a bad experience at all; not when Y/N showed her that there could still be delight in the little things in life.
And it was Y/N who used to marvelously praise the dish when Wanda found comfort in the act of cooking, and she always repeat a few slices every time Wanda cooked it so long ago, when they were just two teenage lovers (and eventually also young wives, both living in a small bubble of love and companionship on the edge of a comfortable wooden cottage surrounded by dozen of yards of apple orchards).
There was the sweet virtuousness of the warmth of two young girls' lives at that time. It was the first time that Wanda was really fond of being young (of breathing and having a beating heart, of having a life to live valuing every little detail of it).
She memorizes the exultant smile of her ex-wife, looking so light and beautiful even while talking with her mouth full (a half-crocken smirk drawn to her left-side, like the smirk also articulated in the innocuous characteristics of her little Tommy after he was born, which reminds her so much of the radiance that used to gleam in the sweet features of her former companion).
Her ex-wife wasn't always a lonesome and distant creature creeping in the corners of her mind, and it genuinely aches inside her chest to remember that.
Y/N always devoured lavishly every traditional Sokovian dish she has ever prepared and promptly asked for more – and then thanked her with a chaste kiss placed on the pulp of her lips, which promptly evolved into the building of an intimate, sweaty moment with two bodies rubbing greedily against each other.
But she soon lets out a crestfallen, rather disillusioned sigh, repressing herself for having gone back to those secluded memories amorously stored in the edge of her brain in the first place (of the concept of two adolescent girlfriends absorbed in love in the purest sense of the word, emulating the seriousness of a relationship with adult bearing, but never losing, at its core, the youthful sweetness worthy of teenage lovers). Two girls playing love in a world that was a little too hard on them.
She glares ruefully at the bulbous base of the red wine bottle and then lets out a sorrowful exhalation.
Her relationship with Y/N felt like it was straight out of the old sitcoms that she always appreciated so much, where no problem was a genuine obstacle and that, by the end of the day, the two lovers would be in each other's affectionately secure arms again (and that perhaps she let have an effect on her a little too much, when dealing about decisions made early on in her adult life).
But then she reminisces that she was merely turning eighteen years old when she became a wanted on an international scale, and that, prior to that, she had also grown up in a war-torn country.
She never knew how to behave like a normal person per se – whether that was before or after she became able to expel bolts of magical energy from her fingertips. She never quite knew how to fit into the role of a child or a young adult in the first place. Not by herself.
There was no time in Wanda’s life to understand precisely how to fit these labels (she was protesting with so much loathe constricted within her heart, volunteering to save her homeland, being made of little more than a lab rat by the clutches of a bunch of mad men, being used by the being that promised her greatness, but only ended up costing her the life of her darling brother).
In the cramped confines of a bleak, sullied cell, with only a modest television in the corner to entertain her mind away from the needles and the brutality, there were not many allusions of love and passions that elapsed through her life outside a square screen.
Wanda was aware that she just mimicked other people's movements and transcribed them into her own actions, as if it was all just a show and she was its young star, trying to intomb in her core the path of catastrophe and violence that had always shadowed her closely; it was only the years of strict therapy, self-knowledge and self-care, right after being blipped and coming back, that edified her to be her own person in a truly healthy way. There would be no more extremes in her life.
Her cohabitation with Y/N at the time facilitated, of course – even though her wife had changed a lot in the time that followed since the blip, at first, things had worked out well between them. Or as well as possible under the anomalous circumstances.
The two of them took care of the (still) newborn twins and of each other, always with great tenderness and affection while they did it. At least that's how it worked for the first year after their reunion – until Y/N got into alcohol's graces for good, that is.
Their relationship had always felt rather light and jovial before Thanos snapped his fingers. And after that she might even have come back, but it was indeed her marriage that had turned to dust in that remote dreary day in Wakanda. In all honestly, she's not quite sure what's changed in that meantime that she's been away (dead, she was dead). And it's uneasy to ponder about it, but sometimes she does – she can’t help it.
Her corporeal existence had disintegrated into a sift of life, crumbling into her own ashes. There was color, and then the dreadfully wide expanse of emptiness (death); she, as a self-aware being, ceased to exist with just a thought and a snap of two fingers.
Her consciousness faded before she could even realize she was doing it – the palms of both her hands constrained firmly against the wound in YN's stomach that was leaking bundles of fresh blood. And Wanda never relatively questioned her existence before that (she only questioned why she ceased to exist in the first place). Returning to dust, as people of faith would say.
Five long years that slipped through her fingers and dripped onto the floor in the form of a veil of dust.
It still feels odd in her guts, even ten years later, to remember that there's a void somewhere in her life that would be filled with the time that was thieved from her by the Infinity Gauntlet. A void that had once been filled by the subtle presence of Y/N's love.
(Once, when the twins were about a year old after the blip, Y/N drunkenly knelt down with her face defectively reclining on Wanda’s thighs and questioned her as to why Wanda and the babies where the ones erased from existence while she stayed behind, abandoned like an old piece of furniture that no one wants to use anymore. Wanda never knew how to answer it, but they got divorced about a month later)
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.
ᗢ
You don't know exactly how long you've been raising and lowering the joint of your bent elbow above your head. It doesn't feel right to do it, just as it doesn't do it if it feels wrong. It's just necessary – it’s like cracking some eggs if you're in the mood for an omelet for breakfast.
You just have the fullest conception that a few good minutes have passed since the beginning of all the activity, and as in the rehearsal of a play, you are repeating the gestures until you overcome them with great proficiency and your culmination comes out perfect, from your liking.
And you don't bother to intend to stop doing it anytime soon – such a guttural, animalistic and barbaric action. At this point, the movement is already instinctive after being recorded in at the core of your memory, an automatic message engraved between the ligaments of your neurons.
You've done it innumerable times before, and you know you'll do it a few more times after this one.
You lift your right arm, lowers your implacable fist constricted like a steel ball, the resonance of smashed cartilage and wrecked bones echoing in your eardrums, all instructed by the figure of a bloodthirsty invisible conductor within the ramparts of your own cranium.
The face of the bewildered guy lying beneath you looks like a loaf of raw, misshapen meat as you repeat a cadence of sequentially delivered punches against his facial bones.
And he, who is at least twice as big as you, lets out a piercing howl of pain from the cavernous depths of his throat, as even a wild bear would do if attacked deep in a forest.
But in that alley on Long Island there is not a soul available to help him to get rid of your uncomplacent fists – not at the end of a passage that is unpopulated, far from prying eyes that could creep in your direction during the action which takes place there, a beacon of environment squeezed between two amorphous walls of scorched bricks, which gives the illusion of a single long, damp, narrow street.
A sphere of blood is clotted on your face, like an eccentric gemstone, a dark red pearl splattered under the arch of your left eyebrow. And you pant heavily, your veins stiffening.
You've never been one to refuse punching a motherfucker in the face – your forte has always been pounding up things, whether on the countless missions conveyed alongside your teammates or at work during your teenage years, taking advantage of your inhuman gifts to have something to eat at the end of the week.
You've never had a dilemma in whacking someone’s ass. Even more so when that said someone had committed a hate crime against a racial minority and got away with the trial, because that's the way it is in New York City.
The recurring metallic scent of fresh blood squirts in a jet of reddish color, thick and gleaming across your rigid, compact knuckles. The gruesome fragrance is no stranger to your sense of smell, and you're not quite sure whether you want it to be or not.
But it is what you are; as an inherent component of your biological chemistry (like the serum gushing through Steve's veins, altering him from inside out, or the magic pulsing within Wanda's core, changing the structure of her brainwaves), you know that hostility is a primeval part of your nature longer than the placid ends of an ordinary, quiet life.
The peaceable domestic life lived alongside Wanda is long gone, and desolation and wrath are your only roommates within the walls of your morbidly valueless apartment.
You've been living like a cornered animal for fifteen years in programmed mode, always exposing your fangs and your claws at any sign of danger, just self-destructing, dying little by little, not craving to exist for one more day after laying your head on the blandishments of your pillow and staring blankly at the ceiling, whirling through your usual drunken state. Just desiring to somehow wreck your imperishable body that can't be cut or torn by human hands or tools.
People much well-intentioned than you are long gone, and you, by some implausible probabilities, were (cursed) fortunate to have endured thorough all the catastrophes that life directed at you.
The car accident as a child. The blip as a mother and as a wife, as a friend.
The damn journey by the mountain of Vormir, in which three of you went in the grip of that appallingly isolated planet, and only two came back with a chest full of oxygen and life pumping through your nervures. The avid combat for proprietorship of all the six Infinity Stones, and the provenance of the final snap that brought back peace to the equilibrium of the universe by eliminating the existence of its greatest known threat at the time.
You just seem to live confined in this unbearable cycle of misfortune, and it's not fair to others that you are the person left to tell the story of those who are gone.
If only you could, you would swap places with the true heroes who gave their lives for the greater good. You would even be honored to do so yourself.
Your chest heaves and deflates severely within the molds of your leather jacket fitted around your shoulders over a short-sleeved plain shirt, your veins bulging with rushing blood, and you rise to your feet, setting up your knees, and step back to inspect the big man who lies defeated to the floor of the alley, amidst a pool of his own blood and filth typical of places like this — your jacket sleeve shimmering with bundles of fresh blood, a coat of gleaming sweat limping glistening on the beam of skin on your forehead, near your hairline.
He is still alive, groaning in a vital position, and is severely battered. And it was never your intention to kill anyone. He probably learned his lesson. Maybe you should break his legs, just in case.
A tremor rolls under your black sneaker feet as a loud motorcycle passes by in the distance. Sirens also pass presently afterwards, coming and going with their blue and red outcome.
But there, squeezed inside the claustrophobic walls of the dim alley, you are far from any possible intervention. You then register a single shake that travels along the outline of your left leg as your cellphone pulses inside the back pocket of your old jeans, shivering against your hip bone.
You take an elongated gulp of air before diving into your flickering pocket and hooking the device through your fuming, blooded finger length. You know your pupils are dilated and dark.
Your gaze is empty and brittle as you scrutinize between the digitally formed words before your motionless eyes.
Frequent bursts of oxygen are a method of neutralizing the pulses of adrenaline throbbing in the artery inside your neck. But the taste that slips between your teeth is acid and sour, and you lock your jawbone at the information that is cognitive to you.
Hey, Y/N. Are you really going to come get the boys tonight? I saw in the weather forecast that it will rain later, so I wanted to check with you just to make sure
(seen)
It’s Wanda
(seen)
By the way
(seen)
Yes, you know it's Wanda (your sweet Wanda, the trace of humanity lingering inside your icy chest), that she texted you. And it doesn't astonish you at all (not anymore), because not many people contact you lately during the sunny period of the day.
You two have been keeping in touch the last few days, after all, you told her that you wanted to be more present in the twins' lives. And it's not an untruth at all, but your sly creaking anxiety makes you feel like it's a kind of uncertainty inside your throbbing stomach walls.
Maybe it's not the right decision, the voice inside your head spoke. Maybe at this point in life they don't need you anymore. Maybe this is a breakthrough, or even the commencement of a calamity worthy of a Greek novel, you're not quite sure yet.
You turn on your heels and spin your back on the battered man, so you can send your reply to your ex-wife's number without looking at the ferocious outcome of your latent tantrum.
yup, your avid thumbs type along the digital keyboard provided on the screen of the small electronic device, i’ll be there in 1 hour or so. hope they like cheeseburgers.
And then you slide your upper teeth along the flesh of your lower lip, somewhat unsure of how to proceed.
try to enjoy your staycation btw. you deserve it
(seen)
:)
(seen)
You don't know why you sent her that stupid emoji.
It's not like you're a teenager reproducing a failed flirtation attempt with the girl you have a crush on anymore.
But a lapse of realism is present as your vision aims on the blood folds on your stinging fingers folded around the cellphone, and you feel a heavy ball of constricted lamentation taking shape in the back of your throat when your sorrowful eyes scrutinize thorough the lines of your hands and find there only odious signs of a cavernous viciousness (a raw, physical cruelty also reflected within the mirror of your shattered soul).
In the background, the man is still groaning in pain. And you're not sorry you broke him in a beating. No, no. You're just sorry for yourself, because you didn't bat an eye when you did it.
Vaguely the memory of Wanda placing chaste kisses along your hands invades you, and you realize you wouldn't want her to kiss your unseemly fingers right now (because you find her too pure to dwell on the filthiness of your touch).
The skin on your hands abruptly itches and feels dull, and you don't feel like having those plagued fingers around your children’s immaculate faces anymore.
ᗢ
The twilight of dusk breaks with the trepidation of an ingrained thunder, which rumbles all in a glow of white light that splits along the longitudinal path that comprised the pleasant suburb that is Westview.
So, this is an opaque afternoon resulting from the middle of the rainy day, gray and hazy in its chilly essence, with tenuous threads of a torrential drizzle protecting the foundations of the two-story house on the slopes of the street, making the dewy ivy rustle on its ground, dripping slowly from the eaves of the ceramic tiles.
Standing on the porch of Wanda's house, you ponder that you should have listened to the weather forecast when it was said that during the afternoon there would be a period of rain. Your dark hoodie is really soaked through and your hair, pulled back in a high half ponytail, is damp against the skin of your own forehead. You feel kind of stupid.
Compact, opulent, slate-colored clouds were uneven against the emerald green of the panorama of howling houses, hills and trees, like the leaning of thick smoke from a desolate fire.
A fierce storm, nevertheless, is not anomalous in the face of the oscillating spring climate of the state of New Jersey, which is not a real stranger to the rainy weather of the season. Thus, the nonstop drizzle is not the atypical episode of the day altogether.
The conquering event of such a rank happens when Wanda opens the door and finds you there, standing with your elbows dripping cold droplets water in the light wood entrance, and then pulls you into the cozy embrace of the pleasant climate established within that domestic environment of her own home.
“For God’s sake, Y/N, you're soaking wet!”
She reiterates, surveying you with an apprehensive gaze that runs the length of your head to toe, her slender ringless fingers still pressed worriedly around the outline of your right forearm tucked beneath the humid fabric of your damp blouse – but Wanda doesn't seem to realize as she's still carries with the action, and you kind of don't want her to let go of you anytime soon, so you say nothing about the warm touch tingling on your cold skin.
“Yeah, the rain started when I was halfway there and there was no way for me to avoid it, so I just went with it” you mutter, with a certain lack of interest smoldering in your quiet voice “Sometimes I wish I still had a car...”
“But you didn't bring an umbrella?” Her gaze is accusatory in your direction, the tone of voice sounding dangerously concerned inside your ears.
“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.
"Mom!"
"Mommy!"
From the sofa the boys joyfully call out to you, beaming in your direction. You can't help but do the same to them.
“Hey, my demons spawn. What are you up to there, huh?”
“We were preparing something! Okay, so, mom,” Billy speaks in response, barely seeming to be able to contain the glee of excitement inside his tiny body.
"Listen to this-!" Tommy complements his brother's phrase, in a tone of enthusiastic anticipation.
"Hey, I want to start it!" but the other twin intervenes promptly, almost indignantly.
Tommy frowns, turning up his freckled little nose towards a rather annoyed Billy, who is sitting next to his left elbow. The little boy briefly tilts his head to the left side towards his brother, and you know you've seen similar action in Wanda's characteristic mannerisms.
“No, I want to start it!”
"I want to start it!"
“But I want to start it!”
“I want to start it!”
“Why don't you both” Wanda then promptly interferes with the small disagreement between the boys, increasing her mother's reproachful tone of voice a little, preventing, at the beginning, that the intrigue takes a somewhat bigger proportions “Start it together?”
“Yeah” you support her in a complacent tone of voice “You two came up with the idea together, so the right thing would be to do it together too. Whatever it is, I mean”
"Okay"
"Okay..."
