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ginnsbaker · 9 months

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In Losing Grip On Sinking Ships (17-II/22)

Chapter summary: You up and left the night you found out about a bitter truth. And then you and Wanda come to an understanding on how to move forward.

Chapter B word count: 8.5k | Warnings: Angst, Smut, Profound Sadness | Ship: Wanda x Female Reader

Author's note: There's still angst ahead, be warned. This is my all time fave part to write. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did :) P.S. Poison and Wine by The Civil Wars is such an old and a bit overrated song, but I envisioned this part with this song.

AO3 | Masterlist

Next chapter: Eighteen

Seventeen - Part Two

“Suspended?” Wanda repeats incredulously at your assistant. Her mind spins, thinking about the last several days when you've been mysteriously silent. Every call she's tried to make has gone straight to voicemail; every text she's sent is left unseen, hanging in the balance.

It feels like you've dropped off the face of the Earth, a sensation all too familiar to Wanda. It's like you've once again disappeared from her life without any warning, leaving her in a state of worry and confusion.

Her gaze falls back on your assistant, Martin, who just nods apathetically, his bony fingers carefully balancing a tray of coffee. His casual, nonchalant manner seems to strike a nerve with her, agitating her more than she'd like to admit.

“Sorry, Ms. Maximoff,” he says in a flat, apologetic voice, “She's not been around, hasn't been taking calls or replying to messages from our human resources.”

Wanda's eyes flicker from the reception desk to your office, her heart throbbing with concern and confusion. The glass pane of the office door merely reflects a distorted image of her, nothing of what it concealed inside. “But she's the boss here…” she lamely objects, her voice trailing off.

“Yes, and she suspended herself, apparently,” he replies, shrugging. “In essence, she's on a sabbatical, if you prefer.”

“Did… Did she inform you or anyone here why?” she manages to ask, trying desperately to figure out something–anything.

Martin sighs, placing the trays on his unruly desk. “Wish I knew, really. But she left with only two words 'personal reasons'. That's all we got.”

Wanda stands frozen, questions swirling in her mind, none finding an outlet. Her eyes moisten, and she swallows hard, her worry for you amplifying every second. She scans the room one more time, a futile effort to find answers.

“The last time I saw her,” he starts, his voice breaking her trance, “She seemed...off. Like she was wrestling with something. Something big.”

Her heart lurches. The last time your career was put on hold was when the two of you had to navigate through the tangled mess of divorce proceedings. If even your assistant has noticed that something was amiss, it must mean that whatever you're going through is truly serious, enough to have disrupted your usually composed work life.

“If she calls in, could you let her know that I came by? And that I need to speak to her urgently?” she asks, biting her lower lip.

Martin nods, his face softening for the first time. “I will. And if I hear anything, I'll let you know.”

With a sigh of resignation, Wanda hands him her card and manages a small, tight-lipped smile as a parting gesture.

Yes, you've disappeared on her before, but this time it feels different–a gnawing worry eating at her gut that she can't ignore. She knows it's not like you to abandon your responsibilities, not without a strong reason. You no longer have Natasha–or Yelena, for that matter–to turn to which makes it all the worse.

She needs to find you.

***

“She’s not home,” the words ring out, echoing in the grandiose lobby of your apartment building.

The statement is identical to the one she had been fed two days prior.

“Can I go up to the apartment?” she implores, searching for an excuse for them to let her in. “I... I left my purse there.”

But the concierge, rigid in his protocols, shakes his head. “I'm sorry, Miss. Without the tenant present or without their explicit permission, I can't let you in.”

You're not at your office. Not at your apartment. Your absence is a gaping void, pulling her to the brink of panic.

“But you don't understand,” she retorts, her voice stronger now, her fear manifesting as assertiveness. “I need to find her. No one has seen her in the recent week, and she's not answering her phone. I need to...I need to make sure she's okay.”

“Rest assured, she’s fine. She recently got in touch with us about the utility bills,” he assuages.

But it does nothing to quell her rising anxiety. Sure, you might have called about the utility bills, but that was a routine chore, something that could be done from anywhere, even automated. It didn't necessarily mean you were okay.

Wanda sighs, rubbing her temples in an attempt to ease the throbbing headache brewing there.

“Did she say anything else?” she asks, desperation tinting her words. “Anything at all that might indicate where she is?”

He shakes his head, his expression distant and almost uncaring. “That was all.”

Her shoulders slump, her heart heavy, but her resolve unwavering. If she had to overturn every stone in the city, knock on every door, she would. She needs to know that you're safe.

Because even if the world believes you're okay, she knows better.

She knows you.

Later, that very same night, Wanda finds herself pacing restlessly in her living room like a caged animal. The worn floorboards creak under her weight as she tirelessly traces the same path over and over, her mind swirling, imagining the worst.

In her desperation, an idea occurs to her.

Natasha.

Their last conversation had been a little more than a week ago, but it had been far from pleasant. Accusations and blame were tossed around like grenades, and Natasha had left with a bitter parting shot.

She glances at the old wall clock. Late. Very late. But time has lost its meaning to her lately. It's been nothing but a constant reminder of your absence, every ticking second a chime of worry.

Chewing on her lower lip, she finally makes up her mind. She picks up her phone, her fingers trembling as they navigate to a contact she hasn't dialed in ages. She stares at the screen for a moment, then pushes the call button.

The dial tone drones in her ear. She waits, each ring echoing the magnitude of her worry. She needs to find you. And for that, she needs Natasha to pick up.

Wanda's breath catches in her throat as she waits, clutching the phone with trembling hands. The apartment feels still and silent, the only noise is that persistent, mocking ring.

Just when she's about to end the call, the dial tone stops. A beat of silence, then–

“Wanda?” Natasha's voice is clipped, cold even, but Wanda can't help but feel a surge of relief at hearing it.

“Natasha,” she breathes, her voice cracking. “I need your help.”

There's a pause on the other end, long enough for Wanda to feel a pang of doubt. She can almost see Natasha's face, the guarded expression that's become her default since the fallout.

“Why should I help you?” Natasha finally asks, her voice devoid of warmth.

“Because it's about her,” Wanda replies, her words tumbling out in a rush. “She's missing, Natasha. She's not at her apartment, not at work, and she's not answering her phone. I've tried everything. You're… you’re my last hope. Please.”

There's a long silence on the other end, the tension so thick she can almost taste it. Wanda can feel her heart in her throat as she waits, hoping against hope that Natasha will put aside their differences, their painful history, and help her find you.

Then, Natasha sighs, a sound that's both vexed and resigned. “Give me a few hours, Wanda,” she says finally, her voice laced with reluctance. “I'll see what I can find.”

Wanda manages a small, grateful nod, even though Natasha can't see it. “Thank you. I–I'll wait.”

The line goes dead, leaving Wanda with her worry and the late-night silence of her apartment. She drops onto the worn-out couch, her eyes fixed on her silent phone, her mind filled with thoughts of you.

But it turns out, she doesn't have to wait long. Five minutes later, her phone vibrates on the coffee table, startling her. Picking it up, she sees Natasha's name flashing on the screen.

That was peculiarly fast.

She answers it, her heart pounding.

“Why didn't you call her mother?” Natasha's voice is sharp, impatient.

Wanda blinks, visibly thrown off. “Her...her mother?”

“Yes, Wanda. Her mother!” Natasha sounds incredulous, exasperated. “She's in Montauk. She's been there for the past week. Her mother just confirmed it.”

Wanda's heart drops, a mix of relief and shame washing over her. She hadn't thought of calling your mother. In fact, she's been avoiding the idea altogether.

“I...I didn't call her because... because she blocked me,” Wanda admits in a small voice. “After she found out about my infidelity, she blocked me.”

There's a pause on the other end, followed by a deep sigh. “Well, now you know,” Natasha says, a hint of softness creeping into her voice. “She's in Montauk.”

With that, the call ends. Wanda is left staring at her phone.

She wastes no time buying train tickets for the following day.

***

Years have passed since Wanda last tread the well-worn path leading to your childhood home.

The once vibrant paint now peels and fades, no recent attempts at refurbishment have been made, and yet, it retains a charm that's impossible to overlook. Sitting all by itself on the beach, it's about the most peaceful spot Wanda's ever known.

She's always loved coming to your place in Montauk, even though she's acutely aware that your mother's affections for her have always been less than warm. But as she stands there now, the salty sea breeze tugging at her hair, she looks up in awe.

Her gaze is drawn to the attic window–your old bedroom. She imagines you might be there. She wonders if you're asleep, tucked away in a corner where your bed is and always will be. She thinks about what you might be dreaming of. Are they good dreams? Or the kind that makes you wake up in a cold sweat? The thought of you being troubled, even in sleep, makes her heart ache.

She wishes she could be up there with you, could slide into the room and sit down next to you. She'd love nothing more than to reach out and touch you, to pull you close and wrap you in her arms. She'd whisper in your ear, tell you that everything's going to be okay. “I'm here,” she'd say. “And I'm not going anywhere, not unless you want me to.”

But for now, she's stuck at the bottom of the stairs, staring up at that attic window. So with a sigh, she tears her gaze away, and turns back to the front steps. Eventually, her feet lead her to them, but she pauses, a knot of nerves twisting in her stomach. This isn't like the other times she's visited. There won't be a warm welcome from you, just the cold, guarded reception from your mother.

Taking a deep breath, she squares her shoulders and climbs the steps, her hand hesitating briefly over the door knocker. For a moment, she's tempted to turn back, to avoid the frosty confrontation. But she knows she can't. She's here for a reason.

The lingering echo of the knock seems to hang in the air before it's swallowed up by the constant rhythm of the sea. Then, the soft sound of footsteps resonates from within. Her pulse quickens in response. Fixing her eyes forward and tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear, she readies herself for the encounter.

As the door creaks open, the familiar face of your mother appears. But her expression isn't the stern, guarded look Wanda has come to expect. Instead, her eyes hold a sense of knowing, as if your mother has been expecting her for a while now.

Wanda’s well-rehearsed words hang in her throat, momentarily lost amidst the surprise. But she quickly regains her composure, preparing to speak, when your mother breaks the silence.

“Took you long enough,” she says, her voice softer than Wanda remembers. “Come inside, dear.”