The two of them mutter almost in almost defeated tune, fidgeting together on the couch. You think that they look cute while they're there, tiny and sitting like two baby rabbits.
"You ready?" Billy questions in a low voice, turning to the brother beside him.
“Yeah” Tommy mussed back, nodding in agreement.
“Okay,” says Billy then, almost proudly, “Three, two, one, go”
And then, you can barely contain a smirk when the boys, in different and discrepant voice tones, begin a silly chant in their thin children's voices. In the corner of your peripheral vision, you notice that Wanda also lets out an amorous smile, melting into a comfortable puddle of kindness, dying in love with her two singing little children sitting across from the two of you.
“We like ice cream like any child should” they hum together, vocalizing playful tones as they proceed through the song's component words, “And if we get some ice cream, we pro-mise to be… good!”
Then they look towards the two of you, displaying expectant smiles written all over their childish faces. And you and Wanda exchange glances, and the smile she offers you is very similar to the one that graces the curve of Billy's lips.
"Nice try, smarty-pants, but you haven't even had dinner yet"
“But mama” Tommy replies in a pleading tone of voice “We really want ice cream!”
“Yes, we want ice cream!” exclaims Billy in 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”
ᗢ
You wake up in the middle of the night, but maybe you just haven't fallen asleep at all.
The sheets that grace the bottom of your body are soft and comfortable, and the pajama set you wear is not your property. It's late in the course of the long night, and like so many that have passed before this one, you just know you wouldn't be able to rest your relaxation anytime soon.
How could you even do it? Perhaps you stayed longer than you realized detailing the gloomy ceiling of Wanda's guest room, counting in your mind as you scrutinized every passing second so that you still had control over something (time being something), so that you wouldn't go mad at being dismembered alive by each of your own inner demons.
If the beginning of the night was watered in jubilation and a serene comforting coziness on your part, the firstfruits of the dawn soon came to frustrate you in the form of intrusive thoughts quite harmful to your twisted mental health.
The torrential rain didn't stop anytime soon, and after having dinner with Wanda and the boys (in a very warm congregation, you were sitting at the table with your family, eating the same food as them and breathing the same oxygen, always supported by grins of pleasure as you chatted eagerly with each other), and the twins were slow to fall asleep after two generous mugs of chocolate mint ice cream each.
Your ex-wife insisted that you stay for the night after the two of you carried them upstairs and deposited them in their respective tidy beds, showering each of them with chaste kisses to the tops of their childish heads – Wanda's little staycation was long-forgotten by then.
You let out a disturbed sigh, both palms of your hands polishing the length of the dull face of yours.
What the fuck, you think, what the fuck are you doing there? This may even be your family, but this is not your house. It's not your home. Not anymore.
Reverberating through your insides you find the throttling need for a drag of a cigarette eating away at the bottom of your lungs like a harmful parasite sucking the life from its source, and then you get up to do it, because lying down feels like it consumes you from within in a profuse haze of bubbling anxiety that bursts from your stomach to your mouth, making you feel so weak inside.
It has always struck you as a somewhat ironic cynicism on the part of the universe that you, who are possessed of an impenetrable shell on the outside, suffer so much from the brittle fragility of your own interior – hard skin does nothing to protect a broken mind.
The lavender bedclothes had begun to tighten the muscle in your neck after a while, and in the room just down the hall, you assume Wanda sleeps comfortably cuddling in her bed.
When searching inside the single pocket of your hoodie, the well-folded garment on top of a plain desk in the corner of the room, soaked in the darkness of the shadowy environment, the absconse pack of cigarettes from a brand that you are quite familiar with, that keeps you company in the acrimonious moments of solitude, you take a single cylindrical unit towards the spaces open to your drooping mouth and then you find the cold lighter with your fingertips, leaving for the entrance door of the room offered to you by your ex-wife.
After descending the stairs, stepping one step at a time with your bare feet, you are surprised that the door leading to the backyard is already open before you are even there, and the cold night wind has blown inside the house like a curious, invisible animal, installing an icy feeling of dysphoria within the broad walls.
But before you could search with your watchful eye for some intruder who went beyond the icy specter of the night, in avid state of alert, you notice an apollonian silhouette hunched outside, sitting on the step outside the door, with a long waterfall of soft hair in the color of a raven's down running halfway down her spine.
The restlessness that weighed heavily on your shoulders eased as the familiar full-bodied scent of hibiscus tea mixed with the sweetness of a mild strawberry shampoo slithered into your nostrils and filled your lungs thirsty for smoke and tobacco.
As you approach, you see that Wanda, wearing a sheer silk robe over a red nightgown, is accompanied by a large cup that exhales small clouds of steam, with the tiny bundle that carries the tea herbs submerged into the hot water inside the dark container.
"You really have loud thoughts" Wanda's small, soft voice ripples through the air and then hugs your body as your ex-wife turns toward you with a lingering slowness that, to you, is as familiar as the taste of your unsmoked cigarette.
Her eyes glow an intoxicating green hue amid the darkness of the night, only supported by the silver light of the moonlight coming from outside the residence.
You feel like a frog being studied on a silver platter in some high school biology class.
Wanda's diligent gaze always seemed to be able to penetrate through the cracks of your soul – she always understood you as if she were an expert when dealing with any subject concerning you.
You let out an uneasy sigh, oddly scratching the inside of your throat as you do.
"Sorry if I woke you up, it wasn't... it wasn't my... intention"
“It’s okay” she mumbles serenely over a sip of hot tea, the pulp of her nacarine lips being moistened by the hot liquid she's ingested.
“I still haven't been able to sleep anyway”
And it's no surprise to you, because you slept and woke up next to this woman for several of the component years of your life span, and it was always well known to you that Wanda is a woman quite affected by long sleepless nights, not being able to afford to actually close her eyes and be fortunate enough to have a good night's sleep.
Countless were the nights turned to morning dawns, when you both resided under the same roof in the compound back at the Avengers Tower, so many years before you were there, standing in the middle of her kitchen, silently watching her perform the simple act of drinking tea at her backyard door.
“Still having trouble sleeping?”
“Once in a while”
Wanda answers you, and with her eyes she indicates the empty space next to her right elbow so you can sit there.
“Sometimes I need to relearn how to sleep all by myself”
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.
ᗢ
A crimson marble glow glistening under the palms of both your hands. Sweat glistened in the hollow of your groin across your burning hips.
Wanda riding on your lap, naked as a Renaissance painting displayed in the dim light of a museum, her chest heavy like a marathon runner. The long, thick length of the red strap brushed against a specific spot on her inner walls that made her delirious and increasingly pivot her hips toward you, seeking more, brushing against each other like two animals in heat.
There was nothing rational in that animalistic act.
The symphony in the room was that of skin beating wet against skin; of her lascivious wetness voraciously swallowing your cock.
You could see it from the single, retracted drop of sweat that poured into the valley between her own swollen breasts, the two mounds swaying just before your lascivious eyes; a delight modulated to your stormy gaze, profuse as sea water, which clouded your young girlfriend's body with a predatory look, immersed in illicit labor.
Your insides tingled in a white-hot tingle, both clits sliding through the material of the strap, the insides of your thighs strong and wet against Wanda's pulsing center.
Her tight pussy pressing against the erect silicone phallus between your legs, the red of the material buffed with the sticky juices from inside of her. That was her bed, her sheets wet beneath your sweaty bodies, the walls of her room reverberating the pornographic grunts and moans from deep in her throat.
“F-fuck-!” she clenched her teeth, her nails lacquered with black nail polish carving red paths in the muscles of your back, “Y/N, fuck, right there, ah-!”
Her thick Sokovian accent spilled into your ears, and something primal and cavernous rumbled inside you, like a spark that explodes in a raging fire.
You wanted to own her.
You wanted to consume her.
You wanted to eat her alive; fuck her until the mold of your strap was forever etched into the walls of her greedy cunt, which was increasingly squeezing the silicone phallus, a delicious pressure forming a red knot just below her belly button.
“Ah-! Ah-!, pozhaluysta, pozhaluysta-!” she gasped in her native dialect, loud and clear against your ear as you fucked her as hard as possible “Trakhni menya... ya pochti u tseli, ya po-pochti u tseli... Ugh, dorogaya!”
“Fuck, are you close?”
“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.
《《《《《《《ᱬ》》》》》》》
#wanda x y/n#wanda maximoff x you#wanda x you#wanda maximoff#wanda reader#wanda maximoff imagine#billy maximoff#tommy maximoff#wanda maximoff x reader#wanda maximoff x y/n#wanda x reader#scarlet witch#scarlet witch x reader#scarlet witch imagine#scarlet witch x you#bottom wanda maximoff#bottom!wanda#bottom!wanda maximoff x you#bottom scarlet witch#elizabeth olsen#elizabeth olsen x reader
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
2. FBT - opening boxes and settling down
Paring: F!Reader x Wanda
Context: After Wundagore in Multiverse of Madness, Wanda finds what she has been looking for in a small town – more precisely, in you.
Warnings: just comfort
Word Count: 1.8k
Part 1 | Part 2 (this)| Part 3 | Part 4*
Although Wanda had been in Farmville for the better part of a year when you came in that Saturday, the majority of her clothes, kitchenware and decorations were still in their original moving boxes. Wanda did not plan to take her stuff out of the moving boxes: after so many frustrations moves, she preferred to be prepared to quickly grab her stuff for when she grew tired of town. However, since you came into her life, she saw herself a little less anxious about moving out and the daily things did not bother her that much anymore. And without any plan whatsoever, she surprised herself asking you to help out – even though she could easily do it with her magic, while comfortable laying on her couch sipping a tea.
In your side of the story, helping out Wanda to organize wasn't your favorite Saturday morning activity. Of course, you enjoyed her company and that week you realized how much you missed an adult friendship. However, the truth is that you simply needed the money. Your earnings as a teacher could easily support your single lifestyle; you never had a problem with that. But since adding a couple of twins necessities, the weekly therapy sessions and the need to move to a 2 bedroom house rent to your monthly bills, you were going through your savings on a dangerous speed.
Your brother and sister-in-law not-so-significant heritage were stored by the government until the twins were 16 years old, and the three of you would be starving if you waited for that. Your mom couldn't help regularly, and your sister-in-law family didn't even bother to show up in your brother’s funeral. So it was up to you to make the extra money.
You sold your old car for an old-old-super-old car. You gave up your mortgage and got a rental. You quickly sold and traded any of your extra belongings and now there was nothing left. The therapist helped you with a social fee and the elementary school gathered last year’s books, uniforms and everything that 6 yo could need to study. Your tutoring gave you a few bucks an hour, and the extra grading and online queering allowed a couple more. But it wasn't enough. Going out the academic route wasn't on your agenda, but the payroll Wanda offered could get your family through a week and you weren't going to pass that.
"Good morning, Ms. Maximoff" You said embarrassed.
"Good Lord, Y/N. Wanda." She said giving you a peck on the cheek like you were friends. "Come on in; leave your stuff on the counter. I just started on the kitchen" Wanda wore a set of sweatpants and white T-shirt with her hair up in a messy ponytail. She was a beautiful women, definitely the type you used to date - not that you were even remotely available to do anything about it in the crazy pace your life was going.
The morning passed by fast. Your company was even more enjoyable than Wanda thought, you held a light mood and you were becoming increasing more comfortable around each other. As you held the stairs for Wanda to clean an open cabinet, or you carried together a large and heavy box - you found yourself enjoying the domestic environment around her. It was pass noon when Wanda ordered a pizza and a couple of beers for you to take a break.
"Not that I am complaining... But aren't you, like, super strong?" You asked while taking a bite.
"Kind of" She dismissed getting both of you another beer "Why?"
"With all due respect, oh-miss-magical-fingers... Why the hell did we tore our back with the heavy lifting if you could do it with your pinky?" You looked at her confused both of your chuckling.
"Magical fingers?" she smirked and handled your beer. "Are you going to believe me if I tell you I forgot about it?"
"No" You smiled “But it is ok, I was just wondering why you needed my help in the first place."
"I didn’t. I like your company, Y/N. And it would feel lonely to settle down alone again." She looked into your eyes and gave a small smile "And I don't feel like being alone again"
"I know what you mean" You didn't. As much as you liked Wanda's company and her proximity made you feel all mushy and somewhat stupid; you didn't see Wanda in a romantic way. She, in the other hand, felt you cozy and warm, easy to talk to, easy smile and she was interested in a very non-platonic way.
"Sure thing" She laughed and followed you into the room.
"You don't. Yet" Her eyes quickly darted to your mouth and you instinctively licked your bottom lip flustering with the attention.
"Shall we go to the bedroom?" She lifted her brows mocking you "To organize!" you added embarrassed.
The bedroom was bigger than you expected from a 3-bedroom house. She had an on-suite and a walk-in closet - almost empty apart from couple row of clothes. You started organizing her bathroom, taking mental notes on her products, scents and a special crimson lipstick that had your dreaming about it a few weeks ago. Her skincare routine was neatly displayed on the counter, her extra towels folded under the sink and all her hair products on a basket as she instructed. There was just one box left behind and you opened it without a second thought the same way you had done with so many on that day.
But oh damn. That box was different.
You groaned low at the sight of it, your mouth watering as your mind wandered to where-how-when Wanda would use all of that.
Wanda was in her closet when she heard you and smiled to herself. She planted the box in there this morning, hoping that you would find it. Your thoughts weren't exactly innocent while sneaking a peek at the toys Wanda kept neatly organized in that box. Many sizes, shapes, different uses, intensities, a whole other world from your small bag back home. You were building a special mental image of Wanda wearing the big black strap you held when she called out your name to help. You almost let it fall as you quickly shut the box and placed it back on the cabinet.
“Thank you, sweetie.” She praised you, your cheeks burning due to the pet name. “Do you know how to drill a hole in the wall?” She asked when you were almost over.
Once you got into the closet, Wanda was up the ladder, her ass pin up right on you eye level. She was reading your thoughts constantly since she heard your gasp, and the praise to her ass was exactly why she called you using a heavy box as excuse.
You offered politely to grab it for her, once again forgetting about how silly it all was considering she could magically get it down. As you got up in the ladder, Wanda's hands found your thigh in what seemed to be an innocent act. The proximity and the heat of her hand took a small whimper out of you, to the satisfaction of a greedy Wanda.
“Uhum. Do you want me to hang something?” You asked distracted while sorting some Knick and knacks into a smaller box
“Not hang. I just need a couple of wall mounts over there” She pointed towards her headboard hiding a mischievous grin “But I am afraid of the screwdriver” That was a lie. Wanda knew her way around a toolbox, as she often were on her own since her teen years.
“Why would someone need wall mounts near the bed?” You asked innocently while preparing the drill
She smirked “I can rope a couple of reasons” Your cheeks reddened immediately as you caught up with her meaning.
“Oh” you coughed out your embarrassment and focused on the task, your mind travelling a million directions.
All throughout the rest of the day, Wanda collected small touches and teases, observing your reactions and how your thoughts frequently traveled back to the toy-box.
….
In the days that followed that weekend, you two became close. You stopped by the teachers’ lounge more often, went out together to grab coffee and Wanda got used on waiting by your classroom door to escort you back to your car. Wanda quickly became an essential part of you daily life.
- What?
You and Wanda have been talking over coffee for a few minutes already when she suddenly tensed over something you said.
"What ‘what’?"
"What did you say your kids name were?"
"They are named Anthony and Thomas, you know that already" You frowned
"Yes, yes. Sorry. I was under the impression you said Billy and Tommy" She chuckled relaxing.
"Oh, I did. Sorry." You smiled fondly "Anthony's nickname is Billy, after his father. He always has been little Billy because they look so much alike. But after his passing, Billy just doesn't accept being called Anthony anymore" you said sadly.
When you got no response from Wanda, you lifted your gaze finding a conflicted Wanda staring down at her mug.