Taken aback, Wanda can only nod. She smiles politely at her in return as she steps across the threshold.

Soon enough, Wanda finds herself seated at the worn kitchen table, as your mother moves with an ease born of years spent there, preparing an early dinner. The scent of food simmering stirs the air, joining the comforting aroma of tea brewing on the stove.

As she cooks, she fills Wanda in on what’s been going on with you lately.

“She's been upstairs, in her old room, for days now,” she shares, nodding towards the ceiling as if it would help Wanda see you. “Doesn't come out much. Sometimes I hear her... crying, then nothing. She won't talk to me, no matter how much I try.”

Her usually steady hands reveal a hint of tremor as she stirs a pot on the stove. “I'm scared,”she admits, making brief eye contact with Wanda.

“I've been thinking... maybe it's about you.” she adds after a moment.

She doesn't say it like she's blaming Wanda, more like she's just trying to make sense of things. It leaves Wanda silent, turning the possibility over in her mind.

The kettle whistles, breaking the heavy silence. Your mom pours the hot water into a teapot and then turns to Wanda. “Tea?” she asks, like this is just any normal day.

“I’d love some tea, thank you,” Wanda responds, giving a brief nod. She takes the warm mug offered to her, the heat seeping into her palms. Afterwhich, she reaches for the jar of honey and adds a dollop of it in her tea.

As your mom settles down across the table, an uncomfortable silence fills the kitchen. The only sounds are the soft humming of the fridge and the occasional clink of a spoon against a cup as your mom stirs her own tea.

They just sit there, silently looking at each other over the worn kitchen table. Wanda takes a sip from her mug, feeling the tea's heat spreading through her, a pleasant contrast to the chilly November air that's started to creep into the house.

Every sip, every moment of silence, makes Wanda more aware of the pressing need to apologize to your mother. She's hurt you, her own daughter, and if what your mom suggests is true, she may even be the reason you've up and left your life in Manhattan.

Finding the courage, Wanda finally speaks up, her voice shaky but sincere. “I understand this may not change anything,” she begins, “But I need to apologize... for the pain I've caused. For betraying your trust, and more importantly, for betraying Y/N's.”

She can feel the prickle of tears behind her eyes, but she forces them back. This isn't about her pain; it's about yours, and perhaps your mother's too.

“I wish I can go back,” Wanda admits, her eyes falling shut to keep her tears at bay. “And undo everything.”

She pauses, collecting her thoughts before continuing. “I’ve done a lot of self-reflection. I've looked into the mirror and didn't like the person staring back. I was... I am... deeply flawed. But I'm trying, I really am. I've started therapy, trying to understand and learn from my past mistakes.”

Wanda takes a deep breath before proceeding. “Your daughter...she deserves the world. And I know, in your eyes and perhaps even in my own, I don't deserve her. But what I'm asking, I guess, is not for you to forget or to absolve me. It's for another chance. A chance to prove that I can be better. That I can make things right with Y/N. I’m asking for your blessing, should it be possible for us to try again.”

After her heartfelt confession, your mother just quietly sips her tea, her gaze steady on Wanda. The silence is deafening, broken only by the regular ticking of the kitchen clock.

Wanda squirms under the silent scrutiny, but she doesn't look away. Instead, she meets your mother’s steady gaze, even if her own eyes are red and her vision is blurry.

“I… I know actions speak louder than words,” she adds quietly, her fingers twisting nervously in her lap. “And I'm ready to do whatever it takes, no matter how long it may be, to show you... to show Y/N, that I am capable of change, of being the person she deserves.”

Then, it's quiet again.

The silence stretches on, and just when Wanda thinks your mother might never respond, she sets her tea down and begins to speak. But it's not a direct answer to Wanda's plea. Instead, she starts to tell a story.

“You know, Y/N was always a deeply emotional child,” she begins, her voice soft and her eyes distant, lost in memories. “She had this incredible ability to love, to pour all of herself into someone or something. She trusted easily, loved fiercely.”

She pauses and takes a slow breath, her gaze turning sadder. “And because of that, she often got hurt. People took advantage of her kindness, her unwavering loyalty. They saw her love as something to exploit rather than treasure.”

Wanda blinks in surprise when your mother extends her hand, clasping hers firmly on the tabletop. The unexpected touch all but strikes a chord.

“She's been through a lot, Wanda. Her heart's been bruised more times than I care to count. But she still loves with all she has, still trusts, even when she's been betrayed,” she says. “As her mom, all I ever wanted was for Y/N to find genuine happiness.”

Tears well up in Wanda's eyes, spilling over and trailing down her cheeks in crooked streams. With her free hand, she wipes them away hastily, while her other hand clings to your mother's in a gesture of guilt and a plea for forgiveness.

Your mother waits for Wanda’s wracking sobs to subside, before she gently lets go of Wanda’s hand and then looks out the window, her eyes turning steely.

“I don’t doubt your sincerity,” she tells Wanda. “But what I need is to see that light in her eyes again, that joy she used to have. If you can help bring that back to her, then we can talk about forgiveness.”

Wanda can do nothing but nod as she accepts the challenge of the task.

Your mother slowly rises from her chair, gathering the empty mugs on the table. “I've prepared dinner for tonight,” she says. “You can serve it when you're both ready.”

Wanda looks up, her eyes reflecting her confusion, “You're not staying?”

With a soft smile, your mother shakes her head, “I'll give you two some space to talk and sort things out. I'll be staying with a friend tonight.”

The offer leaves Wanda momentarily stunned, but she recognizes the trust and faith your mother is placing in her. It's a responsibility she doesn't take lightly, and she nods, hastily pulling herself together.

“Thank you,” Wanda says, her voice soft. "Thank you for giving me this chance."

Your mother reaches out to touch Wanda's arm, her eyes filled with understanding.

“Just do right by her,” she says.

After your mother grabs her purse and car keys, she leaves, the door closing behind her with a quiet click.

Wanda is left standing in the empty house. She looks around thoughtfully, the smell of the cooked dinner still lingering in the open space. Then, her eyes stray upwards towards the attic. She can't help the nervous flutter in her stomach as she thinks about what awaits upstairs.

Taking a deep breath, she firms her stance and prepares herself to face you.

As Wanda navigates the familiar hallways of this house, she's assaulted by a flurry of memories.

Most vivid of all are the memories of your bedroom during your college years. That sacred space where you both had surrendered to your desires, the place where you both discovered each other in the most intimate ways. The countless nights when whispers and soft sighs were swallowed by the plush pillows, the sheets a tangled mess of sweat and evidences of pleasure.

Each memory, each recollection, sends a shiver down her spine. She remembers the taste of your lips, the softness of your skin, the way your eyes would darken with desire. She remembers the feel of your body against hers, the thrill of being the only one to see you unravel.

She remembers the way you’d moan out her name. The way your breath would hitch when she touched you, the way your fingers would trace patterns on her skin. The way you would look at her, as if she was the only one that mattered, the only one you saw.

Chiding herself, Wanda shakes her head, a blush coloring her cheeks as she catches her mind in the gutter. While she terribly misses you, aches to be with you, this isn’t about her longings or her desires.

No, this is about checking on you. It's about making sure you're alright and not alone. That's the priority, and it's what keeps her focused right now.

Moving towards your room, Wanda raises her fist to knock, but as her knuckles make contact, the door creaks open on its own accord. She freezes, the noise sounding overly loud in the deafening silence of the house.

The sight that greets her makes her breath hitch. There you are, asleep in your bed, your back to her. Curled up under your Star Wars covers, you seem so small, so vulnerable. A small smile pulls at the corners of Wanda's mouth, seeing you cocooned in remnants of your adolescence–the old covers, the posters lining the walls, the trophies gathering dust on the shelves. It’s endearing, and so quintessentially you.

Wanda carefully slips off her shoes, setting them neatly next to your own pair by the door. The room is quiet, save for the soft sound of your steady breathing. She doesn't want to disturb your peace, doesn't want to pull you from what seems to be a rare, restful sleep.

With cautious movements, she edges towards the bed, lifting the corner of the blanket. As silently as she can, she slips under them, feeling the familiar warmth they hold. She shuffles closer to you, wrapping her arms gently around you from behind. Your body is a comforting presence, the steady rhythm of your breathing lulling her own worries.

As if on cue, even in your sleep, you move closer to her. You shift backwards, snuggling into her arms as if your body remembers the familiarity of her presence.

Closing her eyes, Wanda allows herself to relax for the first time in days. The constant worry, the relentless anxiety of the past week begins to ebb away. Here, holding you, she finally allows herself to succumb to her own exhaustion.

A while later, beneath your lids, your eyes move restlessly. And like the recent days, it's the same nightmare that haunts you. Wanda, lying motionless in a hospital bed, a sight that sends cold tendrils of fear winding around your heart.

In your dream, you're a phantom, invisible and unheard. You're screaming, pleading, shouting for someone to hear you, to help her. But your voice, your presence, goes unnoticed. You watch helplessly as her heart rate dips, her once vibrant life draining away before your eyes. And then the dreadful flatline–

With a start, your eyes fly open. The world spins for a moment before settling down. In your sleep, you've moved so that Wanda now lays on your chest, sleeping soundly. Your arms are wrapped securely around her, a protective gesture that feels as natural as breathing.

As your eyes adjust back to reality, your mind doesn't quite catch up in time. For a moment, you believe this too is a dream. But in this one, Wanda is safe, wrapped snugly in your arms, far away from any harm. With gentle fingers, you start brushing through her soft hair, the familiar motion soothing. You find yourself slowly massaging her scalp, a habit from the good old days.

The gentle motion stirs Wanda, her eyes fluttering open to meet your startled gaze. As she squints up at you, drowsy and slightly confused, the pieces fall into place for you. This isn't some surreal dream.

Wanda is actually here, with you.

“W-What time is it?” Her question is barely a whisper, the words escaping her in a quiet, sleep-addled mumble.

Your response is a knee-jerk reaction, a surprise that compels you to pull away. But there's nowhere to retreat, no room to distance yourself from the reality before you. Trapped between Wanda and the wall, in the confined space of the single-sized bed, you have nowhere to go.

“W-Why…” you begin, your voice coming out raspy from sleep and shock. Your eyes dart around as if seeking an escape.

Before you can finish your sentence, Wanda’s hand reaches for yours, her fingers curling reassuringly around your wrist.

“Hey, it's me. You're okay,” she murmurs softly, but you remain tense, suspicious.

You don’t try to scramble further away, but you remain tense under her touch.

“Why are you here?” you finally manage to get out, your voice trembling slightly. “You shouldn't be here. You need to go.”

Wanda looks jolted at your words, her eyebrows shooting up. “Go?” she echoes, incredulity seeping into her tone. “Why would I go? You've been missing for days. I've been worried sick.”

Your heart aches at the crack in her voice, a clear indication of her sleepless nights, but the need to protect Wanda from you overpowers your sympathy.

“I can't...I can't tell you why,” you stammer out, hugging your knees to your chest, using them as a barrier between you and her.

Wanda's grip tightens around your wrist. “Why not?” she insists, her voice laced with frustration. “You can't just disappear and expect me to leave when I finally find you.”

“Because you’re not safe,” you say, avoiding her eyes.

“But why?” She pushes, her voice shaking with worry. “What do you mean I'm not safe?”

You struggle to find the right words, your throat dry. “You just... you just aren't, Wanda. Please, just leave.”

Her eyebrows pull together as she stares at you, as she searches your face for some explanation. Then, a name flickers across her expression, and her body goes rigid.

Pietro.

Shit.

What did he do?

“Y/N?” Wanda utters slowly. “Did you… Did you find out about my–”

“Yes,” you cut her off. Not wanting to hear from Wanda herself what–

What you’ve put her through.

The memory of the hospital report you secured after you found out, the graphic details of the picture that was sent to you—they've been haunting your nightmares for days.

Your hand slips out of hers as you awkwardly sit up, pressing your back against the unyielding concrete with a wince of discomfort. Wanda looks at you, her eyes wide and her lips parted, as if she's just now realizing the gravity of what you’ve been really dealing with.

“I found out, Wanda. About the pills,” you say quietly, your voice shaking. “The night I left...you overdosed. And I–I didn't even know.” You run a hand through your hair, frustration and guilt making you feel sick.

“That's why you can't be here, Wanda. That's why you have to leave. Because I can't... I can't be the cause of your pain anymore.”

Wanda looks at you for a moment, her expression unreadable, then, as if a switch is flipped, her expression crumbles.

Despite all the tears she's already shed over the past week, she finds that she's not done yet. She's cried so much she thought she had nothing left, but there's always more when it comes to the pain you're both in.

“It’s not your fault,” she tells you firmly. She says it like she's trying to drill it into your head, her jaw set, teeth clenched. She wants you to believe her. She needs you to believe her.

It's not your fault.

The dam holding back your own tears finally gives way. “How can you say that, Wanda?” you choke out, your voice shaking as much as you are. “I have proof that I almost killed you!”

But Wanda just shakes her head, stubborn as always. She won't accept what you're saying, won't see the truth of the matter. And so, you switch tactics.

“Why are you still here, Wanda?” you ask, your voice suddenly cold. “Why are you still looking for me? Why do you act like you still...care? Is it guilt? You cheated on me and now you're stuck with me out of pity? Do you pity me because you got the good side of this mess?”

Your words hang heavy in the silence that follows. Wanda just blinks at you, her eyes wide and shock clearly etched on her face. She pulls back slightly, her face flushing with a mix of hurt and anger.

“You think I pity you?" she whispers, her voice shaking with the intensity of her emotions. “You think this is guilt?”

But before you can answer, she's already shaking her head, her eyes filling with tears again. “No, you're wrong. It’s not pity, it’s not guilt. It’s...it’s…”

Her voice breaks off as she clutches the fabric of your shirt in her fists. “It’s because I love you, you idiot,” she finally admits, her confession plunging the dagger further into your beating heart. “Despite what they say…despite all of it, I still love you.”

It's raw and painful and beautiful all at once, but it also scares you more than anything. Because if Wanda still loves you, despite everything that's happened, then you're going to have to fight even harder to protect her from yourself.

“Wanda, I…” you try to protest, to explain, to push her away, but your words die in your throat when she suddenly crashes her lips onto yours. It's fierce and demanding, full of so many unsaid words and bottled-up emotions.

Her arms wrap around your neck, pulling you closer while one of her hands finds its way to your hair, holding you in place. She's practically clinging onto you, as if she's afraid you'll disappear again.

Your initial shock fades away as the kiss deepens. You melt into her, your resistance collapsing. Your arms instinctively go around her waist, pulling her closer until there's no space left between you.

Everything narrows down to the sensation of her lips moving against yours. The kiss is intoxicating and it's not long before you find yourself giving in, the guilt and fear momentarily forgotten.

What you’ve put her through.

But the words flash behind your eyes again. You can't help but question if this, the intoxicating sensation of being with Wanda Maximoff, can absolve you of it all.

Your thoughts whirl, but Wanda seems to know exactly what you need. She breaks away just enough to capture your hands, bringing them to her flushed cheeks.

And then, with her eyes closed, trusting, she whispers, “You’re not hurting me, Y/N.” Your hands tremble as they stay on her face, moving cautiously, as if she's a fragile piece of glass that might shatter under your touch.

When Wanda opens her eyes, you're struck by their clarity, their luminosity. “See?” she whispers. “All I feel is how much you love me. I–I know you do…”

In the next beat, she's guiding your hands lower, slipping them beneath her shirt to rest against the warm skin of her waist. Without thinking, your fingers begin to move, massaging the soft dips of her stomach, tracing the familiar curves and lines of a body you've known and cherished for years.

“All I feel is your warmth. Your tenderness,” she murmurs, a slight catch in her breath as your hands start to move upwards, brushing aside her bra to gently cradle her breast. “Your desire. Your love that nurtures me, makes me thrive,” she finishes, a small gasp escaping her as she feels herself responding to your touch, her nipples hardening against your palm.

“So, please, Y/N,” she cries desperately as you wordlessly make quick work of removing her shirt and bra. “Please don’t make me go. I need you.”

It's hard to resist her, especially when she looks at you with such pleading eyes. You’ve always had a difficult time saying no to Wanda, and this moment is no different.

After shedding your own shirt, you pull her close, the skin-on-skin contact sending sparks through your veins. For a moment, everything else fades away. It's just the two of you, tangled together in a cocoon of your own making.

Your resolve wavers, then collapses. You can't deny her, not now, not ever.

Taking a deep breath, you lean in to press your forehead against hers. “I want to make you feel good,” you say, and before Wanda can utter her agreement, you press your lips against her delicately.

The kiss is slow and tender, a gentle exploration rather than a heated demand. It's a promise, a vow to take your time and be mindful of her needs. You want to make up for all the hurt you've caused her, and this is where you'll start.

Without breaking the kiss, you carefully guide back down on the bed. Your fingers dance over the button of her jeans and when you can't proceed without breaking the kiss, you do so reluctantly. Wanda lets out a soft whine at the loss of contact, her impatience showing as she moves her hips to aid you in removing her pants. Once she’s left in just her underwear, you take a moment to appreciate the sight before you.

Wanda, naked in your teenage bed, her skin flushed and her thighs pulled together to relieve the delicious ache in between them. And your instinct is to worship every inch of her until she’s calling out to another higher power in the midst of your care.

Growing restless, Wanda eases herself off the bed, just enough to clasp the nape of your neck, drawing you back to another sweet entanglement of her lips.

This time, you get lost in the moment, letting your tongue outline the shape of her mouth, tasting the mix of her salty tears and the sweet remnants of her honeyed tea. You leisurely familiarize yourself with her, navigating the familiar paths inside her mouth, until the top of your thigh accidentally bumps into her clothed center.

The sudden touch makes Wanda gasp. Her head rolls back, her eyes tightly closed, and you press into her again–harder. You watch as her mouth forms the perfect 'o,' each quick, sharp puffs matching the rhythm you’ve now set with your hips. Your hand trails down from the nape of her neck, across the delicate expanse of her shoulders, before settling on her waist, using it as a leverage to drive harder into her.

“Y/N–P-Please…” Wanda's plea hangs in the thick air between you two. She doesn't know exactly what she's asking for, only that she'll lose her mind if you don't act soon.

Knowing what she needs, you push her thighs apart and lift them towards herself, until her knees are almost touching her shoulders. Grabbing her bottom, you tilt her hips slightly upwards, slotting your thigh directly over Wanda’s cunt.

And then, without warning, you lower down to start driving your leg into her soaked core.

“Baby, what are you–oh, fuck!” Wanda can't hold back the scream that's torn from her throat.

Your fingernails dig sharply into her ass as you encourage her to fuck your leg. Your arms are working hard, holding up the lower half of Wanda's body at the precise angle you need. You duck your head to suck on the hollow of her throat, making Wanda squirm as she encircles her arms around your shoulders, keeping you in place.

While you continue to maintain your rhythm, her slippery underwear—the lone piece of clothing she still has on–becomes too drenched that they slide right into and get stuck between her pussy lips, the folds of the fabric adding a pleasurable friction to her clit. At this moment, you decide to let your mouth venture further down her torso until it finds a hardened peak, and you waste no time immediately nursing on her teat.

In a matter of seconds, Wanda feels the familiar coil in her belly. Her escalating cries, coming in sharp bursts, echo in your ear, a clear indication of the inevitable. She wraps her legs around your waist as her breathing becomes more frantic, encouraging you to plough into her mercilessly. On the next thrust, your hand releases its grip on one of her buttocks to push her panties aside and pump two fingers into her without preamble, before switching your mouth to her other nipple, giving it the same furious attention.

“Fuck, I’m–nnnghh!” Wanda yelps, and all it takes is one more slam of your hips before Wanda's entire body stiffens, her back arching into a perfect bow. You almost couldn’t stop yourself from closing your teeth around her areola as you feel her continue to buck against you, riding the final waves of her high.

Moments later, you finally let go of her nipple with a wet pop when she weakly tugs at the back of your head, and you gently lap at the reddened area, tending to it with soft kitten licks. Once you’re satisfied, you climb back up to softly kiss Wanda’s closed eyelids, feeling her body slacken in your hold as she slowly recovers from her orgasm.