"Wands?"
"Sorry. I-I have to go" She said storming off.
The thing is that when you told her your kids name were Anthony and Thomas, she thought nothing of it. You have never showed her even a photo of them - keeping their privacy on social media and personal relations due to the abuse they suffered last year. So she has never seen them, and honestly, it never crossed her mind. But today, after she heard you calling them Billy and Tommy, some piece snapped back into place and she finally realized the answer to what had been bothering her for so long since the Darkhold.
Wanda didn’t mean to upset you or your kids. Of course she knew about both of them, as you talked a lot about them.
You two had become closer the last few weeks and Wanda found herself specially drawn to you difficult but ordinary life. She wanted to know everything about you and she finally started to open herself to another person. Wanda knew it was stupid of her letting you get so close, she knew she could not ever be deserving of love again- she had it once and she blew it. Her self-vexing was more than enough to keep her from making any advances towards you, but the reality is that you were the first thing she thought about before sleep and the first thing in the morning. She was falling for you in the last few weeks. Not that you knew anything about it.
And no. That wouldn't do.
Part 3
#wanda maximoff#wanda maxmoff x y/n#wanda reader#wanda x reader#wanda x y/n#mcu#wlw wanda#wanda fluff
89 notes
·
View notes
Text
Masterlist of IAU ✔️
A spn x tvd crossover with scarlet witch reader
Chapter 1 // chapter 2 // chapter 3 // chapter 4 // chapter 5 // chapter 6 // chapter 7 // chapter 8 // chapter 9 // chapter 10 // chapter 11 // chapter 12 // chapter 13 // chapter 14 // chapter 15 // chapter 16 // chapter 17 // chapter 18 // chapter 19 // chapter 20 // chapter 21 // chapter 22 // chapter 23 // chapter 24 // chapter 25
#castiel#elijah mikealson x reader#dean winchester x reader#klaus mikealson x reader#kol milkealson x reader#sam winchester x reader#supernatural x reader#tvd x reader#wandavison au#caroline forbes#elena gilbert#harry edward styles#harry x reader#harry styles x reader#scarlet witch au#wanda reader#marvel#tvd#stefan salavatore x reader#damonsalvarote x reader#sam and dean#sam x reader x dean#klaus mikaleson imagine#elijah mikealson one shot#elijah mikealson imagine#kol mikaelson imagine
105 notes
·
View notes
Note
Hello! If it isn’t to much of a bother, may I request a five x Wanda!reader where when the reader and the umbrellas get transported to the sparrow timeline and fight each other, the reader has a run in with Jayme and she uses her powers in them? The reader then she’s her dead brother/relative they loved so much and realize it’s an hallucinations and goes berserk? Five ends up calming them down in the end. Hope this isn’t to long and if you don’t feel like writing this, then you can delete it!!
AHHHH I'M SO SORRY THIS IS LATE, I'VE BEEN CAUGHT UP IN MY ANIME TO REMEMBER I HAD THIS IN MY DRAFTS-
help, jayme won't go berserk so to speak, she's more of gonna go and doubt whether or not the hallucination was a memory or if it was just to make her go crazy.
Brother | F. Hargreeves
pairings: five hargreeves x wanda!reader
synopsis: after arriving in 2019 in a similar house with different people, a fight occurs and the makeshift snake of the other group is shown a memory of yours.
notes: five did time travel, he did see the apocalypse, but was able to return as soon as he saw the date, therefore making him the same age as everyone else, including yourself. and he doesn't look like he's thirteen, he's just genuinely shorter than the rest of the academy, like he's tall, just not enough to be 'tall' tall.
disclaimer: five is above 18 in all my fics unless stated otherwise!
warnings: mentions of death and blood
Walking away from the house, head bleeding and arm aching, you and the umbrellas made your way to a park. “Is Luther okay? He isn't walking straight, he looks kinda drunk.” you stated, in turn making then look at the ape man hybrid. “Oh wow, we look like shit, what the fuck.” straightening his clothes, Klaus complained.
“Yea, obviously we'd look like shit. We just got our asses beat by a bunch of red dressed dicks.” Diego says as he throws a knife in the air and catches it. How did you get here? In this situation? Well you see..
During the chaos breaking out in the house, you saw that Five was with the black haired lady. She was giving you weird vibes. They all were but she took the cake on the matter, so being you, you went to him, floating from below, and just in time, she stanced herself after being knocked out by Five.
Landing gracefully, you do your thing, your fingers elegantly swaying with your arms as you activated one of your powers. Mind manipulation, to be precise. “Something to shake her up.”, you thought. Then it hit you. An incident feom your past was gory enough as it is, maybe, just maybe it'll distract her for a while, maybe mess with her too for attempting to hit your beloved.
As soon as the memory plays in her head, her being in your perspective, she froze. Unfamiliar with the enironment, voices calling out to her, in a name that wasn't hers. She sees a dead man in her lap, blood spilling from him in every angle possible.
Back to reality, you took this as a chance to grab Five and run away. While this happened, you tuned into thw black haired lady's head. Seeing her walk around, questioning where she was, who was the dead man, why were there people calling out to her in a different name?
Having run away to a safe distance, you got rid of the memory in her head, thus snapping her back to reality. Only she comes back, unfrozen only to be teriffied as to what's real and what isn't. Was that your memory? If so, who is that man? What happened? Did you kill him? She deduced that it was your doing considering the last thing she saw was you doing your wiggly finger thing, your hands glowing red.
Unbeknownst to her, that man was your brother, and you didn't kill him. In fact, he saved you.
Back to where you are now, you sit on the floor. “Hey. Get up, sit on the bench, not the floor.” you hear Five's voice, and see his hand stretched out to you, for you to grab. “Yea, thanks.”
He takes notice in the sadness of your voice. “You okay?”
“Yea, I'm fine. Just.. You know how i used my powers on the snake lady earlier? I showed her a memory of mine to shake her up.”
Not following where this was going, Five urged you to continue and not hesitate by raising an eyebrow. “I showed her that memory. If it was enough to shake me, maybe it would jave done the same to her.”
He says nothing and pulls you to his side, ignoring his siblings and placing all his attention on you. Leaning into his touch, you smile. “It's alright. He was a good brother. He wouldn't want me hung up on him again after all this time.” Five only nodded, caressing your hair.
“Now we have to figure out exactly what the hell happened.”
#the umbrella academy#tua#five hargreaves x reader#five hargreeves#klaus hargreeves#allison hargreeves#luther hargreeves#jayme hargreeves#five hargreeves x wanda!reader#wanda reader#tua season three#tua 3#latte's posts 🌹
86 notes
·
View notes
Text
family: “why are you just sitting in ur room smiling at ur phone?”
me who’s been reading smut about fictional characters for the past 6 hours:
#smut#relatable#neteyam x reader#jake sully x reader#lo’ak x reader#tonowari x reader#miguel o’hara x reader#simon ghost riley x reader#ghost x reader#konig x reader#draco malfoy x reader#mattheo riddle x reader#ellie williams x reader#harry potter x reader#rick grimes x reader#dean winchester x reader#neytiri x reader#wanda maximoff x reader#natasha romanoff x reader#steve rogers x reader#bucky barnes x reader#edmund pevensie x reader#eddie munson x reader#steve harrington x reader#robin buckley x reader#five hargreeves x reader#leon kennedy x reader#gojo satoru x reader#rafe cameron x reader#jj mayback x reader
16K notes
·
View notes
Text
me, a writer, at 3am: WHAT? I CANT FIND THE SPECIFIC FANFIC THAT I MADE UP IN MY MIND WITH A WHOLE PLOT AND ORIGINAL CHARACTERS??? WHO DO THEY THINK THEY ARE??? DO THEY EXPECT ME TO WRITE THE STORY I THOUGHT UP OF???
#bethsvrse#stiles stilinski x reader#spencer reid x reader#peter parker x reader#ted lasso x reader#bruce banner x reader#steve harrington x reader#robin buckley x reader#wanda maximoff x reader#character x reader#fanfic#writer struggles#bucky barnes x reader#sebastian stan x reader#chris evans x reader#timothee chalamet x reader#sirius black x reader#remus lupin x reader#george weasley x reader#fred weasly x reader#mike schmidt x reader#james potter x reader#isaac lahey x reader#jason sudeikis x reader#pedro pascal x reader#steve rodgers x reader#peter quill x reader#obi wan kenobi x reader#poe dameron x reader#neville longbottom x reader
7K notes
·
View notes
Text
Yeah my life might be complicated but at least me and [fictional character] are living our best lives right now.
#joel miller x reader#lalo salamanca x reader#ellie williams x reader#natasha romanoff x reader#ari levison x reader#daryl dixon x reader#rick grimes x reader#steve rogers x reader#tess servopoulos x reader#bucky barns x reader#peter parker x reader#nacho varga x reader#din djarin x reader#abby anderson x reader#pedro pascal x reader#leon kennedy x reader#carlos oliveria x reader#wanda maximoff x reader#andy barber x reader#tommy miller x reader#hobi brown x reader#negan smith x reader#kendall roy x reader#roman roy x reader#javier pena x reader
8K notes
·
View notes
Text
𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐲 𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐞 | 𝐰. 𝐦𝐚𝐱𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐟𝐟
summary: you return home after being kicked out of college - your father is not happy, but your stepmother certainly is.
warnings (18+): smut, very light somnophilia hints, strap-on sex (Wanda receiving), stepcest, unspecified legal age-gap, mommy kink, heavy mommy issues, sizable daddy issues, drinking, smoking, praise kink, certain amounts of angst, bad parenting, breastfeeding. MINORS DNI.
pairing: Wanda x fem!reader
word count: 4k
A/N: and the whole writing about stepmom!Wanda thing is getting worse…
masterlist.|
༺ᱬ༻
It was a sunny late afternoon, warm on the skin underneath your clothes, when you took the lighter close to the cigarette that appeared between your parted lips and ran the surface of your thumb across the spark wheel, creating the necessary ignition for the ember to flicker and ignite the tip of that little white cylinder, which blinked like a firefly down your nose tip.
Your sense of smell captured an emanation of wholesome, sour, idle odor – an act of teenage rebellion turned into a noxious addiction. A puff of thick white smoke rose from your nostrils. Someone gave you a crooked look when you sighed in heavy smoke.
You were sitting on a wooden bench under the shade of a long-standing oak tree in the middle of the small green square of the city, which sheltered you in the shadows of its ancient branches, in the surroundings of the structure of the white wooden gazebo that could well have been there since the fifties; the small convenience stores spread all around, the people staring at you because they all knew your fate – what your return to Westview represented, the flaw in the perfect family picture.
Everyone in town knew your parents, your father and stepmother, Jarvis (Vis for those neighbors who were more superficially intimate) and Wanda, and so your name was thrown to the wind with totally disconnected intonations to the public admiration assigned to that couple, typical small-town good samaritans – you spray-painted a billboard or got caught by the sheriff drinking in front of the gas station convenience at just sixteen years old, even though you never bothered to hide your petty misdeeds in none of these cases.
It had been a week since your return, seven days had passed that very morning. The short drive back had been as quiet as it could be – a few hours, no more, objectively and adamantly quiet to the core; the well-trained ear would just catch the sound of the asphalt sliding under the well-heeled car's tires, vibrating and petulant, icy air being expelled from the air-conditioning in cold puffs against the warm skin of your face, in a swath soon under your chin.
You followed, solemnly, your tired eyes behind your heavy lids, as the melancholy houses passed by the gloomy panorama presented in that small suburban town, sweet little houses with buttery walls and windows with wide open light cotton curtains, all surrounded by meters of pointed low wooden fences standing close together in lavish, sweeping rows in front of well-trimmed green lawns and behind neat sidewalks and vibrant trees.
You weren't born in Westview , in the heart of New Jersey, but outside in the neighborhoods of that city where all the smallest details had throughout your early life were derived – at the height of your simple ten or eleven years of age, overwhelming in an air of rebellion for an orphaned child of a resigned mother and lacking the affection of a disinterested father, that was the location chosen by that man as a starting point of the unusual life of him as a newlywed, at the time, with your stepmother Wanda Maximoff, pushing for suburban life patterned within the traditionalist mold of a square box, as socially anachronistic as it gets.
Jarvis Stark was a reserved and rather austere man, after all, an old-fashioned thinker, a classic political liberal and an unyielding conservative – abandoned by his first wife with the eldest daughter he didn't know how to raise, a father of three, the breadwinner, a proud Republican voter. And you were, then, the twenty-year-old daughter, the eldest failure, who was asked to withdraw from college because your grades were worthy of nothing but shame and stoning in the public square.
So you believed that only conformism could soothe you out of your succinct attachment to the reality which you found yourself, deeply enraged and dangerously bored, somewhere on the fine line that separated these two opposite poles of mood from ego. The car swerved around a corner, your childhood home looming into view at the end of the street. Westview, always the same, never different. So you sighed, a heavy, icy sigh, lifting and lowering your chest inside the baggy shirt you'd pulled over your head hours earlier.
Sighing was the little you could do, but perhaps it could be a prudent way of expressing your discontent with the current situation around you when Jarvis parked the car in front of the family home, Wanda's well-tended rose bushes rising into the front yard in a polychromatic vortex of blood red color.
The window of your old room upstairs looked at you gloomily as if it didn't want to welcome you back – nobody did, after all. And you looked at it as if you could stone it, with all the hatred worthy of a child that no one ever wanted to harbor wrapped up inside an adult body barely rigid to the touch.
“Y/n,” your father's dictatorial voice echoed into the silence that filled the vehicle, his pale cerulean eyes behind the lenses of his thin-rimmed glasses staring only at the leather steering wheel, irises hard with fury, never turning back to your figure sitting on the bench next to him.
“Before we go in I want one thing to be clear here, Y/n. I’m not kidding. You're not a child anymore, though you're still behaving like one, and I'm not going to treat you like one. I'm going to treat you like an adult, because that's what you are now. The playtime is over. I will no longer tolerate this type of behavior on your part.”
There was a silent pause, not long enough to give you the go-ahead to come up with a response to that man in the cashmere blazer and dark turtleneck blouse, a philosophy teacher who was dissatisfied with the denial of his academic career that had confined him eternally to the position of high school teacher.
“You're going to have to grow up. Do you even understand what that means, at least? Nothing is free anymore, the world is not going to be kind to you, and neither am I. Tomorrow you will look for a job and while you are living under my roof until you can support yourself, you will have to contribute to the household expenses and follow my rules. No more drinking, smoking, being up late or loud music, all of that is over now. If you want to have a bed and food on your plate inside my house, you will do it my way. Did I made myself clear, Y/n?”
And then Jarvis looked at you with the recognition of a father thundering in the circle of his blue irises, but the kind of father who doesn't much like to acknowledge that you are the kind of child he made, that his strict upbringing backfired and culminated in an as unserviceable adult as you could be, a reactionary time bomb in all the splendor of your young-coming-of-age as irresponsible and immature as you could be.
“Did I made myself clear, Y/n?!” he repeated, because his answer was silence. Eyes staring back at him as a result of the upbringing he gave you, your icy breath misting inside the car.
“Crystal clear, Dad,” cynicism crept under your tongue, spitting bitterness between your teeth. You wouldn't give him the satisfaction of taming your fury like an angry dog gagged at a muzzle – you never have before, after all.
That man stared at you for a single broken second as if he was going to stuff his tight nostrils to say anything, but he didn't, not in the way he could have said it. He just unfastened the seat belt across his broad chest and looked straight ahead again, stoic, ever so categorical and impassive.
“Fine,” said Jarvis, then already leading his long, bony right fingers to the doorknob, “And while you're here you're going to obey your mom and help her with the housework. This is an order, Y/n. I don't expect less than that.”