You continue to sprinkle a few more kisses randomly across her face, until her giggles ripple through you, the sound of her laughter chiming like bells in your ears.

“Good?” you ask while still inside her, your other hand caressing the curve of her cheek as you gaze into her eyes, ensuring she's completely comfortable in every way.

Wanda bites her lip and nods, a blush coloring her cheeks as she basks in the intense attention you're showering her with and the weak, come-hither motion of your fingers still inside her.

“Good,” you say with a soft smile, and then Wanda’s breath catches as your eyes darken once more, pulling your fingers out of her carefully before licking them clean. “Because now I want to taste you.”

“But you haven’t–”

“This is what I want,” you calmly assure her. In reality, you want a number of things. You want to apologize to her. You want to feel that she’s there with you. That she’s alive, even if she’s a puppet on a string, at the mercy of your mouth and fingers.

You want to erase the image seared into your mind of Wanda, lifeless and cold.

Wanda smiles at you, and you respond by leaning in to give her a gentle kiss, a silent promise that it’s not because you’re merely rejecting her touch. What you really want is to love her right now, and perhaps see her let go and lose herself in the moment.

Slowly, you start to trail kisses down her stomach, stopping just above her navel to playfully swirl your tongue within it, eliciting a reaction from Wanda as she arches her body upwards, offering herself to you. As you continue, your hands glide her underwear down her legs, before casually discarding it somewhere behind you.

Instantly, her scent fills your nostrils, making your mouth water. You fight the urge to dive right in, not wanting all of this to end too soon. You follow the smell of her arousal to its source, your nose skimming over the area above her pubic bone, the apex of her thighs, anywhere but where Wanda’s gushing out in need.

Wanda feels an urge to beg you to stop teasing, but she understands that's not what you're doing. She recognizes why you're taking your time, even though the deliberate pace is making her grow more frustrated by the second.

As for you, emotions well up inside as you discern that Wanda is surrendering to you, reminding you of your ability to make her feel good, to make her happy, and it's taking all your strength not to crumble and break down in front of her.

Even amid the heavy fog of desire, Wanda experiences a rush of gentle affection when she feels your fingers intertwining with hers, providing her a comforting squeeze. But Wanda should have taken that as her warning, when in a split second, she feels your tongue dart out to taste the length of her.

Wanda's head lolls to the side, her eyes tightly closed. She hadn't anticipated that the buildup would be this intense, that such a simple move would drive her crazier than usual. She whimpers as you lick her languidly, almost reverently, as if you’re memorizing her taste and every crease and every sound your tongue elicits.

This time, when Wanda reaches her climax, it's more than just the physical sensations pushing her over the edge.

It's your smile that she feels brushing her dewy skin, it's the hums of approval you're voicing, it's the way your eyes lock with hers, absorbing her every reaction, in sync with her sensations and emotions.

The way you’d rest your head on her stomach while catching your breath.

Much like how it was when loving her was something you were so proud of.

As midnight approaches, you finally give in to Wanda's pleas for you to stop. She's come more times tonight than ever before in her life, and with her stomach growling in hunger, all she can think about is the beef stew your mother left in the kitchen for both of you.

She extracts her tired body from your secure hold, and dresses herself in comfortable silence, while you sit on your bed, confused and not knowing what to do with yourself now that you’ve accomplished your mission of making Wanda come a record-breaking six times.

Wanda stretches languidly, much like a cat, her bones making small popping sounds that draw a soft moan from her. She then tells you that she'll warm up the dinner you were meant to have and bring it back up to eat in the room.

As she makes her way to the kitchen, the rich, comforting aroma of the beef stew your mother had prepared earlier that evening wafts into the hallway, causing her stomach to complain louder.

Approaching the stove, she finds the pot still sitting there, the stew inside cooled. She turns on the burner underneath, and waits for it to heat up. All the while, her thoughts continue to race. She wonders if giving herself to you tonight has somehow provided you with the comfort you needed after finding out about her overdose on the night you left.

Did it reassure you to see her not just alive, but right there with you? Did the intimate connection help to ease any lingering fears or guilt from that night?

Once the stew has warmed enough, she ladles it into two bowls and carefully makes her way back up the stairs. As she nudges the bedroom door open with her foot, she's met with a sight that warms her heart. You're sitting there, now modestly dressed in a pair of pajamas, looking far more composed than when she'd first walked into your room earlier in the evening.

Your hair is neatly combed back, and the lines of worry that had marked your face earlier have faded, replaced with a serene expression.

However, your eyes tell a different story. Something significant has shifted, and she can't quite put her finger on what it is.

“Will you set those down for a moment? I need to tell you something,” you tell her, your voice eerily calm. It sends a ripple of unease through her, yet she does as you ask.

Quietly, Wanda places the bowls of hot stew on the nearby dresser. The comforting scent of the dish wafts through the room, yet her earlier hunger has been replaced by an uneasy feeling that ties her stomach in knots. She takes a seat on the edge of the bed beside you, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

You take a deep breath before you begin, as if you're preparing yourself as well for what you have to say.

“I… I'm not sure how to go about it, or even why I'm doing it, but... you should hear this,” you start off.

“Last week, I... I tried sleeping with a stranger because I wanted to understand, to put myself in your shoes,” you continue, not waiting for her response. Wanda is quiet as she listens to your confession, each word slicing through her like a blade.

“I wanted to feel... what it was like for you when you chose him. When you chose him over us, over what we had,” you say, your voice wavering slightly.

Wanda can hardly breathe. “Y/N…”

“I couldn't do it,” you blurt out, your words spilling over one another in your haste. “Even though technically, we aren’t together, I… I couldn’t be with someone else,” you say in a choked half-sob, half-laugh that pushes Wanda dangerously close to a fresh torrent of feelings.

Tears flow freely down your cheeks now, your nose sniffling from the congestion. You sniffle, struggling to draw in breaths through your mouth to compensate for the hindered airflow.

“How?” you force out the question, your voice filled with aching pain as you look at Wanda, your face contorted with sorrow. “How was it so easy for you?”

Wanda doesn't have an immediate answer to your question, instead, she just looks at you, her heart breaking with every sob that shakes your body.

“It wasn't... it wasn't easy,” she finally stammers out, her mind frantically revisiting the long weeks she spent with Calliope, trying to unpack her baggage and find something, anything, that might ease your pain. “Nothing about this has been easy, Y/N.”

But she knows it's not the answer you want.

“I wish I had a straightforward answer,” she starts, her hands fidgeting in her lap. “I wish I had a valid reason... something. But I don't... I just... don't. You were–are–everything to me, Y/N. You’re patient, loving, caring. You deserved so much better.”

She can't justify her actions. She can't explain why she risked the one person who loved her unconditionally. And it's a different kind of torment, the understanding that there's no satisfying explanation, no logical reason for her betrayal.

“I don’t trust you,” you admit to Wanda, a deep sorrow seeping into your voice.

“Y/N, I…” Wanda starts, but you raise your hand to silence her.

“Maybe you didn't mean to hurt me,” you cut her off, your voice a broken whisper. “But every time I see you, every time I'm around you, it's like... it's like I'm back at square one,” you continue, your voice strained. “I don't know if I can ever trust you again, Wanda. And worse, I don't trust myself around you.”

Your gaze drops to your lap, where your hands are tightly knotted together, knuckles white with the effort.

“And I don't know if this feeling will ever stop,” you add, more to yourself than to her. “I'm just so tired of it all. Tired of feeling this way, tired of... going around in circles.”

Wanda swallows thickly, her throat constricted. Her heart feels like it's being ripped apart at the seams as she watches you, so vulnerable, so hurt. All because of her.

“I...I could never have done that to you.” you tell her with finality.

“I know,” she answers, her voice filled with an emotion so raw it makes your chest tighten. “I know you’d never do anything to hurt me like that. It's... it's unbearable, Y/N. But I... I'm so sorry. I want to try, if you're willing... I want to earn your trust and forgiveness.”

“I need to earn your trust back,” Wanda corrects herself quietly, cowering, expecting you to laugh in her face with how delusional she is for begging you the one thing that she already destroyed. “I know it won't be easy, and I don't even know if it's possible, but I have to try, Y/N. I can't... I can't lose you again without even trying.”

A part of you rebels at the idea, reminds you of all the reasons why you should harden your heart and walk away–for the sake of you both. Yet, another part, a larger part, doesn't want to. Despite the hurt and betrayal, despite the broken pieces, you still care for her.

You want to trust her again. You want to be in love in the purest sense.

(You’re already in love, you just want to stop questioning it.)

“I can’t promise you that it’ll be easy to deal with,” you warn her, your voice thick with sincerity. “I can't just... sweep all of this under the rug, Wanda.”

“I can handle that,” she replies with a soft smile, her voice full of certainty.

“Can you really?” you question, disbelief plain in your tone. “What if you blindside me again? What if I do something that would put you in harm’s way again?”

Wanda nods knowingly. “Which is why we can't do this by ourselves alone.”

“What do you suggest?” you ask curiously.

“That we seek professional help.” she says without hesitation.

“Professional help?” you repeat, slightly surprised. You hadn't considered this avenue, but the complexity of your situation seems to call for it.

Her practical approach impresses you, her willingness to explore different ways to mend things. The idea of exposing your deepest emotions to a stranger in a clinical setting is intimidating. But if Wanda is willing to do it, to unpack everything and lay it all out in the open like a defenseless soldier in a middle of a battlefield, then–

“Okay,” you say finally.

“Okay?” Wanda looks up at you with wide, expectant eyes, making her look so innocent like a child.

You nod, your lips curling into a tentative smile. “I guess… we could try.”

A watery smile flickers on Wanda's face as she carefully circles her arms around your neck. You reciprocate her hug, hesitant at first, but then with more confidence as you both meld back into each other. For a while, you simply sit there, clinging onto each other, until Wanda’s rumbling stomach shatters the moment.

Chuckles bubbling up, Wanda draws back from your hold and says, “Should we get to that stew now?”

Grinning, you give a playful snort and rise to fetch the bowls of warm stew yourself.

Then it hits you, the real fear isn't the dread of her repeating the same mistakes nor the risk of hurting each other again.

No, it's the idea of her being here with you, and not putting in the effort to make things right.