There was no opening for an answer as he then got out of the car and closed the door behind him with a hollow thud. Your eyes burned the back of the café-au-lait-colored blazer your father wore on his tall, skinny body with a vaguely British bearing, and a whisper that only your ears caught was said in the icy air inside the car.
“She’s not my mom...”
Stepping out of the car into the sweltering heat of a small town was an act at least fueled by the humiliation that weighed on the muscles just above your shoulder blades, your head hanging down with gravity in a vague impression of cowardice – on the contrary, however, since the poison running through your veins was of pure yellowing fury that compelled you to crease your brow. It's been a week, and you still haven't found a job, and your dad still doesn't lock eyes with you. Not that it mattered. It didn't matter, he never did before.
The afternoon sun hid behind the hills in the distance, and night fell like a veil over the small-town square. Conveniences closed their doors and you started walking. Going back to your childhood home depressed you, but you knew that in time it would stop bothering you. Going back to the childhood home where your father lived with his wife and his other children was what made an unpleasant impression on your nerves.
Especially when going up the three measly white painted wooden steps of the porch that led to the main entrance door of that family residence, with the night also coming the sloppiness worthy of a soul so enraged that only a young girl kicked from the university could contain within herself.
Your father's car wasn't in the driveway, and your younger half-brothers, the twins, were nowhere to be found or to be seen – not on the sofa in front of the television, not a single whiff of two ten-year-olds coming from upstairs. Only she was there, gracefully seated on the dark linen sofa, sipping expensive wine, as red as the roses and her fingernails and her long, glossy locks, in front of the television that was flashing some old program she liked.
Wanda Maximoff, your father's wife, your brothers' mother. A pair of eyes with emerald irises that blinked green in the low lights of the room and crossed their path with your figure standing in the doorway. There was the hint of a tentative smile that was stopped halfway when Wanda looked at you.
“Oh, hello dear, are you–” you looked at her when she did too, “Y/n?”
And something intrinsic to the red core of her soul just unraveled the complex puzzle expressed in the muscles of your face (call it maternal instinct or just taking the time to really pay attention to you), as she promptly discarded the glass of half-drunk wine onto the coffee table in front of the sofa and then leap to her feet, only to cross the living room towards you, like an angel coming to your rescue when all the world around you seems to be in pieces, crumbling and falling. Wanda always noticed you. Wanda was always there for you when no one else in the world was.
“Y/n,” her low voice called out to you, so imbued with warmth and affection, the only person to ever say your name in such a cordial and specious way that it just made you want to hear that word slip past her pearly lips again and again.
“Y/n, honey, is everything okay?” green eyes peered into you before twitching her dark brows, such a sweet expression on such a handsome face, such prominent cheekbones.
“Did you go out for a smoke? It's been a while since you left. And you didn't even let me know before... you only act like that when you're upset, honey. Is everything okay?” a complacent hand of hers reached for your fingers, holding them in a warm, gentle touch, “You know you can talk to me about anything you have in mind, Y/n.”
“I know,” you pursed your lips into a contrite line, Wanda looking into your sleepy eyes and your smell of cigarette smoke, her left thumb stroking the skin on the back of your right hand, “I know, I– I'm just... sorry, I'm... I'm just tired. I'm tired as fuck… Mama.”
“Oh, my baby,” Wanda whimpered, “It's okay, it's okay... my poor baby, Mama is here. Mama is here for you. Come here, honey.”
And then Wanda pulled you into a hug. A long hug, protecting your stepmother's body, her arms encircled around your shoulders, crimson-dyed nails caressing in soft touches the nape of your neck. Your right cheek rested against her left collarbone that poked beneath the thin white wool sweater Wanda wore across her torso. She was warm and comfortable, as only a mother could be – she smelled like a mother.
“It's fine, baby, it's fine, your dad and the boys are out. It's alright, Mama will take care of you my sweet, beautiful girl. Come on, let's go to bed. You need to relieve your stress, honey. Let Mama take care of you.”
And you were feeling her, her figure lifted against your cold body again as it always should be, roaming your nose through the warm strands of orange in a shade of red hair half auburn, the tousled strands exuding an exotic and distinctive dry shampoo scent on an invisible background of freshly applied hair dye. You in your stepmother’s arms, with a hint of cigarettes and the purest melancholy you were sinking into.
She held you as she had that first time, even a few years before that, when you staggered drunkenly down the driveway right after your high school prom night – the inside of your mouth tasted stale, wrinkled, the insides of your cheeks numb, a rudimentary bitter taste flooding the length of your pink tongue, oozing through your teeth the heat of the sly alcohol that chained you in a catatonic state of chronic sickness, numbing down your feelings.
And Wanda, like a good, worried mother never being able to bring herself to fall asleep next to her husband who was snoring in their bed upstairs, not letting her spirits cool down knowing that her eldest child was out and the clock was already past three o'clock in the morning at that point, was there waiting for you. As she had already done so much and so much more she would have to do, Wanda looked at you from the sofa when you opened the door, dragging your heels in soft steps into the house.
“Where were you?” was the first thing the low tone of voice across the room did reach your drunken ears, a pair of verdant irises burning holes in your forehead, “The deal was until midnight at the latest, Y/n. It's almost four o'clock in the morning! I was worried sick about you!”
The world around you was like being on the deck of a fishing vessel in a storm on the high seas, confused and treacherous, ready to engulf you in an eternal sullen, salty darkness. From beneath heavy lids, you glared at Wanda with brazen scorn leaking from your irises.
“Fuck you.”
“…What did you just said to me?”
There was a second of silence. You had to place a sinuous hand on the wall near the left side of your body to force yourself to continue standing during the afterglow of dawn, since, drunk as a skunk, cheeks as red as two ripe apples, eyes lost – you didn't even had an idea what you were talking about.
“Fuck you,” you repeated under your breath, the words as bitter as the alcohol pooled in the corners of your mouth cavity, “You’re not my mom.”
And you couldn't even tell why you said it, words so disloyal and tormenting, raw and piercing, that the woman older than you just didn't need to hear that night – after all, Wanda was your mother in a way, the closest you've been to one since the woman who conceived, bore, and gave birth to you decided to pack her suitcases in the car and disappear one afternoon when your father was away.
But Wanda has always been there for you from the moment her figure became a constant presence in your life. Wanda was the woman who raised you, who gave you the first taste of a sweet maternal love, so discordant and confusing for your cognition worthy of an abused animal. Wanda was the first woman you loved because she was the only person who loved you back.
“I'm sorry,” you wailed in a limp lisp, becoming aware of the sharp pain in your stepmother's vexed brows, the disappointed hesitation in the wavering green of her gaze, “I'm sorry, Wanda, it wasn't my – it wasn't my… my intention–”
“It's okay,” her voice was low, carrying a grief-stricken weight, “You're drunk and I…I overreacted– I know it's not my job, I'm just your stepmo–”
“No,” you whimpered, shaking your head, your eyes filled with tears of confusion, “No, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I– I'm sorry–”
“Y/n, it’s okay–”
“No, Wanda–”
And so you crossed the room quickly on your shifted ankles, your lack of motor coordination even reminiscent of a hesitant child staggering still learning to walk – your balance was internal, vulnerable.
“Wanda...”
You cried out for her, stepping across that plush rug to under the coffee table. Your arms raised, probed by the maternal touch that you were denied so early on, everything that you were deprived of and that you only sought to drink from Wanda until the last drop. She looked at you with affection, such an unfamiliar affection, her face too close. But your drunken brain couldn't even prepare you for the soft feel of the commission of your stepmom's peach lips, still tasting faintly of minty mouthwash, against your rough mouth that tasted like cheap beer and rancid blues.
You had kissed Wanda, because your body needed to have her close on an intrinsic level, to her core, as if you wanted to hide from the world within the amenities of her womb. And she kissed you back because she loved you, she always had, absorbing you with strong arms into her motherly warmth, giving you a security that alone you could never reach.
“M-Mama...” your lips connected again, in the living room of that house where only one family lived. And you laid her back on the sofa cushions where your brothers, her children, birthed by her, spend most of their day playing video games.
“Shh, it's okay, it's okay, baby,” Wanda whispered in a love sigh, one hand stroking the alcohol-warm skin of your cheek, you on top of her on those pillows, your heart pounding in your chest, the pride of a mother looking at you through green eyes.
“Mama is here for you, my little girl.”
Wanda pulled you down for another kiss, your knee vaguely brushing the hollow of her inner thighs, skimming against the thin pajama bottoms she was wearing. You apologized softly, stroking her where you could, where your touch reached, on her tummy rolls and in every graceful stretch mark that appeared in your stepmother's bulky silhouette on top of that sofa, with the family portraits hanging on the wall next to the stairs bearing witness to what you had to do. Calling her, reaching for her, for Wanda, for Mama, one being synonymous with the other.
What you did all summer of that year when your dad was away and your brothers were at some other friend's house, on the living room couch biting a pillow and at the kitchen table with her red nails dug into the crown of your head, on your bed of freshly laundered sheets and hers too, crammed with feminine perfume and the sweet red scent of her pomegranate moisturizer – Wanda on top, you on the bottom, she all on all fours, you behind her clamoring with your hips for what was yours, with an adulterine urge to be physically inside her innards at all times.
Even back home from the first semester of college that you already knew you would not finish, during the night when Wanda snuck out of her bedroom shared with Jarvis only to ride your thigh like an animal in heat, because she had missed you so much that her body ached.
“My little girl,” she said, “Mama has missed you so, so much, I can't bear the thought of being away from you, Y/n, please don't leave me again,” and the feeling was as mutual as it could be, because you also couldn't stand spending so much time away from an affection like no other ever felt by your empty and abandoned chest. You would always seek the motherly comfort Wanda had to offer to ward off your ills and soothe your spirits.
Even returning home after the failure of a dead academic life, your stepmother would always welcome you with open arms and legs – the sharpened ridge of red-painted fingernails digging into the thin skin above your shoulder blades, crescent-shaped marks piercing your flesh, marking you as hers, the headboard bumping in impassive rhythm against the wall, you rutting into Wanda's cunt with a silicone toy she had bought solely for your amusement.
“Mama,” you spit against the gleaming sweat from Wanda's throat, your hips bumping in wet slaps that echoed off the four walls of the room, your skin sliding against each other, “Mama, I love you, I love you, Mama...”
“Mama loves you too, baby,” Wanda moaned in a broken voice, “Mama loves you too. Mama loves absolutely everything about you, my little girl.”
You thrust that fake dick down her hole with a yelp of lustful satisfaction, a deafening delight, giving your stepmother's womb a rushing sense of pleasure. It was the height of belonging – being inside her, being embraced by her walls, feeling her loosen up internally to receive you all. It didn't matter that her wedding ring, placed on that finger by your father, felt so cold behind your back.
“Mama, Mama I– I’m gonna–” you growled, your brow furrowed, your hips crashing into hers in waves, your breaths ragged and shabby, your thrusts hard and sloppy, “I'm gonna come, Mama, p-please, please, Mama, Mama– M-Mommy! Mommy, I'm gonna come in you!”
“Do it baby, do it,” she smiled, so sweet and complacent beneath you, “Let Mama see your pretty face while you come, sweetheart. Come in Mama, give me all of you.”
Your clit was sliding frantically against the harness that circled your hips, and smelling her, feeling her heat, hearing her moans, was like an explosion inside your belly. You came – hot, strong, a red electric current inside your veins, running down between your thighs.
“Mama!” a squeaky little scream broke out of you, and from that open crack in your soul, the tears flowed down your face. Hot tears that dripped all over Wanda's sternum, mixing with the beads of sweat that exuded from her pores.
“Shh, honey, it's okay, it's okay,” a hand cupping your head brought you to snuggle against her chest, Wanda's heartbeat could be heard from the position you were in, your ear pressed to her skin.
“You did a great job, baby. You've let all your stress out. Mama is so proud of you, honey,” Wanda hummed, fingertips bent stroking your hair humid with warm sweat, “Do you want Mama's milk now, my sweet girl?”
You looked up from under your lids glistening from a silent cry, into her inviting eyes, “Can I…?”
Wanda smiled, “You know you don't have to ask me, sweetheart.”
You blinked once between lashes heavy with lust and tears before looking down at your stepmother's rosy nipple, which you brought to your mouth to close your lips on the circumvallation of it, earning a satisfied groan from Wanda.
With the twins approaching ten years old, there was no longer a single drop of sweet milk to be actually sipped, but something in the comfort imbued in that very intimate action, facing two naked bodies fresh out of the animalistic mist of such a carnal act, was enough for you to do it again and again, whenever you could, whenever she let you.
“That's right baby, that's right,” Wanda's melodious voice crooned, her fingers stroking a lock of hair close to the tip of your ear.
“Mama loves you, did you know that? Mama loves you so much, Y/n. No matter what others say about you, Mama is very proud of you, baby. You are my special girl.”
It was the movement that reconnected the two of you, bringing together two fragments of a shattered whole that, when put together again, made up a complete whole within Wanda. Consuming the human instinctual act, you both merged with a momentary perfection, a holdover of lustful nature during countless lapses of comfortable affability. A new hot tear trickled from the corner of your eye.
“Mama loves you,” Wanda repeated, one hand stroking the length of your back, “Mama loves you very much, my perfect girl.”
#wanda x you#wanda maximoff#wanda maximoff x reader#wanda maximoff x y/n#wanda maximoff x you#wanda reader#wanda x y/n#wanda maximoff imagine#scarlet witch x you#scarlet witch x reader#scarlet witch#scarlet witch x y/n#elizabeth olsen#elizabeth olsen x reader#elizabeth olsen x you#elizabeth olsen x female reader#marvel#mcu#marvel cinematic universe#fanfic
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
mental manipulation wanda!y/n x f.hargreeves hcs
spoilerrssss tua s3, important notice 📢
alas...
the umbrella academy was now replaced by some bunch of "low-keys". it's what you called for them.
learning their abilities one by one. with all honesty, they're no better than the original group but what stands out most is their combat skills.
ben is being ben. nothing really change with him except his bratty attitude.
while marcus are in the middle of shooing you all, jayme use her powers on diego. spitting a venom that causes the victim to have hallucinations.
you decided to entertain yourself, mind walking on diego's mind.
dear... it was a mess. you never expected diego, thinking of having a dance battle against the sparrows.
concerning but it's entertaining.
you see jayme dancing with five with a ridiculous position.
teasing five later by flicking him off the ground as your illusion self using telekinesis on him to help him up, grabbing his hand and twirl him around.
you stopped as your left arm put behind his back under his arm with the free arm is held up high while your bodies leans down. "now you'll be dancing with me."
then you guys continued with swing dance style.
it's nice to see diego taking their relationship seriously. it take them a while to accept the fact that you and five are married.
you put it a stop, getting rid the effects off. the illusion takes too long for your liking. jayme was aware of this.
you showed potential on diego's dreamland plus you purified the illusion with ease. your powers are too good to be true.
but she made a mistake. instead of being alert with you, she ignore those red flags.
she spat a venom on five, giving him illusion of your pretty form approaching him. you suddenly appeared behind her and give her much worse, manipulating her consciousness.
what makes you a psychopath is you have fun controlling people's minds, much to jayme's dismay.
in her point of view, you're everywhere. your whispers are all over the place that she didn't even noticed she's on the edge of the stairs.
you kicked her off, causing her to roll down off the stairs. no one should underestimate the power of mental manipulation.
as usual, five is still making out on air. you know who is on the illusion of his. your face morphed to a tomato, swiftly dismissing the effects out of him.
five realizing he's hallucinating, he quickly regain his posture. "five come on. we have to get going."
the moment he saw your red ears, he knew he messed up.
reblogs and comments are highly appreciated!! -pamcake
edited
#five x reader#five hargreaves x reader#the umbrella academy x reader#umbrella academy x reader#tua x reader#wanda reader#wanda yn#headcannon#hcs#pamcake's writings 🥞
510 notes
·
View notes
Text
Go to therapy or read another fan fiction of your favorite fictional character?