And that, you decide, is something you don't think you could live with.

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff x you #wanda x you #wanda maximoff #ifiss 2 #ilgoss #yelena belova #unbetad #my writing #my fic #elizabeth olsen x reader #elizabeth olsen #wanda maximoff fanfiction #natasha romanoff #agatha harkness #pietro maximoff #wanda maximoff x female reader

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wmarximoff · 2 years

Note

Reader being Pietro’s bestfriend and Wanda having a crush on them but is too shy to say anything because she is popular and reader is apart of the unpopular dirtbags kind of group. The n reader confronts Wanda and it leads to Wanda’s first time. Pretty please with a cherry on top🥺🥺

freaks | w. maximoff

summary: high school isn't easy at all, especially for a kid as misfit as you. but just being in the wrong place at the wrong time, a bomb is dropped in your lap; because Wanda Maximoff, the popular, perfect girl with the kindest heart of all, actually has a crush on you. and she just happens to be your best friend's twin sister.

warnings (18+): underage characters, smoking, secondary characters using illicit drugs (weed), cursing, first time, smut, oral sex (Wanda receiving), penetration (Wanda receiving).

pairing: Wanda x fem!reader

word count: 12k

A/N: sorry for the delay anon but i'm lazy as heck kjsfkjfs

anyway, this was fun to write (and actually pretty cute too). it's practically a romcom, really. hope you enjoy it!

|masterlist|

༺ᱬ༻

The cushions of the narrow couch you were sitting on felt cozy and comfortable under your thighs clad inside the material of a beat-up denim. But perhaps it wasn't for the furniture itself, which, although distinctly well maintained by a taste of carefully carved work, in no way appeared to be an expensive or even onerous piece in its cheap springs and foam.

It turns out that ever since your presence became something made frequent inside the Maximoff residence, you had found between those walls an air of coziness and reception that, like a warm maternal hug, dissipated the tense weight that was usual to fall on the muscles of your shoulders and your back.

The house of the family of four (just a mother and her three children, two teenagers and a child) was situated in one of the areas inhabited by the low-income citizens of the small town of Westview, beyond the gas station and the railroad tracks, a few blocks up from that trailer park that everyone knows from bad legends, but it's not like you need more than that to snuggle into the blandishments of that dark brown fabric sofa.

After all, it was enough to be accompanied by the presence of Pietro Maximoff, the eldest son (for twelve minutes, his sister occasionally reminded him of the fact in front of you), for you to know that the upheavals of the world would disappear inside your chest and, immersed in a bubble of comfort being with your best friend for about nine or ten months, there would be nothing that could hold you back for so long.

Pietro just had that effect on people; he was a good guy, a receptive young man of your age who used to be an esteemed figure by those who came in contact with the recurring good humor that guided him – but, like a typical misfit high school kid, there was nothing about him that pleased everyone at all. Not like his sister did so masterfully, at least.

The boy, dressed in khaki shorts and a long blue blouse as thin as a sapphire stone that showed off his similarly colored irises, was thus sitting half sprawled with his legs spread as if he had fallen there and not gotten up for a long time, parallel to you, in a small dark armchair that was only distanced from the sofa by a scrawny coffee table set there, of cheap pale wood that he used to prop his heels put into a pair of worn out running shoes.

To your right and to his left, perched in a chair pulled out from under the dining table, Darcy Lewis was the girl with long brown hair who had her upper back leaning against the back of her chair. Her clear, intent eyes so solemnly bound to the phone screen she kept blinking close to the tip of her nose, behind the thin glass lenses of a pair of dark plastic-framed prescription glasses.

Pietro and Darcy, then friends almost out of convenience because no one else was close to them (she being a weird amalgamation of a know-it-all geek and a half-inconvenient sarcastic little shit, he just an immigrant kid with a weird accent who slipped up at times and a sense of humor doubtful), they took you in because the others didn't seem all that interested in keeping you close – not when you were the only new kid around with a tattoo hidden somewhere on your body and a few more pairs of piercings than was acceptable for your neighbors dangling stylishly from your ears.

The boy dressed in the blue shirt, then seated opposite you, was expertly rolling a thin weed cigarette with his fingertips curled towards his athletic pecs in an intent gaze at the action exerted on his digits.

He then stuck his tongue out, sliding it down through the crack in his parted lips, using his saliva to glue the loose end of the rolling paper against the skinny little body of the cigarette which, when it was finally ready to be smoked, he tried to tuck it into the corner where his lips ended as if he wanted to perform a mobster from the height of the twentieth century.

But he was only sixteen-almost-seventeen, as young as he could be, and that was why Pietro only appeared to be what he was at that moment; a disheveled kid with poorly homemade bleached hair done with the help of his grumpy sister (the brown roots were showing in the crook of his head, giving him an air of sloppiness) with a long joint lying in the corner of his mouth.

He then leaned with his spine forward so his right hand went for the small pale blue plastic lighter set on the coffee table, before pouring his thumb across the stone so that the spark ignited the flame that lighted the end of the weed cigarette, from which he drew a long, lingering drag to spread the thick smoke through his nostrils in a state of mind imbued with a zealous tranquility, leaning his back against the armchair.

Behind your own red-filtered cigarette dangling between your lips, you raised an amused brow at your friend's slouched figure.

“Fucking stoner, man,” you mussed, albeit in airs of morose jocularity that inferred a little chuckle on Darcy's part, “That shit gonna fry all your brain cells someday, you know that? Make you dumber than you already are.”

He took another swig of the joint before fixing you with a pair of droopy blue eyes, since this was the second or third of the day he'd smoked – around his firm chin, the tiniest fuzz of an occasional dark beard was already threatening to arise with the emergence of age, each day closer to adulthood. One day, he would be a handsome man, because for now he was just a boy who promised to be a good-looking adult.

“And that shit gonna kill you someday,” with a little finger movement, waving his limp left hand, he pointed to the nicotine cigarette that was blistered between the index and middle fingers of yours, raised right at your face.

You smiled and so did he, half on his side, still lying on the armchair cushions like a misplaced decoration.

“At least I won't die stupid like you.”

“Just kiss him already man, for Christ's sake,” Darcy grumbled in a tone of shared humor, before reaching for the joint from Pietro's hand and bringing the small cylindrical body to her to draw a swig of weed for herself.

“Nah,” you expressed a small smile flanked by smoke, “As much as I know Piet wants it so much, he's not really my type, sorry.”

“What do you mean he's not your type, huh?” Darcy gave you a funny look from behind the glasses placed in front of her sharp blue eyes, as if she wanted to poke a small lump hidden inside you.

“I thought his last name was Maximoff. That sure is your type, sister.”

There was a second puff of smoke until the boy, then already in a somewhat lethargic action when clouded by the cognitive effect of the cannabis he was smoking, lifted the back of his head from the backrest and lowered his chin, squeezing with his eyelids that wandered from Darcy's smile to your brow furrowed in a bewildered slant, only to redo the act once again a little more confused, cinching a flash of fur from his forehead with the thick, dark-haired brows above the blue eyes sort of gleaming with a curious blaze.

“Y/n, what’s she talking about…?”

“Your mom, duh,” was your immediate response, a mock-masked deliverance dripping from your throat, a smirk taut in the unnaturally twitching muscles on your face, “Ms. Maximoff's got it going on, right? I mean, gosh, she really looks hot in her waitress uniform.”

“Dude, I always knew MILFs were your type, you totally look like you would do a MILF.”

Darcy looked back at you with an air of laughter as her chin tipped in your direction, the lack of sobriety evident in her airy actions, which in no way complied with the implications of the first comment bestowed on you.

“Well, and who doesn’t like MILFs?” you smiled burlesquely, to which Darcy readily acquiesced with a sharp nod.

“But yeah Pietro, your mom is like, hot. The hottest MILF among all MILFs. So hot.”

“So hot,” you repeated in a profuse drag of a cigarette, pointing to the girl sitting next to your right knee that showed a beam of skin through a long slit in the fabric of your pants.

“Very, very hot.”

“Like, super hot.”

The platinum-haired boy, meanwhile, only let out a loathsome grunt as his drunken face contorted in repulsive distaste for the idea you and Darcy offered him about his own mother, shaking his head firmly as if he wanted to shake off these thoughts as if they were really mosquitoes pestering him to sleep at night—something that brought on you, of a good-natured nature, and on Darcy, just too stoned for her own good, a long round of loud, juicy laughter that caused the muscles in you abdomen to ache in hot cramping.

“Dude, gross! That's disgusting, she's my mom! What the fuck!"

Though a little unsteadily, his left fingers hooked against the fabric of a red pillow that was brought up and then hurled toward him with just a flick of the tendons of the young man's strong shoulder, which depended on minor physical labor to add a little more on the household income.

It was a quick if somewhat lingering half second, when your gaze only caught a glittering blur pouring air to shatter against your face.

The fluffy object then collided with a soft thud against the top of your left cheekbone, pushing the muscle of your neck back against the back of the sofa, as your senseless fingers detached from the still-lit half-smoked cigarette, whose butt fell against the pillow that soon had its fabric sprinkled in a small hole with burnt and blackened edges.

“Shit, Pietro–!”

Darcy, with cheeks as rosy as a pair of ripe tomatoes against her usually pale, lifeless alabaster countenance, seemed a second away from writhing into a convulsive laugh that would soon take the form of a fit of choking vomit, and you soon treated catching the remains of the cigarette between your right index finger and thumb, before pressing the tip against the pale porcelain pot that was the makeshift ashtray to then stand on your knees, scrutinizing the damage done to the mobile.

“Shit,” you repeated, albeit in a slightly lowered tone, the palms of your hands resting on your bent and exposed knees, “Shit, see what you did, dickhead? You ripped a goddamn hole in the pillow, you jerk!”

“What–?!” the boy then scrambled to his feet in exasperation, suddenly slipping into a layer of momentary sobriety, rounding the coffee table to walk over to your side in rather worried steps, “What the– oh my God, oh my God, my mom’s going to kill me—”

The sound of the front door being opened so close and then being closed as it was before, was what spread throughout the house of close rooms, succinct and with a small and short square footage composition.