#read another fan fiction#bucky barnes x reader#matt murdock x reader#tony stark x reader#loki x reader#steve rogers x reader#natasha romanoff x reader#wanda maximoff x reader#thor x reader#Peter Parker x reader#anakin skywalker x reader#kylo x reader#spencer reid x reader#emily prentiss x reader#aaron hotch x reader#daemon targeryen x reader#steve harrington x reader#eddie munson x reader#billy Hargrove x reader#jonathan byers x reader#nancy wheeler x reader#robin buckley x reader#jj maybank x reader#rafe cameron x reader#anthony bridgerton x reader#finnick odair x reader#peeta mellark x reader#coriolanus snow x reader#ethan landry x reader#why did you scroll all the way down here???
3K notes
·
View notes
Text
as it was | w. maximoff
summary: your relationship with Wanda is not the same as it was.
warnings: mentions of smut, mentions of smoking, mentions of underage drinking, canon typical violence, angst.
pairing: Wanda x fem!reader
word count: 9k
A/N: so, english is not my native language and maybe this sucks, but hey, i tried. if you try to ignore some silly mistakes and move on, it will be better for everyone jfksjssk
also, reader is pretty much some kind of Jessica Jones if she ever worked with the Avengers.
enjoy!
|series masterlist|
|part two||part three||part four||part five| |part six|
《《《《《《《ᱬ》》》》》》》
You wake up with a sensation of a slight quivering near your left elbow.
There is light penetrating the room through the window glass half-hidden behind the fabric of the thick grey curtains; a trickle of sunlight burns the apple of your left cheek, and your skin itches a little.
The vibration continues, trembling through your skin, into your bones.
You can feel it hammering through the jacket you didn't bother to take off last night (it smells like low-priced whiskey and a tacit resentment), when you came home without even being able to stand on your feet and didn't even take your shoes off before bed – the world around you whirling in a drunken spiral that terminated on the white pillowcase, a dense mist of cigarette smoke accompanying you inside the walls of the small, uncheerful apartment painted in a depressing shade of dark green.
You feel a tightening knot in the pit of your heavy stomach, but the vomit never comes, and you sit with your feet flat against the bedroom floor, your elbows propped on your knees, your heavy head dangling between your thighs as if an invisible weight is pulling you down.
The already faded sizeable scar closed just below your left ribs tingled a little.
Heavy-eyed, you rub your right palm against the length of your sleepy face, your eyelids lazy and your eyeballs stinging like there’s an unquenchable blaze burning behind your retinas. Your mouth is dehydrated. Terribly dehydrated. The trembling keeps spreading through your cheap bed sheet like a puddle of water spreading across the floor.
With uncertain fingers, you encapsulate your cellphone tucked inside the pillowcase, opening your mouth in a very drunken yawn as you do. But what you see, the so unforgettable name gleaming in white letters across the cracked glass screen, stuns you and you frown in response, a sudden confusion displayed in your crooked brows.
Your hangover suddenly seems to get worse.
She's looking for you.
And she's never looking for you.
At least not anymore.
Wanda.
Your mouth is still dehydrated, but you can't blame alcohol for that anymore.
ᗢ
You were never quite sure where your powers came from.
You haven't been bitten by some radioactive animal. You haven't been hit by gamma rays, you haven't studied mystical or supernatural magic, and you certainly weren't an alien from a distant, extinct planet, sent to Earth as a child on a spaceship that landed in Kansas.
Your late parents were as human as they could be.
For the first ten years of your life, which you spent in their company (this was before the accident), your mother and father were a straight, cisgender, middle-class couple like any other straight, cisgender, middle-class couple that lived in a comfortable house in the suburbs.
Maybe a little more reserved, without so much contact with the neighbors, but that was never a real problem.
Your family had a minivan, a dog (Sparky) and on Saturdays you ordered pizza from your favorite pizzeria and watched family friendly movies (your favorite one used to be Jurassic Park). Your father lovingly kept one arm around your mother's waist and the other around your little shoulders, welcoming you both close to him - and to little you, with your mouth full of popcorn in front of the image of gigantic dinosaurs on television, it was comfortable, warm and cozy.
But then, there was the accident. Everything changed overnight, without you even knowing what was happening.
Late night on the road, returning from a small family trip to a national park in the neighboring state (your mother was off work and your father liked to appreciate nature). A white light in front of the car. The front of a car making its way through the dark of night, the bright headlights looking like the haunting eyes of an inhuman creature shining through the air. A scream from your mother piercing through your tympanums. A solid bang. Your forehead bumped against the glass.
And then the white dissipated into the obscurity.
A deep, deep darkness that swamped your lungs and drowned you in a state of unconsciousness. Numbness – your mind and your body separating into two fractions of a whole.
When you woke up in the hospital a week later, you were an orphan kid with nothing to lose.
There weren't even scratches along your healthy body, and not a single bone was broken; the doctors, impressed, considered you a miracle because you were so small and had been through so much without more than a few bruises that had already disappeared from your skin. But you didn't feel like a miracle.
Not at all.
Not after burying both your parents.
There were no close relatives in the country – your mother and father had been born far away and their respective families were out of reach. You barely knew them anyways. So, what you were left with was what the system provided you. But government support wasn't famous for actually helping those in need.
Your relatively short stay at Madame Dupont's School for Girls was what caused you a certain aversion to the sacred – certainly the recurring beatings, the nights without eating and the constant disappointment that haunted the melancholy walls of that dismal place fueled your anger, sparking the nonconforming fire that burned inside of you.
In the chapel, an image of a crying, anguish, crucified Jesus seemed to look at you with shame tinted in his holy (unholy?) porcelain eyes.
At just fourteen years old, your best idea was to run away from there and that's what you did.
The streets were difficult after that. Every day it was necessary to survive without knowing what tomorrow would be like.
There wasn't a bed or a shower for you on the streets, but you learned to fend for yourself and take care of yourself as best you could – you were raised in New York alleys, pickpockets and stolen food scraps, sometimes depending on the charity of some generous stranger so as not to starve to death.
The cold nights were spent in hostels, subways or shelters for the homeless, but not long enough for them to realize that you were still more of a child than an adult properly speaking. During hot nights, the sleeping place was fire escapes and dark alleys.
Uncomfortable.
The world was not prepared for an alien invasion. At the height of fifteen years of age, you certainly weren't either. The Chitauri attack was, in fact, a watershed for what would become of you after that remarkable day.
There were screams, the loud ones. People running, people falling and people crying. People bleeding. Explosions. Glass and concrete falling on sidewalks and streets. And you were running. You were running as fast as you could through the streets of Manhattan, as far as your legs would allow until your muscles ached and your lungs burned as if they were going to burst out of your chest.
A runaway truck turned the corner and was speeding toward you, cutting through the wind and scarring the asphalt.
There was no way around it. The truck was coming, and it was fast and just for a second you felt your stomach lurch inside your belly, your knees locked in fear, a chill running up the length of your spine and dissipating down the back of your neck.
"That's it," you thought at just fifteen years old, numbed by the lull of acceptance, your tongue throbbing inside your mouth. Your heart pounded, pumping hot blood through your veins, and then it suddenly froze. The air turned to ice inside your lungs.
"That's it. Shit. That's life. Life is an unfair bitch.”
The reflex of self-preservation made you raise your hands to protect yourself, closing your eyelids tight in the illusion that a crash like that would hurt less if you didn't see what would hit you, a certain bitterness of disappointment building in your stomach.
During a fucking alien invasion, you certainly didn't expect to die by being ran over by a car.
“Shit!”
You sensed an impact against your raised palms. It pushed you back a little, the soles of your shoes scuffed against the asphalt, but you weren't thrown away. You didn't fall or break several bones and rupture several tendons, you weren't left to die bleeding with your skull split in the middle of the street as you thought you would - with a dark puddle forming behind your head, your vision dimming as your gaze would become empty and lost, dead.
You dared to open a curious eye, testing, experimenting.
But the other one opened soon after. The world around you was strange.
The truck's bodywork was dented by your hands. The driver, unconscious, was slumped forward, forehead pressed violently against the steering wheel. His nose and eyebrow were leaking blood, but you were whole and intact, brand new. It didn't make sense. But the perception of what's normal and what's not can change a lot when there's an alien invasion happening all around you.
ᗢ
The Chitauri were defeated, of course.
The Avengers won, but the citizens had to deal with the damage.
It didn't take you long to find functionality for your newfound unusual abilities.
Once you were sure of your skills and limitations (you could jump as high as a medium-sized building, but jumping didn't mean flying, which you definitely couldn't do), it didn't take you long to realize that superpowers could mean easy money, if you only knew how to talk to the right people.
(In the New York underworld there was no shortage of right people to do wrong things)
So, life on the streets became a little more bearable when you found yourself wielding an inhuman strength.
But it didn't take long for you to get on the Avengers' radar. They were the pros, of course, and they'd be aware of you—the bounty hunter who could lift a car over her head with her bare hands. You knew that well.
They got in touch. You were sixteen and you forgot to celebrate your birthday that year.
Tony Stark's butler showed up in a fancy ass car at the door of your tiny Brownsville apartment one night, and soon you were comfortable heading towards Manhattan, inside the gigantic Avengers Tower (a kind of New York Eiffel Tower, perhaps a stronger sight than the Statue of Liberty itself, which at the time still did not carry Captain America's shield on its massive right arm).
No one in the superhero group could very well hide the expressions of astonishment that came over their faces when they discovered that you were still just a child. A superpowered child, sure, but still a child. Doctor Bruce Banner said it out loud when no one else did.
"But she...she's just a child"
Between expensive food and non-alcoholic drinks, they (Tony) offered you a spot on the team and you accepted because you didn't have the money to pay the rent anymore and going back to the streets didn't seem like a good option.
Sleeping on the floor sucked. A roof over your head was comfortable.
There hasn't been a dramatic story about you joining the group as everyone else's. Papers were signed, you got a black and white tactical suit, and a very boring teacher (a tall, white, blonde man with a big nose) was responsible for teaching you in the compound and catching up on all the content you missed from school during your teenage years on the streets.
Natasha Romanoff, the infamously ruthless assassin that went by the codename Black Widow, has become something of a big sister figure – she knew well how to fill those shoes because she did indeed have a younger sister, she once told you. Yelena. Yelena Belova was her younger sister who was older than you.
You acted like you didn't think Natasha was hot before you met her.
She took you under her wing shortly after; the redheaded woman was the person responsible for making sure you were up to date with your homework and who was taking you to the mall and the movies on your days off. Who would buy you a hamburger and a milkshake when you were feeling sad.
Steve Rogers, the unmatched Captain America, was a grandfather you never had – even if, physically, the war veteran looked to be your father's age at the time he passed away. He was your shoulder friend and adviser (a little too conservative for your taste, but when you said you liked girls, he just offered you a nod and a tiny smile, which seemed to be enough).
And Thor Odinson, the god of fucking thunder, became your training partner. He wanted to teach you how to hit harder and you had beer with him several times when you were out of Natasha's or Steve's sight.
“You, my young human friend” he told you one day, with his muscular hand wrapped around your right shoulder, a tall mug filled with a deep yellow beer playfully raised in his other hand “is able to drink more beer than all the Einherjar soldiers put together! You are worthy!”
ᗢ
It happened then, the Ultron incident.
The artificial intelligence created by Banner and Stark that became aware and, after five minutes of logging on to the internet, decided that the best thing for Earth would be to wipe out the human race once and for all.
But that's how you met her.
Wanda.
The girl with black-painted fingernails and a deep shade of red streaming from her eyes bursting with hatred – even if in the background of her irises was a dim shadow of dread, swallowed by the scarlet scintillation of her magic in her tempting eyes, burgundy drowning her irises in a deep dark pool of the crimson color. Her gaze was green and red and just so miserable and so hateful for such a young girl.
Anger sparked vividly in her eyeballs like she was something beyond human.
She looked like she could chew you up and spit you out and you actually kind of wanted her to.
You wished that she would hate you, so that she could be keen on you with intensity. That she would feel so much hate that she would never forget about you again, because you thought you would never see her again in your life and you wanted her to memorize you somehow.
She was an orphaned Sokovian, like you, who had nothing to lose but her twin brother (she lost him shortly afterward, in that same incident) and her strength of will to change the world. Wanda Maximoff, the successful result of a vicious experiment by HYDRA involving despairing volunteers and the Mind Stone in the heart of a starving country.
A young enchantress without even the slightest idea how the propellant, unpredictable magic that screamed and exploded inside her came to be, consumed by her pulsing desire for revenge against all those who had taken everything from her.
She and her brother (Pietro) wanted Tony's head. You wanted her not to be on the enemy's side.
She was a frightened little girl, who didn't even understand how those powers that she failed to control in the first place worked.
Ruby-red emanated from her pores in an untouchable haze that enveloped her in a furious glow; like a beast, a hunter after her prey.
You've seen her fighting up close in Novi Grad, the Sokovian capital – fortitude in her well-sculpted dark brows, bursts of scarlet shadows trickling down her fingertips as she fired orbs of magical energy towards Ultron's robotic minions, taking them down one by one.
She hit four, then five, six, seven, eleven, fifteen.
The dusky hair contrasting against the profound red of the ragged jacket that embraced her torso covered by a second-hand dark dress – the long brown hair that you wanted to trace and caress with your fingertips, appreciate the softness of it, was smeared with dust and blood and she looked beautiful that way.
Like a thunderstorm, a goddamn force of nature.
Staring at her, your gaze locked on her fascinating figure, who swung her arms around herself with an apprehensive dexterity, you barely noticed when a stumbling robot came dashing towards you (not when your attention was all on that girl wrapped in red and black), and startled when it’s silver body shattered right in front of you, dismembered in his four limbs by a thin layer of red aura that dissipated into the air along with its wires and screws, rupturing it into five different metallic pieces.
You blinked once, then twice.
Then you noticed that she was scrutinizing in your way.
Moss-green eyes blazing red as hellfire, her hand elevated and her elegant fingers (their thin expanse adorned by a group of silver rings, chipped nails painted in dark nail polish) twisted in your direction, bending red air with her knuckles around her creamy skin – dark eyeliner accentuating her sharp gaze, heavy lashes pointed straight to the gap of skin between your eyebrows.
The red in her eyes matched the blistering red across her cheeks.
“Th- thank you” you tried and were surprised when the words left your mouth, because you weren't used to thanking anyone, let alone stuttering while doing so.
But you were greeted by a thoughtful stillness from the other girl. She was silent and somber, panting a little, her chest rising and falling deeply, her nice-looking face half smudged with soot. The gaze was still intense in your direction, as if she could analyze and understand right through your flesh, dismembering your soul, studying you from the inside out.
You recall that she messed with your teammates' heads back in Africa, and thought she might have been reading your mind at that moment. If she were, you swallowed quietly, she would know that at that moment, you thought she was simply the most beautiful girl who ever lived on the face of the Earth.
“You are welcome” Her eastern European accent was thick and strolled deliciously between the words, emphasizing the “rr” sounds breathed in her speech “Are you…are you okay?”
You breathed hard and hesitated for a second.
"I-"
"Wanda!"
Before you could respond, her brother, Pietro, sped towards her and whisked her away in a blur of blue and red, leaving behind only dust and you, somewhat dumbfounded in your black and white tactical suit.
(next time you heard about him, he was lying with his deceased face pushed on the dull ground, merely a lifeless body, his unmoving chest pierced by a handful of gun projectiles, leaking from the holes a deep shade of crimson blood)
When Novi Grad was plummeting down from the sky and the Avengers were warned to leave the city in free fall, with Tony and Thor working hard together to smooth the damage back to the ground, you searched for Wanda's face in the crowd thronging the S.H.I.E.L.D. rescue aircraft hangars. Your tormented gaze searched frenetically for her, for some trace of her greenish stare gazing back at you – your heart tucked inside your chest when there wasn’t no green to be found in the crowd.
She wasn't there.
You had no idea what you were doing, and you were fucking terrified as your legs trooped back to the abandoned city, ravaged with the signs of war, to look for the girl you had met only seventy-two hours earlier, between Africa and Korea, and who in at least twenty-four of those seventy-two hours had tried to kill you and your colleagues. You didn't listen when Clint Barton, Hawkeye, called out your name and commanded you back to the safety of the airship. He had rescued Pietro's azoic body, taking the dead boy in blue onto the plane.
You needed to find her.
She was found inside a train car, sorrowful. In addition to the glistening sweat on her pale face and the small trickle of blood splitting into a bundle of skin just above her left eyebrow, a waterfall of thick tears streamed freely down her cheekbones, leaving behind a dark trail of black, blurred makeup. You thought she looked beautiful when she cried, but you stopped at the last second, twisting your tongue inside your mouth.
You knew those tears were reserved for her late twin brother – she could sense in her guts that he was gone forever. Seeing her cry made your heart split into pieces; you wanted to kiss those dark tears away and hold her trembling body in your arms, promising you would be there for her from now on. You wanted to be her support while she grieved, to be the one that she needed.
But Clint's yell into the communicator plugged inside of your ear drew you back to reality; the city was falling and if you didn't get out soon, you would be buried next to the ruins of Novi Grad (perhaps a sapphic and a little more tragic version of Romeo and Juliet).
Passing your arms inside her knees, you didn't hesitate to take her with you.
Just as she didn't hesitate to hug your neck and tuck her head into your chest, her chin quivering to hold back the sobs that made her chest bones ache. The physical touch was like a wave of energy that flowed through your body and hers as well. You saw red and she saw white. You both quivered.
Then she eyed you – eyes glistening with fresh tears, no longer dark, as pale as the leaves on spring trees. Your chest filled with air and deflated quickly. Your mouth went dry. Wanda's fingertips touched the warm, sweaty skin at the base of your neck, the cold metal of her collection of rings sending another wave of shivers down the length of your spine.
You offered her a slight smile before jumping back onto the S.H.I.E.L.D. aircraft. The hem of her short black dress fluttered against your right forearm shielded by the rubber material of your suit.
After returning to the land, sitting in that large, depressing crowd of hundreds of vulnerable Sokovian citizens with helplessness washed over their impotent eyes, your fingers were entwined the entire time, her thumb barely absently stroking the back of your gloved hand, her thumb ring swirling softly against your covered skin.
“Thank you” she said after a while, not looking you straight in the eye (because she was crying, you knew and she knew that you knew), sounding small and breakable like a child.
"You're welcome" you retorted in the same voice as Wanda, giving the contour of her hand a friendly squeeze that lasted longer than necessary.
ᗢ
When Wanda returned with you and your weary colleagues to New York, her new room in the compound was behind the door next to yours, just to the right of your own room. Your left cheekbone was bruised.
She breathed a silent sigh of relief when she realized she wouldn't be staying away from you. She kind of liked to keep you around.
So, you spent a lot of time together, enjoying each other's company as time went by. Although at first she was the quiet, a little more reserved type, you knew it was because Pietro was dead and she was alone in a new country, where everything was nothing short of alien to her.
And you understood. More than all of them, you understood.
You were also a street girl who parachuted into a billionaire's house, after all.
In the early days the nightmares were endless, and Wanda was always looking for you to dismiss them away. Nobody else but you. She has always looked exclusively for you.
She would enter your room and, without saying anything, lie down next to you on the bed, you feeling the movement next to you in the dead of night, when stillness was the third person in your room and your sheets twisted a little so they could accommodate one more fragile body in the large, double bed. She would sleep without saying a word, and was already gone by the time you woke up in the next morning.
You never talked about it. Even after the weeks and the months. She would come and go, and you never really tried to talk about it with her. It was fine – her presence was soothing.
You didn’t talk, at least, until the day she embraced you from behind and, in a low, cautious voice, thanked you against your head – her cozy breath warming the skin on the side of your earlobe. You squeezed your lethargic hand in her smooth forearm, wordlessly feeling her heat just to show that everything was okay, and she eased herself against your relaxed body – braless breasts only covered by a slim layer of a t-shirt pressing against the muscles of your back.
Your similar age helped, too.
It didn't take you long to realize that Wanda was also seventeen years old and only three months younger than you. So she became your classmate when the two of you were taught by Vision, the red, green, and yellow synthezoid born of Jarvis' mind and Ultron's wishes, and she became your companion during the spare time between the classes with the robot and Natasha's arduous trainings, when you just wanted to watch a movie, listen to some music or just have a coffee in that cozy little coffeeshop around the corner.
Natasha gave you an indicative look when you said you were having coffee with Wanda for the third time that week.
You flushed slightly, rubbing the back of your neck with a weak smile ghosting the pulp of your lips.
But the brunette, on the other hand, made you smile widely, just as you had the same effect on her (making her scrunch her nose in a very cute way, like a little rabbit, and get a flushed color on her cheeks).
You have confided in each other inner desires, yearnings and dreams that you never dared to tell anyone else.
Wanda was fond of hibiscus tea, Sokovian poetry, old American sitcoms, alternative pop and grunge rock. You liked black coffee, classic literature, thrillers, punk rock and heavy metal.
She told you between small sips of tea, on a particularly chilly night, about the days at the orphanage after the bombing that took the lives of her parents back in Sokovia – there was a boy with a skin condition who kept trying to steal Pietro's boots and she was thirteen by the time of her first kiss ever (it was a tall, blonde girl).
You told her about catholic school after the death of your parents and the time that a silly little prank costed you a whole week without dinner.
She told you about the protests against the US presence in her country, of her political engagement back in the day that led her to give her name to the voluntary HYDRA experiments, a way she and Pietro found in their naïve, foolish attempt to make a difference and change de the world for the better, both twins stimulated by their boiling passion.
You told her of the time you worked with a blind man dressed as a red devil to ambush some bad guys back in Hell's Kitchen and accidentally swallowed a bullet.
She laughed. You smiled.
Her parents were Jewish, and she considered herself part of the religion (even if she didn't practice it) as a means of keeping them close, keeping the flame of memory alive in her soul. You didn’t judge her about her life choices when it came to joining HYDRA, even after silently hearing about that, not batting an eye about her story – the pain screened all over her face already did that for you.
You watched Jurassic Park at least once a month, searching for the ghost of nostalgia in your father's arm around your shoulder. She smiled because that was one of Pietro’s favorite movies as a little boy.
She knew how to play guitar. You liked photography.
She gave you an old analogue camera as a (not so subtle) gift.
The first time you kissed her, it was right after you raised the camera in front of your face and took a picture of her playing the guitar (she played Nirvana, your favorite, which was also her favorite).
She was shy and you said she didn't have to worry because she was the most stunning thing you've ever photographed. Then you took both the sides of her face between your hands and cut the gap between your mouths, bringing your lips together against each other.
She never complained, opening her mouth broader so you could comfortably enter your tongue between her teeth and drink from her. Wanda tasted like hibiscus tea, cinnamon and red. The red that invaded your mouth, ran down your larynx and fell into your stomach. She put both of her hands on top of yours before taking them to the contour of your neck, to intensify the kiss.
After your first time a few weeks later, she whimpered with contentment in the midst of an orgasm, pouring her pleasure into your mouth, her fingers clinging to your hair until her knuckles turned white, calling to you in a half-moaned Sokovian dialect. Your fingers were the first thing that ever penetrated her. Shortly thereafter, your strap was second.
You made love to her in her bed and fucked her in your bed.
And on the sofa in the TV room, late one night when Natasha went to sleep (because she noticed that the palm of your hand was deeper and deeper into Wanda's miniskirt, who had a dubious expression on her face).
And on the cool kitchen counter, when the other Avengers were out, you wearing that red strap that was her favorite enfolded around your waist (it caressed her in several places on the inside and it was just the right thickness that she could take it without hurting herself, but that was definitely pleasurable and it just fit perfectly).
And in the bathroom of your favorite coffeeshop (because Wanda was jealous of the flirty bartender hitting on you and wanted to make sure you knew who you belonged to).
And in the elevator after a party roasted by Tony, when the two of you looked like you were going to burst on fire and didn't have time to get to bed (not with Wanda's hands squeezing your breasts and thighs through the thin material of your black dress, you lips slurping her pale neck as if you needed to drink from the pulsing red blood of her artery to survive, with your knee deliciously tucked between her legs, making continuous movements up and down against her dripping center).
Six months into your then-official relationship, and you could barely keep your hands off each other for very long.
"You could make less noise next time" Natasha commented one morning, holding a cup of hot coffee close to her face, when you and Wanda walked into the kitchen holding hands and sharing a couple of smiles on your swollen lips.
"I don't want to know who's doing what to whom at three o'clock in the morning, thank you"
You felt your face burn with mortification, and Wanda was no different. Steve scratched his throat because all the Avengers were there. A few days later, he decided to do an (very awkward, his cheeks red and his blue eyes looking towards the floor) intervention with the two of you to ask you to “keep your intimate relationship inside your rooms, girls, please.”
Sex ed class with Vision was a painful experience, but you learned your lesson – Wanda proceeded to moan more quietly with her face buried in the pillow as you fucked her from behind.
You spent your parents' death anniversary together at the beginning of the summer. Then the one of her parents' death in mid-autumn, and then the one of Pietro's death in late spring. You wish you had known him better, had given him a second chance in those seventy-two hours you knew him, in Africa and Korea.
When she confessed that she no longer remembered her father's birthday (Oleg, she said in a thick accent, her chest bursting of undeclared feelings), with the two of you hooked into each other's arms late at night in her bed, she cried with face buried in your neck and you caressed her back the whole time with your open palm. Malcom in the Middle played quietly on the television set in a corner of the room.
Later you had tea together in the kitchen, leaning your lower backs against the cold marble counter, and you admitted that you didn't remember your parents' birthdays either. She hugged you sideways, leaning her head on your shoulder (wearing your t-shirt emblazoned with a rock band logo on her body), but you didn't cry.
“I’m sorry” she whispered lightly; her face hidden in the skin gap where your neck met your clavicle “I love you”
You blinked once, and then looked at her, a warm feeling pulsing inside your chest.
“I love you too”
ᗢ
The incident in Lagos, Nigeria, occurred shortly after your one-year anniversary together.
You had just turned eighteen. She would do it next month. It would be her first birthday without Pietro, and that's why she was a little crestfallen – but you understood, you always understood. As Wanda's girlfriend, you did everything you could to make her happy (even if it meant just wiping her tears away after a long emotional crying session).
Natasha and Steve were training her while tracking the mercenary Crossbones, who in a desperate act threatened to self-explode, aiming to take Captain America and all the civilians gathered along the blast area with him.
Wanda was quick to react, summoning her scarlet magic with the act she'd trained for so long to be able to control, briefly containing the blast's heat in a wrapping of pulsing red mist – but she wasn't quick enough to change the trajectory of the bomb that was Crossbones in mid-air, and he slammed into the side of a building, detonating half of its structure in the process, glass plummeting from above onto the street.
When Wanda collapsed on her shaky knees, tears pooling in the waterline of her disturbed eyes and a hand pressed tightly to her mouth, smothering a painful sob into her throat muscles, you rushed to her rescue, hugging her to your chest as if you could hold her forever against yourself, wanting to protect her from all the evil in the world.
The explosion was still fresh in your mind, but it would certainly never leave her memory.
“It's going to be okay, love,” you whispered a shaky lie in her ear, stroking her brown hair in an automatic, helpless act, her body feeling cold and hard against yours, “It's going to be okay, my love, it's gonna be okay"
You knew it was definitely not going to be okay.
You just didn't know how wrong everything could go in such a short time.
Wanda has had no interest in leaving her room for the following month.
It was up to you to bring her food and water, which you did every day without complaint. You held her hair when waves of bitter nervousness washed over her and made her flush her dinner down the toilet, restlessly pressing her trembling fingers against the toilet seat. You held her when she cried into the night, and you fucked her when she wanted to sleep and forget but couldn't quite do it all by herself.
On her birthday, you gave her a red velvet cupcake, her favorite, topped with a thin pink candle (which she blew out after you instructed her to make a wish), and a bowl filled with a pathetic excuse for what would be spicy paprikash sauce that you tried (and failed) to cook after finding a recipe on the internet.
You've never been a very good cook and she knew it.
But she laughed, albeit weakly, and placed a hot kiss on the pulp of your lips, wordlessly thanking you for trying for her. You hadn't heard her laugh in a few weeks, and it sounded like a warm hug in your ears.
“I thought this might lift your spirits,” you informed, offering her a small smile from the corner of your mouth.
“Spirit lifted,” she confirmed, with a shake of her head, “Thank you, detka.”
“Nah, no need to thank me. Just make a wish, any wish”
By the look on the downcast face of your girlfriend, so beautiful even behind the shadow of sadness that trailed her like a ghost, never releasing her from its dark prison, you knew what her idealized request had been, even if she didn't have the verbalized altogether as she blew out the candle flame, twisting her kissable lips and blowing a blast of oxygen between them.
You could sense it in your bones, and it tightened your stomach and tightened your throat from the inside out.
She wants all this, this sadness, to end.
ᗢ
You wanted to throw up when Tony threw a wad of papers that slid onto the glass table in the compound's meeting room a few days later, falling with a heavy thud, you reading on its cover in thick capital letters the words “SOKOVIA ACCORDS”. That was it, it was happening. The breath caught in your throat. It was like the star of hunting season, but you were the distressing preys running for your lives.
The government was looking to tame beings with special capabilities, to turn them into impassive soldiers defending their mediocre and hypocritical agenda – “Wanda”, you thought, “they want to tame Wanda”.
The haggard girl sat beside you, one hand braced by you right knee, a chipped black nail scraping nervously against a loose line of the hole opened in your dark jeans.
“You're saying they'll come for me,” she said with a baffled look, her voice flat and empty. Dangerously empty.
The certainty that dripped from her voice made your heart drop and crack into hundreds of different pieces.
You squeezed her hand placed over your knee, feeling her rings cold against your palm. The feel of your hand against hers has always been the same. She looked at you, the green in her eyes dulled by ambiguity and dread.
“We will protect you” you promised your girlfriend, maintaining eye contact with her, in a tone of voice in which only she understood the seriousness addressed by you.
“I will protect you”
It was with that promise sealed that you chose a side in the battle yet to come; on Wanda's side, you've always been on Wanda's side.
Even when Tony treated her like an enemy (a villain), and consequently did the same to the rest of the Avengers (you included) who opposed him. Even when Natasha joined him, shattering your heart again in the process – but then, she betrayed him later (good for her).
Even when the Avengers fell apart in an internal conflict that resulted in a clash at the Leipzig-Hale airport in Germany (you had no idea who was the boy dressed in red and blue that Tony had summoned into the combat, but he was getting on your nerves, and you boxed him right in the guts).
You didn't want to hurt your friends on either side at all, but the punch you landed against Vision's metallic jaw was a little purposefully hard.
And even when you and Wanda were restrained by special government agents, forced into straitjackets and crammed into dark cells, creeping on the floor like suffering animals waiting for their slaughter, guarded twenty-four-by-seven by a battalion of security cameras and heavily armed soldiers, caged and forgotten with the rest of your team in a vertiginous prison in the middle of the ocean, you were by her side.
At least your cells in that hell hole faced each other. Looking at your girlfriend a few meters away from you through the protective glass (she looked small, frightened, downcast and miserable all at once), you promised her in an intense gaze that you'd get her out of this – you hated to see her trapped and restrained like a caged beast, as if she was a dangerous creature, a monster, and not simply the sweetest girl you've ever had the pleasure of meeting in your life. They never knew her the way you did.