The walls of your stomach collapsed in on you as Pietro shot you an alarmed look that flickered a troubled blue, turning pale as if the blood was suddenly draining from his cheeks. For a second he looked like a deer caught in the headlights of a car on the road.

“We're fucked.”

“I know.”

But desperation didn't rage among the three of you for as long as it would have; like a bucket of water dispersed in a still-igniting spark, putting out a coming fire, who came into the living room was not the figure of Ms. Maximoff dressed in her signature red and white ketchup-stained waitress uniform, but only a young Wanda Maximoff, Pietro's younger twin sister, who had a pair of headphones screwed into both her ears, under the profuse bundles of her dark-brown hair.

“Pietro…?” the low voice came from far away, as footsteps approached the room with heavy combat boots high-laced on her ankles, “What are you…?”

Wanda's irises wandered from Pietro to then you and Darcy, as her index and middle fingers, with extensions adorned in a series of silver rings, hooked onto the long wires of her headphones to pull them down from inside her ears.

“Wanda!” you muttered under your breath, because your unconscious was taken over by the image of her standing there, and there was nothing else to say but call her to you, “Wanda. H-hey, Wanda. Hi.”

“…Hi, Y/n.”

You gasped for a bit as you opened and closed with your lips, saliva hardening in the back of your throat at the pretty figure of the girl dressed in dark clothes and chains dangling from the belt that threaded around the waistband of her black skirt and around her milk-white neck, with pointy pendants that alluded to the mysticism she held dear.

And she just brought out something inside you. After all, Wanda Maximoff was affable, soft, beautiful and gentle as a bouquet of red roses, the prettiest of them all.

At Westview High, everyone knew who she was when she walked through the halls, the only girl who could walk shoulder to shoulder with the cool kids clique even if she hadn't gotten out of her Evanescence listening phase – even if her wealth was not as capital as theirs. Everyone wanted a little bit of her, from the kind, generous, gorgeous girl, essential member of the academic decathlon team and debate group.

A keen library goer, consumer of thick, hard-to-read books, who kept high grades as well as the good will of the people like it was second nature to her. A school prodigy. A popular necessity.

And Wanda went out of her way to be extremely considerate of her requirements. It just so happens that she was never quite able to share that said kindheartedness with you, something that has always given you doses of discontent inside your chest – after all, even after almost a whole year of seasons all past since your permanent installation in the small-town blandices, Wanda never bothered to look you straight in the eye for more than three or so seconds.

“This–this isn’t what it looks like, Wanda,” cried Pietro, who raised a hand to his sister across the room.

“We’re just,” you tried, “Well, we were—”

“Of course we sure as hell weren't smoking pot in your living room,” Darcy muttered to the ceiling, still sitting in her chair, “I mean minus Y/n, because she's such a boring bitch,” there was a snort on the part of the bespectacled girl.

“Darcy, shut up!”

“C’mon, what a fucking surprise Piet, everybody knows you smoke pot!”

And then when Wanda's gaze woven in a curious green latched onto yours, an air-tied knot whose ends met between you and her, you pressed your lips together in a single line, because a thin layer of blush turned pink on her high cheeks, which flushed like a little porcelain doll.

You straightened your posture, but the girl with the long, silky dark hair only looked away, aiming for the dirty porcelain bowl set on the cheap wooden table.

“I,” she whispered, like a shy little mouse with rosy cheeks, “I won't… I won’t say anything to mom, don't worry about it. Just… just clean this mess up before she gets home.”

There was a flash of green gaze that flashed into your eyes like a beacon on the horizon, but then it faded in less than a second because Wanda seemed to relinquish eye contact with you, again lowering her gaze away from your face, hiding her pretty pale eyes behind a thick curtain of dark hair.

She suppressed her lips in a thin, rosy line, seeming to shrink into her blackish-brown, long-sleeved blouse. Wanda opened her mouth as if to say something, but then clasped her lips together again in a sign of resignation.

“I–I'm going to my room.”

And the girl barely waited for an answer from any of the three parties before she left for the house, leaving like a deserting spirit. You blinked once, and then turned your nose towards Darcy.

“Dude, did I do something wrong…?”

“She’s probably just scared of you,” teased the girl with the glasses, “You know, she dresses all edgy and stuff but she's just so sweet and kind like this little black bunny and you... well, man, you spilled cigarette ash all over her mother's couch, what the heck.”

When she laughed at her own joke, something in you faltered for half a second.

“Yeah, that makes sense,” you mussed awkwardly, screwing the palm of your right hand against the skin of the back of your neck, “I… I guess.”

“Whatever, Wanda’s a weirdo,” Pietro's voice came from your side, even if half muttering to himself, “Just–just please help me clean this up, dammit. My mom’s going to kill me, I swear...”

ᗢ

A gust of annoyed air had left the gap between your lips open for what was perhaps the tenth time in a row allotted to that meager period of time that spanned a lengthy fifteen minutes of a rather dull morning – at least that's what you was, when your weary gaze sagged across the raised square screen of your phone, towards the upper right corner, and there you were faced with the digital clock marking the scorching hour of nine thirty-seven on a hot morning in Wednesday.

You sighed slowly, warm air draining from your lungs and your chest deflating into your unbuttoned flannel shirt, through the straps of your thin tank top, because there was nothing to do other than that.

You might as well proclaim your notes in your notebook as Miss Harkness, who was standing right in front of long rows of other bustling teenagers who, like you, huffed bored air out of their mouths into their faces, dictated to her history class to all the school kids in their seats.

However, as much as you were interested in the class (as, in fact, you were), it turns out that Miss Harkness just had a habit of getting quite carried away in her classical prose, and even though the middle-aged woman in the lilac waistcoat was one of your favorite teachers, nothing there was enough to capture your diverted attention.

Because you, moreover, barely had any thoughts floating around in your head that weren't entirely focused on Wanda Maximoff and the esoteric wonder that came along with her, as if it were her own shadow.

And, given the situation similar to yours in which Wanda found herself in that same class, it was she who was sitting there next to you, taking note of everything the teacher said about that historical event that honed the details of the modern country founding; Wanda was just a pretty smart type of student, it's true. The girl urged you on in a superhuman way.

Yet, at that morning and like every other morning before, the two of you hadn't even exchanged enough sentences for you to actually engage in a conversation with the other girl. In fact, you hadn't even spoken to her at all.

You knew she was deep enough in her notes to having someone to piss her off. With the chin supported by the hand supplanted by the left elbow raised to the face of your table, your gaze headed towards Wanda, who was seated to your right and attracted you like a damn lodestone, in an inevitable magnetic dazzle; in the same room in the company of several people, Wanda was always the one who caught your attention under her fingertips to keep.

Just the appeal, the idea, the unknown, they were enough to find you rambling about your classmate – Wanda interspersing her diligent attention between Agatha and her own dark-covered notebook where the digits of her fingers, lined with rings, wrote so cunningly in a black ink pen, one opalescent knee crossed by the other under the table, the miniskirt exposing her pale, firm thighs that were suddenly engulfed by high dark stockings that rose above the confines of her knees.

And it admired you, how her brown hair seemed to modulate accentuated shades of honey color when laid out by the rays of sunlight that entered the room through the thick glass windows that adorned the walls adjacent to the tables you occupied respectively. How her irises looked like two sparkling emerald stones when highlighted by a profuse smoky dark eyeliner liner around her waterline – her naturally thick, long lashes adorning her stylish, heavy makeup.

There was the leaf-shaped pendant in dark silver dangling from a thin chain that flowed across her attractive bosom, between the sharp collarbones that poked out of her thin black blouse, adorned with strands of long, silky light brown hair; the necklace between her breasts, the exposed skin there looking so soft, a tiny mole situated high on her right breast that you just wanted to know what it would feel like to kiss and feel through your tongue.

“Miss Y/l/n.”

The teacher's voice called out of your thoughts between the heads of young people, which caused a sea of eyes to all turn to you, like creatures from another world, a pack of animals in the forest looking to a flashlight.

Even Wanda's gaze got caught, which for half a broken second turned to you only for when, upon catching your face already turned towards her, she only turned to the filled pages of the notebook placed between her forearms, like if you really were just an eminent pest. She doesn't know who I am and yet she doesn't give a damn about me, huh.

“Can you answer the question, Miss Y/l/n?”

Miss Harkness's tight, dark curls swayed in your direction when you look at her, standing there on the other side of the classroom and in front of the blackboard cluttered with notes made all in powdered white chalk.

“Eh,” you mussed, somewhat unimpressed by the teasing smirks that were beginning to form on unfriendly faces, containing in your grunt a sudden roll of disinterested eyes.

“What's the question again, please?”

“Pff, sucker.”

A voice pierced the veil of silence that had fallen over the other youngsters, the voice of that smug boy Tony Stark, which soon erupted into group giggles that spilled back and forth into the classroom like a flock of flustered parrots.

“Alright, alright, cut it off for Christ's sake!” Miss Agatha Harkness cried out somewhat aggravated, waving both her hands in front of her body in a rather weary way.

“None of you here is in position to laugh and you all know it very well! Would any of you like to answer the question for Miss Y/l/n instead, huh? Somebody? Nobody? Well, that’s what I thought.”

The teacher's simple, elaborate tone sounded an octave higher than usual, drawing your attention towards the woman in question. You looked at her, but Wanda's gaze burned to the flesh of your right cheek, before glancing at Miss Harkness another time.

And then, a hand with nails tinted in dark polish rose above the others' heads, not at all hesitant in her actions as she did so. Wanda, of course, was willing to speak up when no one else did. You looked at her with an air of interest, straightening your posture against your hard, clear plastic chair.

“Yes, Miss Maximoff?” Agatha nodded, to which the young girl immediately lowered her right arm.

“The Church created the Court of the Holy Office in the thirteenth century, and it was supposed to prevent people who had deviated from Christianity from leaving. They used various mechanisms of persecution and punishment for that,” narrated Wanda with exquisite mastery.

“That's what led to the Inquisition and, after some time, the Salem witch hunt, which actually started in France in the fifteenth century.”

You focused your eyes on her for a couple of seconds longer than what would be considered healthy for the habit to do. It was because of looking at her so intently, however, that you found the other girl giving you a single, chaste glance out of the corner of her eye, which then retreated away, as if in an internal game with both parts of her brain; one wanted to look at you, and the other didn't.

“Finally, great,” Agatha brandished.

“At least someone here is paying attention in class. You are correct indeed, Miss Maximoff. See, Miss Y/l/n, this is what happens when you actually listen to your teacher and not just daydream looking at your classmates all morning.”

"I– what?! I didn't—!” A heat spread from the tips of your ears, all the way down to your cheekbones, your neck, and your shoulders inside your unbuttoned shirt.

Someone stifled a laugh on a cough from behind your seat. Fuck.

Wanda remained silent, and you wouldn't even dare look to the side, at her, who so relentlessly strayed her curious gaze in your direction, her chin slightly tilted at a broken angle to the side of her left shoulder. Mortification in bright crimson still burned the flushed skin of your cheeks at the pretty girl's gaze.

“That's what you heard, heartbreaker,” the teacher waved her witch-like hand, “Now, please, everyone pay attention here for another fifteen minutes until class is over, will you? I swear I want to be here as much as you kids do.”

And then there was another bout of chatter from Miss Harkness in a waistcoat buttoned over a white shirt printed with corny light blue flowers. Perhaps, if you hadn't covered your eyes with the open palms of both your hands, you would have caught the tiny fond smile that tugged at the corner of Wanda's peachy lips.

ᗢ

It didn't take long, with some minutes passed right after lunch time, for you to sneak into the four closed walls of a second-floor women's bathroom stall so that, in such a way, you could give yourself the courtesy of blowing smoke from your cigarette, scorching in peace. With your back resting peacefully against the laminated plastic of the scrawny cabin wall, you leaned your back, staring sluggishly at the pale plaster ceiling. It’s not like the time and space around your miserable existence matters all that much.

The cigarette that appeared between your parted lips had a flickering tip like a firefly in the night flickering in the dark night, and the smoke that just sailed up to the ceiling was thin and wavering, fading from reality like a utopian idea.

Near the flush valve, painted onto the white tile, an elaborate graffiti in black marker pen penned two names joined by a mathematical plus sign – something like “KATE + YELENA” etched near your right elbow, a promise perpetuated in the inerasable act of a young heart lacerated by a still budding idea of what warm love would be pulsing inside someone’s chest.

Behind an opaque veil of cigarette smoke, you considered doing the same with your own name and Wanda Maximoff's, until you suddenly gave up on the idea as it was supposed to be an impulsive lapse in need.

So you just sighed, shaking your head from side to side, getting rid of those silly thoughts as if you had quaked them out of your brain. The only sound that erupted through the silence encrusted in the cabins was that of the avid drip of a poorly closed sink. Dripping. And dripping. And stopping. Until a trio of female voices burst through the front door.

“Shit–!”

In an act of open desperation, you just dropped your still lit, half-smoked cigarette down into the open toilet, into the still water.

“I swear, that's what she said,” the evident tone of voice that reached your ear was distinctly that of Pepper Potts, the girl a year older than you who was the head of the cheerleading squad.

“Rogers dumped her because he's dating Barnes!”

“That's weird, I thought it was Wilson this time.”

Just behind her, the second voice couldn't be anyone other than Monica, the only child of principal Rambeau and that, like her friend, everyone knew who she was; a genuinely nice girl from the lacrosse team who turned out to be Pietro's crush for as long as you knew him.

“No, Wilson used to date Barnes who now dates Rogers. It’s hard to keep up, I know.”

Pepper clarified it to her friend, and for a second it sounded like she was planning to start a new sentence about the ups and downs of her peers' social-love life when, after a broken half lapse of silence within those with walls, the strawberry-blonde girl’s voice was then charged with a queasy tone, which indicated a nose twisted in repugnance that you couldn’t see behind the cabin’s closed red door.

“Ugh, what is that smell…?”

“Cigarette smoke, I guess.”

Your heart slammed and disarmed inside the middle of your chest, because the answer was based on Wanda Maximoff's delightfully low voice. She was there, in the company of her friends who reapplied makeup to their faces. Well, fuck. You gulped like a criminal in trial.

You scarcely dared to breathe accurately between your nostrils, but it's not like your lungs, at the sound of her melodic voice, know how to do anything but just inflate and deflate sparingly like a pair of flat tires.

“That’s disgusting,” Pepper clicked with her tongue on the roof of her mouth.

“It must have been Y/l/n, everyone knows she comes here to smoke after lunch,” said Monica, who seemed to have a crooked joyful smile in her voice.

“I swear, Wanda, she was practically drooling on you earlier today. Heart eyes and all, totally head over heels. It was actually kinda cute to watch.”

“She… she was?” it was small, almost inaudible from your listening hiding position, away from the eyes of those who spoke.

There was something shy that could be pointed out in Wanda's voice, but there was something also glistening with the tiniest glimmer of hope that you couldn't help but notice. Something that lulled your senses and made you ponder about the direction of this conversation so intimate that, for a second, you felt like you were crossing an invisible line of common sense. Maybe it was wrong. A mistake. Or perhaps it was just a weird type of unconventional luck, even.

It was like you couldn’t be there at all. Because you, in the wrong place at the wrong time, were just invading Wanda’s privacy; that’s how it felt, at least. It was as if the walls of the cabin were going to swallow you and squash you to death like the stomach of a dark creature.

“I really don't understand what you see in that girl, Wands,” it's Pepper's turn to say, “You should just give Jarvis a chance. He asked you out to eat Indian food, didn't he? You love Indian food.”

“I hate Indian food,” Wanda reiterated to the other girl, “And he doesn’t give a damn about me, anyways. He just likes hanging out with people who have high grades. And you just want me to date him because he's Tony's brother, and if I do date him you'll have someone to go on a stupid double date with.”

“It's not that, geez,” was the head cheerleader's reply, “It's just that he's on the decathlon team like you and he's graduating this year, so you can date a college boy in your senior year. Damn, I'd like to date a college boy my senior year."

“You're already in your senior year,” Monica reminds her, “And you’re dating Tony.”

“Yes, for that very reason.”

Something about that suggestion didn't appeal to your taste at all, still tucked inside the cabin as you were. Just the thought of Wanda dangling from Jarvis Stark's arm, a known prick among the students other than those who made up his intimate circle of handpicked relationships, was enough to ignite an acrimonious revulsion in you, which even seemed to want to devour your muscle cells from the inside out.

That bitter feeling running down the side of your tongue, pouring out between your teeth, was nothing to do with your half-smoked cigarette which then floated down the toilet like a sunken ship. And you just didn’t want to think so hard about why the slightest mention of the idea of Wanda dating Jarvis fueled such a revolting feeling within your ribcage.

“Besides,” the Potts girl continues her own line, oblivious to your deep displeasure.

“Unlike that Y/l/n girl, Jarvis has a guaranteed future in his father's company for when he finishes his graduation. And look, don't get me wrong, but that girl is either going to end up in jail or dead or both, and that's probably before she even turns thirty. Ugh, c’mon Wanda, she's just another freak. You can do way better than that. I mean, you even have a shot to be prom queen this year if you start dating Jarvis.”

“I don't wanna be prom queen, Pepper. Everyone already knows it's going to be you and Tony, anyways,” said Wanda, in a tone that emulated lapses of discomfort towards the other young woman, “And don't say that about Y/n, that's not true.”

And it surprised you, in fact, because you had never heard Wanda be so incisive with her words before. Or even someone using such a tone of voice when addressing Pepper Potts.

“She's not… a freak, she’s funny. And smart. And she’s actually pretty sweet when you really get to know her. I... I never talk to her much when she comes over to my house because she's always hanging with Pietro and Darcy, but... she just... she just seems nice to have around, you know? Something about her is… soft. She once made me laugh until juice almost came out of my nose.”

Your heart skipped a beat as your memory traveled back to that day, at a dinner night guided by the traditional house stroganoff, were Ms. Maximoff made sure that your presence was there, at the dinning table with her and her children. The tips of your ears and the skin of your shoulder burned to embers that carried the ashes of that night, but it was as if that heat itself soothed the anxious twinges in your bristling veins.

It was the first time your eyes were ever pleased to witness a sincere laugh burst from within Wanda’s lungs.

And no one had ever looked as stunning in front of you as she did back in that day so many weeks ago, with her head thrown back and her eyes squinted, cheeks flushed in such a lovely rosy layer of flesh, shoulders swaying inside an ancient rock band shirt, peach mouth open only to reveal the two front teeth partially larger than the rest, like a scrunched nose bunny.

So genuine and so pure that your heart turned on itself – and if you dared to do so, you would say it was that day she usurped the rights of your feelings.

“And, uh...” Wanda's voice was small this time, in a timid, measured edge, “She's... she... she's pretty. Like, really… really pretty.”

It was like an electric current that ran from your ribs to the flesh of your cheek, heating the tops of your cheekbones. The saliva in your mouth, still vicious like a full-bodied drink, only evaporated and disappeared, making the wetness pooling in the palms of both of your sweaty hands even more evident. It was as if fireworks erupted in a hot red roar inside the walls of your stomach.

“She’s hot! I once heard that she had a hidden tattoo somewhere,” it was Monica's turn to cry out in an air of laughter.

“She’s a freak,” growled the Potts girl again, in an eye roll, “And you two are just too squeamish for your own good. She’s not the only person with earrings out there, Jesus.”

“Seriously, Pep, look at Wanda, her type is obviously not those preppy boys like that Stark douche. Girl, her type is delinquents. Bad girls. You know, just girls as a whole. Someone to listen to, I don’t know, Iron Maiden with her or whatever emo shit she listens to.”

“Yeah, got it, geez,” muttered the older girl in a bad way, “It's just what I think.”

“Well, you thought wrong then.”

“Really, Monica, just shut up–”

A few more frivolous conversations drifted over the trio of girls, who took off out of the bathroom minutes later, striding farther and farther away when the subject in question strayed into something that was of no interest to you at all. You blinked once, and then twice. It was like being at the bottom of the ocean and coming back to the surface abruptly.

You breathed. You just breathed. Soundlessly, your right hand slipped to the latch of the laminated plastic door, which opened out in a continuous squeak.