But Steve and Natasha infiltrated the Raft, and your release was a success after that.
Under a biting rain, snuck into a tiny helicopter piloted by Black Widow, you fled before security even had a chance to stop you (all while Wanda's fingers where faithfully hooked on yours; her smart, concerned gaze watching over your welfare all the time).
It was just when you became official global-scale fugitives (it was all over the news and the internet, all around the globe), with Wanda patiently dyeing her then-brown hair into a coppery shade of soft red, the two of you sneaking into a tiny bathroom in the apartment you were using as a hiding place in the cold heart of Scotland, that you, at nearly nineteen years of age, decided it was time to do the right thing.
You wanted her, and you wanted her forever.
Anxiety gnawed at your guts, compressing your throbbing stomach to the size of a peanut, but you never had any doubts. Not about her.
Not when you knew within yourself that you loved her, loved her so much and never wanted to let go of her.
She was sitting in front of the tiny dirty glass in the narrow mirror, finishing brushing a long strand of bleached hair with her brush packed with hair dye, casually humming some tune by an alternative rock band, when you knelt before her, staring into the irises of green-moss color, gently touching your fingertips to her charming chin in a way that showed you wanted to get her attention.
"Wanda" you sighed, feeling yourself levitate in your cotton socks. She offered a confused smile in your direction.
“Yes, malyshka?” Her tone was understanding, yet curious. With her eyes, she encouraged you to speak when she saw that you hesitated there for half a second.
But you wiped the sweat that pooled in your palms on the fabric of your sweatpants, your breathing ragged, your racing heart almost exploding in your ears.
“Marry me?”
It was she who had chosen the rings.
The ceremony was small-scale (half a dozen of former Avengers gathered inside a cozy old wooden chapel), not long after you asked for her hand in marriage, and she smothered you with kisses as she promptly accepted the proposal. It was as intimate as possible it could be, at least.
You were twenty years old and a fugitive, and you were marrying your first and only girlfriend – but Wanda, at that moment with ginger hair (the color that looked so good on her, like a cascade of fire circling her face, highlighting the deep green that graced her irises), walking towards you in a discreet white dress and a smile that glowed in love, bathed in the golden hour at the height of sunset, was all you needed in life.
You needed her more than oxygen in your lungs to survive – you proved that theory when you first made love as a married couple, two wives calling each other's names until the first ray of sunlight the next day.
Sleeping in your wife's arms was different than sleeping in your girlfriend's arms.
It was better.
ᗢ
The twins came shortly after, like the acts of a sadistic play that unfolded right before your eyes, with you and Wanda as the main stars of that very strange show (her belly swelling for nine months, getting bigger and bigger, looking like it was about to burst like a balloon).
She was pregnant.
You, as young as you both were, were going to be parents.
And neither of you were sure exactly how it happened, to be honest.
Via a video call, Natasha had threatened to punch a very pregnant Wanda in the nose if she had slept with anyone other than you.
But you trusted your wife, and the result of your love left no doubt; little Tommy was just like you when you were a baby, and Billy had your mother's eyes (you had forgotten what they looked like, that’s true, but then your new-born son opened his eyes for the first time in your arms and looked at you deeply with that innocent look and you cried because you remembered your mother).
The process of making the two babies was, to say the least, as exotic as the whole situation could be.
You were in London, a chilly, very gray city, and you helped a crying child cross the street, holding her small hand as you guided her across the crosswalk towards her desperate mother.
You smiled softly at the little girl, and with the palm of your hand caressed the top of the little brown-haired head – up close, you really seemed like a mother figure to that girl who looked at you as if you were some kind of support for her at the moment.
If her mother recognized you as a fugitive Avenger, she didn’t said a word.
Wanda's heart fluttered at the scene, and she was filled with a love that overflowed and imagined what it would be like if that girl were yours. What she would be like if she were even smaller, just a baby, and if she looked like you, but also like her.
She wanted to know what it would be like if you put your ear to her swollen belly and whispered to the budding child inside her that you would do anything for them. She would stroke your hair while you stroke the warm skin of her tummy.
That night, when you made love in your bed, Wanda's eyes glowed in a profuse shade of red as she came apart, with her hands pressing your face against between her legs, your saliva dripping into her womb. The morning sickness came a few weeks after that day.
Things got a little more complicated – being a fugitive meant not establishing ties, not staying more than a month in just one place. But children require roots, a solid foundation. The uncertain road was no place for newborns. And neither you nor she wanted to imagine what would happen to your unborn child if you were arrested.
When Wanda's pregnancy became too much for her physique, continued fatigue and swollen ankles preventing her from traveling from place to place across Europe, you moved into a pleasant cottage nestled on the slopes of the remoter mountains that once belonged in Sokovian territory.
Several acres of apple plantations were like the walls that kept your little bubble of love inside its core, away from everything bad that could affect your growing family.
The days became delightfully lazy, lived calmly, unafraid after you settled down – for the first time in years, you no longer had to live always looking over your shoulder.
But when Wanda suddenly woke up in the middle of the night, in the middle of her twenty-sixth week of pregnancy, with thick tears running down the length of her face (her hands cold as ice, her heart pounding like a jackhammer), you held her gently to calm her down.
"T-they took… they took them"
It was a nightmare, she was familiar with them.
But this one was just so real, touching a wound only a mother could feel, and she cried and sobbed against the collar of your cotton shirt, just wishing that the tightness in her chest would disappear.
"T-they took them- they took them away from us, Y/N"
And she stroked her bulging belly as she sobbed, over and over, just to make sure your babies were still with her, under the sway of her maternal care, safe within the affability of her swollen womb.
ᗢ
“I was thinking about Tommy”
She had exclaimed some day before that nightmare, her back pressed against your chest, your fingertips gently massaging the round contour of your wife's exposed belly, her blouse lifted slightly below her breasts, her creamy skin emanating warmth and tenderness.
“Thomas. Nice, classic, all american way”
“Thomas, eh?” You hummed thoughtfully, testing the name on the tip of your tongue.
It sounded right, you guessed. But something was still missing, and you couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was.
“Thomas. Thomas, Thomas, Thomas… but what about William, though?”
“William?” she raised her eyebrow.
“Yeah, William. Like William Shakespeare. Or maybe just” you bit your lower lip in a thoughtful manner “Just… I don’t know, Will? Willy? Billy sounds nice to me.”
“Billy” Wanda repeated it curiously, to see how the name sounded in her tone “But what if she’s a girl?”
“I don’t know” you shrugged “Even though I would love if she was a little girl who looked just like you, my maternal instincts say it’s a boy, so I’ll stick with that”
“But what if, detka?” she leaned the back of her head against the bone of your chin, filling your nostrils with the pleasant scent of strawberry shampoo that emanated from her silky red hair.
You smiled, rubbing small circles into her baby bump.
God, you loved her smell.
“Well, I guess we'll have to be prepared for that, then” you placed a modest kiss in the back of her head “Do you have any name in mind, baby?”
“I like Talia.”
You thought about it for just a second.
“Tali- ah!”
“Oh!”
You opened your mouth to answer her, but the words never left your throat because there was a small bump, from the inside to the outside of your wife's belly, which touched the palm of your hand and made you stop suddenly with the caresses deposited in Wanda's stomach skin.
Turning her neck quickly, she turned her bright face towards yours, the tips of your noses almost colliding in midair. Wanda's lips carved an excited smile, eyes watered with a haze imbued with the most compassionate kind of love, which was soon mirrored by your own mouth.
The baby was kicking.
“Hey, hi” you grinned, feeling the energic child kicking against your palms “Hi there, little one. Oh, you’re so strong! You’re so strong, Billy!”
“Tommy” she corrected your speech, causing your nose to twitch in disagreement.
“Eh, I guess”
“Hi, my baby” Wanda put her hands up against yours, both of you holding her belly like it was some kind of basketball “I’m your mama, kroshka”
“How… how does it feels?” you asked softly against your wife’s ear, a relentless smile on your face, a beautiful tenderness in your tone.
“It’s… it’s such a strange sensation- it’s kinda fluttery!” she giggled, scrunching her nose. The baby kicked again, touching your spread hands.
“Fluttery, huh” you repeated, leaning your nose against her hair, allowing yourself to close your eyes for a moment and smile gently “That’s nice”
A couple of months later, you were twenty-one when you first held Thomas Y/L/N-Maximoff in your arms – his nose was the same shape as yours, as was the shape of his eyes and the arch of his small mouth.
He was warm, affable, and he smelled like the sun and the grass. After another ten painful minutes to Wanda (the house lights going crazy when a mirror shattered against the bedroom floor), William Y/L/N-Maximoff might have had your mother's eyes, but his face was a miniature of your wife's pretty features.
He was yours to hold and protect, and for him, his brother (Billy smelled like the apple trees) and his mother, you just knew you would do anything.
Wanda was sweaty, a strand of coppery hair glued against a delicate bundle of skin on her forehead, tearful when she gazed at you, glistening a joyful weak smile on her lips that didn't go away even when you approached and kissed her, because you didn't know any other way to express your feelings at that moment other than joining your lips together.
“I love you. God, I love you so, so much, Wands” you whispered, your voice loaded with feelings, and she smiled against your lips.
“I love you too, malyshka. You and the boys… You are everything I will ever, ever want in my entire life”
Billy was snuggled quietly in Wanda's arms, her maternal gaze watching over the little baby in a flash of love, studying his little rosy face with chubby cheeks, wanting to understand everything about him, everything that she could forever engrave in her memory about his little childish traits, and you were the one holding little Tommy against your chest, welcoming his small weight into your body, feeling the heat emanating from him against your own torso.
And you were happy.
You were genuinely happy, like never before in your life, as if the passion of the feeling was going to explode and overflow from inside you and you just didn’t quite knew how to deal with so much happiness emanating from you.
You looked at her and you thought that she never looked more beautiful before.
They were your family. Your children, your wife. You and she, together, wrapped in love, had built a family.
“Thank you, my love” you sniffed, looking deep into the greenish color of your wife’s eyes “Thank you, Wanda”
ᗢ
“Y/N?”
Wanda’s trembling voice brought you back to the present time, where you are alone sitting on a hollow bed, the curtains operating as a fence against you and the brightness of the world outside, at the edge of the big city.
Wanda sounds anxious, so you assume it has something to do with the boys – because honestly, your ex-wife would have no reason to contact you other than the matters concerning your children, the only (unbreakable) bond that still endures between you and her (when even wedding rings couldn't sustain your relationship and keep it from deteriorating completely into the confines of your memory, in a sweet time that won't come back, Billy and Tommy were the only remnant of your union that still prevailed between you and Wanda).
“Hm, hey… Wanda” you sound doubtful, because in fact you don't even know what to say.
You are no longer the person you once were, and she certainly isn't either. You are nothing but strangers who once got to know each other better than anyone else could.
She also seems unsure about what to say next; both dancing this strange waltz, trying to influence the other to speak first. But you hear the deep sigh Wanda exhales on the other end of the line, and that’s when you talk first.
"Everything is fine? Are the boys okay? Are you okay?” you try to get the information she wants to say from her, but you just don't know how.
And then, there's a silent sob that ends up passing through your right ear. You've witnessed Wanda's cries countless times, and you can even tell them apart from the rest. This is the stress cry. Of distress.
Like the time she cried because she was fucking terrified of blowing a hole in Vision's metallic forehead, in an attempt to destroy the Mind Stone and prevent Thanos from getting to it and then complete his ideological plan to wipe out half the population of the entire universe.
The weight of the entire future of the human race has fallen on your wife's tenuous shoulders, and you, in the distance, slumped on the floor and with a hole open on the right side of your navel (the deep wound undermining drops and drops of red liquid, your consciousness vanishing into the darkness little by little) saw her shed thick tears gleaming in horror and anxiety when she feared she wouldn't be able to take the life of such a dear friend as the Vision.
You pressed the plastic of the cellphone against the skin of your ear, sinking your upper teeth into the dry expanse of your lower lip.
“Wanda?”
You call out your ex-wife's name, getting in response an uncontrollable sob even louder than the last one before it, “Wanda, talk to me please. Did something happen to the boys? With you? Please talk to me"
“It’s- it’s the boys, Y/N”
She sobs weakly, and you feel your heart sink into your chest when you hear her accent coming back when she gets more and more frazzled.
“Y/N, they… t-they have these fucking powers… they- they need you here. You know what can happen if they find out they have powers, Y/N, I'm... I'm scared. Please, I don't want them to be taken away from me. I don’t want it, Y/N"
Her voice is small, frightened, hesitant. You've heard it like this before. And every time you heard her, your desire was to just hold her into your embrace.
"This will not happen!" you assure her, immediately getting to your feet as you stretch your knees “No one is going to take the boys, Wanda, no one! They'll have to step over me and you to do that!"
She sniffs on the other end of the line. You press your index finger and thumb against the bridge of your nose, engaged in a foolish attempt to relieve the nauseating feeling of the hangover that presses your brain inside your skull.
“Are you— are you home? Are they home?”
“Yes” she mumbles “They're still sleeping. Billy took a while to fall asleep because he said his head was weird and he could hear several things at once, and Tommy wouldn't sleep until Billy went to sleep too"
“Right” is your response, as you eagerly search your closet for a clean shirt, “I'll be there in about forty minutes, okay?”
“Okay” Wanda sighs.
The seconds of silence are awkward to say the least, but are soon disrupted by a wary little voice on the other end of the line.
“Thank you, Y/N”
You want to tell her that she doesn't need to thank you; those are your children too, you should be there for them.
You love her, so you should be there as her support in the trying situations presented by the challenges of motherhood. They are your family.
You should do much more for them than you actually do. But you don't say anything. As before, you do not say. Words are born and die inside you. And like the coward that you are, you give up even before you try, brushing your fingertips along your half-dirty hair.
“I’ll be there soon”
《《《《《《《ᱬ》》》》》》》
#wanda reader#wanda maximoff x you#wanda maximoff x reader#wanda maximoff#wanda maximoff imagine#wanda x y/n#wanda maximoff x y/n#wanda x reader#wanda x you#billy maximoff#tommy maximoff#scarlet witch#scarlet witch x reader#scarlet witch x you#scarlet witch imagine
901 notes
·
View notes
Text
14 DAYS OF KINKMAS MASTERLIST:
DAY 1: YOU’RE BACK, BUT ITS TOO LATE - Emily Prentiss
DAY 2: BETTER THAN HIM - Yelena Belova
DAY 3: VISIONS - Wanda Maximoff
DAY 4: OLDER - Wanda Maximoff
DAY 5: NEVER KNOW - Natasha Romanoff
DAY 6: DESIGNS - Natasha Romanoff
DAY 7: GOLDEN GIRL - Maria Hill
DAY 8: LET ME LOVE YOU - Agatha Harkness
DAY 9: MISTLETOE - Maria Hill
DAY 10: HOAX - Claire Debella
DAY 11: UNFAIR - Carol Danvers
DAY 12: KEEP QUIET - Emily Prentiss
DAY 13: HAPPY HOLIDAYS - Kate Bishop
DAY 14: DOUBLE TROUBLE - CarolValkyrie
#Wanda maximoff smut#wanda maximoff x you#wanda maximoff x reader#Wanda maximoff angst#Wanda maximoff fluff#natasha romanoff x reader#Natasha Romanoff smut#Natasha Romanoff angst#Natasha Romanoff fluff#kate bishop fluff#kate bishop x fem!reader#kate bishop smut#Kate bishop angst#yelena belova x reader smut#Yelena Belova smut#Yelena Belova angst#Yelena Belova fluff#Emily prentiss smut#emily prentiss fluff#Emily prentiss angst#carol danvers x female reader#carol danvers smut#carol danvers fluff#carol danvers angst#maria hill angst#maria hill smut#Maria hill fluff#agatha harkness smut#agatha harkness fluff#wandanat smut
4K notes
·
View notes
Text
Cosmic chaos
Chapter 4
STILIENSKI HOUSE 🏠
life is full of surprise, mystery, adventures , happiness, sadness and horrors and that what you are experiencing now. when you wake up you did not ddid not expect even in your dreams you thought that you see your best friend , your buddy Scott naked as the day he born sleep beside you . you shrill at the top of your lungs with eyes closed startling Scott and stiles awake.
Scott fall out of bed and stiles come next you instantly. " WHY ARE YOU SCREAMING ?" you open one eye and stop screaming when scott out of your sight .
" yeah why are you screaming? " Scott stand up still drowsy clearly not aware of his lack of clothes. and at his sight you and stiles let out shrik together and stiles fall on top you pushing you into his bed shielding your eyes at the same time noah open the door.
" WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON " when noah see Scott his eyes widen before shutting the door. that when he his lack of clothing and grab the next thing he sees covering himself.
" dude what the hell is wrong with you put my bag down there!!!" stiles shout at Scott that's when he relise it's stiles bag that he using to save his modesty.
" what you want me do drop it !" he asked already embarrassed as shift in his feet.
"stiles can't breath " you squeak out they totally forgot about you and Scott shut his eyes with whine.
" why are you still standing go to the bathroom Scott " stiles command and Scott awkwardly shuffle to bathroom.
stiles let out a sigh before relaxing "stiles " you mumble
" ohhh " stiles is now off you and you lift your head up eyes still closed " you can open your eyes now "
Scott come out after a minute and you all stay silent for moment.and he clear his throat " we can pretend that didn't happen " at that you laugh out loud at his embarassed face Stiles join with you .Scott throw Stiles bag at you and you and Stiles shrunk away dogeing the bag " i hate you guys " he say playfully .
on the way to school to you three sit stiles Jeep and you think about what happened last night .
" so Scott is a werewolf now , Derek is too .but there is another werewolf that we don't know exactly who is " you said .
Scott let out a sign " yep and there is hunters too "
"so Scott how was the transformation ? did the hunters see you " Stiles ask
"it's painful like really painful i don't want it how do I get rid of it ? no they didn't but i don't want to be hunted anymore " Scott glance at the two of you desperately.
" i don't know if it's reverse able Scott ,our only best option is Derek " at the mention of the Hale both Scott and Stiles gron in displeasure as if math teacher just given you homework .
"that guy have zero manners stright jackass in leather jacket" Stiles mutter
"true " Scott agree with small smile
" agree but he is our only option " your phone buzz it's text from bonnie asking if you can check on Caroline as she didn't come school yet and you see something in your phone that alramed you . " hey can we go the Forbes house bonnie just asked me to check on Caroline "
Scott whine " do we have to we are already late for class "
"yes we do . two more people is missing " you assert still glancing at your phone .Stiles and Scott eyes widen
" again ?" they ask simultaneously. stiles pull up to Caroline's house .
FORBES RESIDENCE 🏚
" you go check I'll reverse the Jeep " Stiles said glancing back at you .
you look at scott " you coming?"
" bonnie asked you not me "Scott smrik at you .you get out with grumpily and walk to the house whispering a small fuck you under your breath " hey i can hear you curse me remember " Scott call out .
" good " you smile when you hear them laugh .you knock on the door .there is sound of muffling you knock again .
on the other side of door Damon and Caroline stay silent tears running down her face .
"stay here . don't make noise " Damon compell her making her cries to muffled and Damon make his way towards the door
when the door open it's not Caroline that open the door it's guy you never seen with no shrit on he is tall dark hair sapphire eyes with smug face .
" not the person im looking for .where is Caroline?" you ask getting stright to the point .
he give you a amused smile " well sweetheart I'm Damon Salvatore and who might you be ?" he answer with another question and lift his hands towards you for to shake .
you tilt your head to side a false smile on your face not shaking his hands but you does notice the ring on his finger " i think i asked you first where is she ?.i want to see her "
he take step towards you there is something menacing about him you can feel it your guts .
Scott and Stiles who were watching this get out the Jeep and make their way towards you and the unknown man .
"hey " at the sound of them Damon acknowledge them .Scott and Stiles come and stand next you .
" everything good ?" Stiles ask .Scott stay silent for minute looking at Damon in confusion with made you tense there is definitely something not right .
" yeah he was about just call Caroline isn't the right " you state while holding eye contact with him .
Damon roll his eyes " she is currently in bed waiting for me to continue do you want to come in join us? "
Scott and stiles throw a disgusting face at him .
"alright " you walk inside with arms crossed suprising them you call out Caroline .
"CAROLINE"
when Damon start to move towards you Scott stand beside you making him stop .you and Stiles walk towards the room knowing that you won't do anything without any reason .
Caroline come out wearing a black shrit making you all hault .she looks like she been though hell hair all messy posture tense .what you also notice the blood under the shirt coler when she you glance at she nervously tug her hair .
" you alright . bonnie asked me to check on you when you didn't come to class and we are already late ?" you ask
Caroline give you nervous smile " yeah . i just didn't want to come today. I'll call bonnie let her know "
Damon walk towards Caroline " yeah we have date and stuff to do you know . You join if you want to " he wink at you .
" ew no David " you give him a disgusted face and Stiles let out snort with Scott who now seemingly less stressed .
" it's Damon " Damon raise an eyebrow at you three .
when Caroline smile at you you return it ." hey text me when you're free alright"
"yeah " Caroline said softly .Damon give you smrik when the three of walk out .
when you three get back on road you stay silent for a minute.
" we are going to see Derek now " you say suddenly out of nowhere.
" what ?" Scott ask and Stiles follow " why "
you rub your temple when you it's start to get loud
" just listen to me and drive Stiles " you hold your head when a sudden pain hit you .
Scott and Stiles share worried look glancing at you before he mutter a small fine .
DEREK HALES HOUSE 🏠
when you reach Derek loft "Derek ..Derek " you call him as you scott and Stiles wait in the front of the loft .
" what are you doing here ?" Derek said from your behind making the three of you let out shrink . Stiles collide with Scott's .
"geez why can't you just be like normal people " Stiles glare at Derek he stare back at them with unpaced face before turning to you .
"we have to talk can we go in ?" you ask and Derek node his head walk towards the door and let you all in .
you all get inside and stand circle and you look around the loft " so what you want to talk ?" he question
" you said that there is other beings here right like other than werewolf that behind the missing people who might be dead people now " you state glancing at them and Derek node his head at you .
"and did you know what happened last night ?" you glance at around .
" well other than scott literally turning into four legged above average size puppy and hunted by hunters i and you calling me panicked and passed out in Derek i don't have manners Hale carrying you i don't know" Stiles add Derek look offended at the claim
Scott frown " I'm not four legged above average size puppy Stiles "
you thought for moment " you kind are ,and no not that after you left Viki was attacked by something "
"Viki Donovan as in matts sister " Scott exclaimed
" yeah and something bit her on neck . i was there and it wasn't the same as Scott's that night but gusse who have same wound as her ?" you wait for the to answer
Scott and Derek glance around not knowing and as you assumed it's Stiles who get it .
" No way !!.Brooke and Darren !" he responded
"who are they ?" Derek ask
"they are the first victim " you and Stiles said at the same time .
you continue " and that's not it. i went to hospital to see her and that where you found me " you glance at derek and he hum "and when she wake up she said she was attacked by a vampire which is crazy that now vampire exit maybe or not she might be hallucinating but i really get the feeling that I am right about it and our killer is a vampire ." you stop for second to let it sink and glance around them Stiles look deep in thought Scott face torn between disbelief and fear derek have his poker face and you give your attention to him fully turning to him " do you think vampire real ? did you ever had a encounter?"
"i never had any encounter with them but i do know that vampire exits. but here I don't know " derek cross his arms around his chest.
you glance at scott " Scott you have something to say ?"
" if vampires are real that means that they are dead right . like no heart beat no bodie heat " Scott ask look around frantically.and you all node " remember when we meet Stefan the new guy he didn't have heart beat and his hands where was cold as ice and guy we meet this morning he didn't either "
"are you sure ?" derek ask Scott with raised eyebrow
"i don't know maybe be because I'm new this thing all super hearing i could be wrong " Scott answer with uncertainty.
Stiles shake his head " no did you see Caroline neck under the shirt ?"
Scott frown at him as well as derek " why did you look under shrit ?" Scott ask .
Stiles frantically shake his head his hands on Scott's shoulder " i was not . I was looking respectfully. !!!"
"you saw the blood " you voice cut Stiles panick shut
"yes thank you ! you saw the blood too right ?" Stiles ask you .
"yeah "
IN HIGH SCHOOL🎒📚
you scott and stiles sitting beside the jeep waiting for Alison to come.
"I never said how sorry I'm last night for pushing you y/n and yelling stiles. I'm sorry " scott said softly.
you put your arms over him " well it's alright it's not like you could control it . "
" huh if you do that again I'm stuffing Wolfbanse down your throat ? " stiles said.
" what's Wolfbanse? " scott ever the confused puppy ask
" what kind of werewolf are you ?? you don't know the basics " stiles ask
scott turns to you " it's weaken the werewolf causing pain slowing them down " you explain.
"ahh" scott resume watching out for alison " I'll be back " he walk towards her when he see her.
you and stiles watch scott and alison talk " you know now I wish I had super hearing " stiles comment.
when feel eyes on you from your side you turn and see issac looking at you. you give him a wave and smile and he return it.
when you didn't say anything stiles look at you see you wave at him " who is that? "
" thats issac he drop me at hospital we have same class " you said glancing at stiles. before turning to scott and alison you smile when saw them leaning in to kiss
a black suv pull up and man get out and shout alison name you and stiles share a look when you see scott panick. alison walk towards the man.scott nervously wave at Mr argent.
scott walk towards you and stiles " hey remember when I was attacked by hunters he was one of them "
" that's not good " stiles said as you stand in disbelief.
you, Scott and Stiles arrive to the lacrosse field just as Coach Finstock has begun announcing their first task .
you see Bonnie and her friends as well as lydia and alison. when they see they smile. alison wave at you and you walk towards them you sit beside alison next her lydia in the back sits Bonnie Elena and Stefan.
" hey you guys meet each other ? " you ask Stefan pointing towards alison and lydia.
" there is no need to introduce he is the talk of the town " lydia said with smrik on her face. she glance at Elena and Stefan " so you guys are dating now? "
Stefan look at Elena before telling " yeah we are " Elena smile at Stefan
"how is it with Scott you guys are good? " you ask alison.
"you're dating Scott? I thought y/n was ? " Elena ask while glancing at you and alison . you raise an eyebrow at her while glancing at bonnie she shrug indicated that she didn't have anything to do with everybody knows your best friend and now that alison who is now scotts girlfriend,saying that didn't sit well .
alison give nervous smile clearly don't liking that comment " we are seeing each other now "
" you know I won't date him but I'm always free for you Alison " you give her a dreamy smile alison while looking at her eyes making her blush at how close you are.
" didn't know you go for girl y/n " lydia ask while putting leaning forward to look at you.
" don't worry lydia I go both ways and you're next in line " you wink at her causing her to smile. Stefan watch this amusement.
"y/n leave the poor girls alone , is Scott is playing today" Bonnie state with unimpressed face.
"yeah " you answer.
at the filed coach " Let's go! One-on-one from up top!"
Coach turns to look at Jackson, who is running onto the field "Jackson-- take a long stick today."
Jackson nods and drops the stick he was holding in favor of the longer one that Coach instructed him to take before running back onto the field
" Atta boy!"
Jackson takes his place on the field, and when Coach blows his whistle, he scoops up a ball and the team starts the play. The players run around the field, passing the ball to each other and shoulder-checking their opponents as they try to score a goal, with Coach watching with a focused expression as he follows their movements from the sidelines
" McCall, what are you waiting for? Let's go!"coach said
Coach points at Jackson, who is waiting for him with his long stick in hand, ready to show him up. However, when Scott clenches his jaw and runs toward him, he's easily tackled by the larger young man and is tossed flat on his back onto the grassy field. Coach wastes no time in starting to mock him as Scott grimaces, both in pain and in embarrassment
you whines at coach scolding at Scott but he the only one you really like in this school .
" Hey, McCall!"
Over at the line, Stiles winces sympathetically at Scott's bad play .stiles give you glance at you give him a it's going to fine looking but you both know it's won't., especially once he sees Coach walking over to where Scott is still laying on the ground.
you stand from where you sit with lydia and alison.
" Hey, McCall! " Scott lifts his head to see Jackson smirking above him, looking very satisfied by his successful tackle
" You sure you still want to be first line, McCall?"
Coach finally makes it over to Scott just as Jackson walks away, and Scott quickly jumps to his feet, fixing his gloves and pads as Coach begins berating him for his poor performance
stammering coach said " My-my grandmother can move faster than that-- and she's dead! You think you can move faster than the lifeless corpse of my dead grandmother?"
Scott's anger and frustration have him doubled over, which begins to worry Stiles and you , who continues to watch from mid-field. Scott clenches his jaw as he responds in a tight voice to Coach Finstock.
" Yes, Coach."
Coach, still trying to goad Scott into a more competitive mindset, continues to mock him
" I can't hear you " Fortunately for Scott, he is not looking Coach in the eyes, because his irises flash gold as Scott grits his teeth and repeats himself in an irritated tone of voice
" oh god " you mutter and Stefan who come up beside you when he heard you
" what? " he ask you glance at him
" nothing " you say before focusing on Scott
Coach, also irritated, moves so his mouth is just inches from Scott's right ear as he mutters his orders " Then do it again!"
Scott clenches his jaw again as he sighs and runs back to position while Coach shouts mockingly toward the rest of the players
Scott runs full-speed at Jackson, gripping his lacrosse stick hard as he collides with Jackson, his right shoulder hitting Jackson right in the collarbone on the same side. Jackson falls backwards, landing flat on his back in the grass just as Scott had just gone earlier, and clutches his right shoulder in pain
you run towards Scott without a thought and Stiles who was close to him runs over to Scott to check on him while everyone else is distracted by Jackson.
"hey it's alright you okey" you try to clam him down
Scott's fangs have come out, and his eyes are glowing bright gold again as he desperately tries to keep himself from fully turning
" Scott? Scott, you okay?" Stiles throws his right arm around Scott's shoulders and uses his left hand to clutch Scott's left arm.
" come on let get out here " you said
Meanwhile, the rest of the players have rushed to check on Jackson.
" I can't control it, Stiles! It's happening!" Scott whisper
Stiles eyes widen in alarm when he realizes that Scott's in the middle of a transformation into his Werewolf form and yelps quietly . he look at you panicked
" What? Right here? Now?" you ask
Stiles looks around, sees that everyone else is distracted by Jackson's injuries, and grabs Scott by the shoulders
" to the lockers " you and Stiles help Scott to the locker
Derek is standing behind the stands and off to the side, watching them with a focused expression
Masterpost
#caroline forbes#elena gilbert#stefan salavatore x reader#aloneatpeacefic#damonsalvarote x reader#tvd x reader#kol mikaelson x reader#klaus mikaelson x reader#elijah mikaelson x reader#scott mcall x reader#stiles stilinksi x reader#derek hale x reader#charles xavier x you#teen wolf x reader#wanda reader#phoniex reader#scarlet witch au#scarlet phoenix#reader insert#cosmic chaos#bonnie badass bennet#lydia martin#alison argent#chris argent#noah stilinski#melisa mccall#issac lahey x reader#peter hale x reader#scott mcall#stiles stilenski
47 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
empressofedge
I'm A Bee-liever
ultimate-queen-of-fandoms2
rest in peace Technoblade.
thehealthgeeksdiary-blog
The Health Geeks Diary
juncity
[🌟] Hustle Up! [🌟]