You gulped down the saliva sitting on the back of your tongue. Meeting your eyes in the quadrangular mirror placed in front of the cabin from which you exited, the air still reeking of the remnants of your cigarette mixed with Wanda's perfume, it did not surprise you at all that your cheeks reflected in the glass were like two reddish cherries burning over your boiling flesh.

“…Fuck.”

ᗢ

A few succinct days were passed one after another in front of your secret incident in the girl's bathroom stall (there was no more dignified labeling for such an occurrence than an incident as pleasant as it was also uncomfortable, it's true).

The entire seventy-two hours that followed were then grounded in several thoughtful cigarettes burning between your aching lips, the lighter's flame flickering in the ashes of broken reasonings, considerations and daydreams taking puffs of smoke, all which circled in your brain as if it were the moon that gravitates around the planet, as if space itself had usurped the oxygen from your bloodstream and changed it to Wanda’s name.

Wanda. Your cigarette smoke burned Wanda's name in your lungs. Your eyelids blinked Wanda's emerald gaze out of your sleepy eyes. Just Wanda. Only Wanda. Wanda Maximoff, red, green and black, a dream and a doom.

Your everyday contemplations then became the shelter of the other girl's tender jadish irises blooming in shades of a cordial green, like the green of spring pastures, and only the Maximoff girl could have been able to capture your attention even when you were within the walls of your own room, away from her piercing vision.

You couldn’t help but glance so assiduously at her when she was wearing nothing but partially buttoned black shirts on her chest and increasingly revealing miniskirts, whose fabric didn't even bother to cover the hollow of her soft, pale thighs worn down in tall, dark stockings.

Like a delightful reverie, she came in a spectral crimson form at night, only to disappear early in the morning sun. Four days were enough for you to bury your face in the middle of your pillow and let out a cavernous and frustrated yell vanish there, in vain trying to engage in a battle already lost since its beginnings against something that.

Like the addictive nicotine contained in the extensions of your countless smoked cigarettes, every cell in your body clamored for more of her. It was as if your lips would bleed if you lacked the taste of her kiss for even one more day.

If Wanda were a witch endowed with mystical gifts, you would sure be bewitched by her addictive charms with an intangible scarlet grip around the outline of your neck – for the length of the halls between class periods, the cafeteria packed with students heads at lunchtime (campaigns for prom royalty were starting to brew little by little) or even on the bleachers smeared out of the faculty buildings by the warm sun, you searched with intent eyes for the slightest trace of her stunning presence, like a hungry dog hunting something down to satisfy its starvation.

And you could barely be sure in your own limping functions of what it was that led you there when it was that your feet, in untied shoes, marched under a stifling blanket of the scorching spring sun, even if the excuse paramount was that you just wanted her brother's company by your side to smoke a cigarette – even if Pietro wasn't into smoking conventional cigarettes at all, just like you also weren’t into smoking what he had to offer either.

Stepping hard on the concrete of the sidewalk without a definite purpose at the heart of your rash actions, like a maze with only one exit, your feet instinctively led you up the two entry steps of the Maximoff residence – the newly painted one storey house that contained within its structures two bedrooms and only one bathroom.

That's where your right index finger, so accurate, searched for the bell to press with the tip of your digit and, after the miserable seconds that followed the act, who came to meet you was that same brunette girl who stole the gift of sleep during the nighttime.

Wanda looked a little different on that scorching Sunday afternoon of sunny skies and wispy clouds sprinkled around the cerulean sky dome, without any hint of dark makeup to adorn the moss-colored puddles that flanked her sharp pupils to be found in her natural beauty, albeit the long coffee-colored strands that were tucked behind the contours of her ears, in the usual casual way she liked to stylish them.

“Y/n?” it was a stunned tone at your offered smile as her chin tilted toward her left collarbone, one corner of a dark brow cocked in an expression nothing short of stupefied, her eyes enlarged in size.

“Hey, hi Wanda. How’re you doing?"

“I–I,” she huffed for a bit, “I'm fine... I'm fine, thank you. You?”

“Oh,” you smiled, “I’m great, thanks.”

Wanda's rosy mouth tightened into a line at your sight, and you couldn't help but notice the fact that the way she shifted her weight from one bare leg to the other beneath the dark material of her front-buttoned skirt, as if she wasn't quite sure what to do there at the door of her own home – surely you weren't a face she expected to find there.

Seconds passed in a slow swoop when a bird hummed in a nearby tree. Wanda just played fidget with the handfuls of rings that adorned the pale extensions of her right fingers, twisting, pulling and touching them with her left fingernails carpeted in dark nail polish chipped at the tips. There was a cigarette leaning behind your right ear.

“So,” you then began rather casually, and your voice drew her attention from her own clean shoes, as the other girl saw herself as being imbued with a somewhat restless silence, “Is Pietro at home? I sent him some texts, but he hasn't replied for a while.”

“No, he… he left a while ago,” she hissed a little too quickly, like a hamster's squeak, “He's grounded. You know, from burning a hole in the pillow that day.”

You cinched a flash of fur between your brows in a funny way, breaking a curious little smirk at the corner of your lips.

“He's grounded,” it was echoed slowly, as if to get your bearings, “But he left...?”

“Yeah,” Wanda shrugged into her plain blouse, “My mom took the afternoon shift at the diner and Lorna went out to play at her friend's house, and he's been bugging me for ages about setting up a date with Monica... and she agreed to go out with him today, so… he went out with her.”

“Huh,” you mumbled thoughtfully, “That's cool, I guess. I mean, he talks about her all the damn time… it’s kinda annoying actually. Even if it’s cute.”

“Yeah,” she half-chuckled, not moving her lips that much, “I know.”

There was a silence that bordered the two of you for a few more seconds as in an intangible fence made of mutual discomposure, a view a bit awkward to witness from afar, almost like a lighthearted conversation taken disinterestedly between two strangers inside a crowded bus or in a long bank line just to pass the time.

Wanda was still fidgeting with her own fingers, soundless in a dull quietness as if a lump stuck in her throat forbade her to speak words to you, and you just unpretentiously shoved the palms of both your hands into the back pockets of your baggy jeans, your side teeth nibbling the flesh on the inside of your cheeks as you did.

“I,” you muttered under your breath, nodding your head at an unasked question, filling the gap of silence between you and Wanda, “I think I'm gonna go home then—”

“You–you can wait for him here if you want!”

You blinked for a second, lifting your eyebrows to the middle of your forehead, almost touching your hairline. Wanda's pink lower lip was pressed between a wall of her upper teeth, and her cheeks flushed with a remarkable heat. Cute, you thought with yourself. So goddamn cute, oh my God... you wanted to hold her in your arms just to place a warm kiss in the middle of her forehead skin.

“Fine,” was a casual agreement, “I'd like to stay, then. If that doesn't bother you, of course.”

She then shrugged, “No, being alone at home is kinda boring sometimes. And, well,” her right fingertips swept behind her ear a strand of hair that had come loose from its previous spot there, “You… you're cool, Y/n.”

Your lips tightened when, even with her head aiming halfway down the floor, Wanda looked at you in a flash of moss green that flowered between her dark, thick, heavy doll-like lashes. Into the crop top you wore over your shoulders, your chest heaved and deflated severely against your ribs.

“Right. You're cool too, Wanda.”

She smiled in a singularly kind way because you did too, before closing the door behind you as you entered your newfound hostess's house together. As you passed close to her shoulder, there was the scent of strawberry shampoo and a cheap, lightly woody perfume like cinnamon that intoxicated your bloodstream as the scent wafted through your nostrils.

There was at you core the stimulating temptation of your perceptions to stick the tip of your nose through her long locks, only to further indulge your senses with her scent, but you held back your actions before skidding into a lapse of daring to definitely do it.

“You... You want something to eat?” Wanda spoke a little tenderly, half-cumbersomely even, not sneaking a glance at your face as you followed her into the walls of the small house, “I baked a cake.”

“Wait, wait, you cook?” you turned your gaze to the girl next to your left shoulder, who let a chaste smile crack between her lips.

“Well,” she muttered, “Sometimes, yeah. Not as often as I would like to, though. It's usually only when Lorna asks me to do it.”

“Cool,” you reciprocated her small grin, “I'd like a slice, if it's not too much trouble.”

When you went to sit on the springs of the dark sofa, out of the way of Wanda, who in turn headed for the nearby kitchen, your eyes proceeded to a small square television set in the corner of the room, above a somewhat rustic wooden furniture with silver handles, which on its monochromatic screen flashed a reprised episode of some old sitcom in shades of an artificially colored image like in one of those advertising flyers from sixty years ago.

Wanda came over to you a few minutes later all filled with a corny, fun-to-watch script between a blonde actress and a tall actor wearing a suit, in rather quick strides in her converse sneakers, carrying with her, in her right hand, a glass plate that contained a generous slice of white cake that looked like a feather-flavored pastry.

“Here,” she then handed you the utensil that was gladly accepted by your hands along with a grateful smile on your face, before sitting in the sofa to your right, with her bare knees joined together like a pair of magnets.

“Thanks, really. But hey, Bewitched, huh?” With a jerk of your chin, you pointed at the television in the corner of the room, under the open glass window that let aureate glimmers of a cozy sunlight take over the room.

Wanda acquiesced with a nod that shuddered her soft, dark locks, her lips twisted into a shy little smile. The rehearsed laughter of an unseen audience cluttered the four walls of the living room.

“Yeah, my mom always liked all that old American stuff when I was a kid, so I guess it got passed on to me somehow,” she finally looked at you, sounding even a little more undisturbed when engaged in narration about her most intimate tastes.

“I mean, Pietro doesn't like it very much… he says it's boring. And Lorna is just too small to pay attention to anything that lasts longer than five minutes, so… someone had to keep my mom company when she got home late from work. But it never bothered me, really. I... I like sitcoms.”

When a chuckle escaped between your parted lips at her own revelation, Wanda soon tried to justify herself in a quick, slurred speech, like a sinner validating her confessions in the eyes of the Lord.

“I–I mean, I, I know it's silly, but–”

“Hey, who said it's silly?” you offer her a succinct, complacent look that has her reaching for a sip of oxygen, “That's actually pretty sweet of you, Wanda.”

“You… You really think so…?” she looked at you, waiting for a hesitant answer.

“Well, yeah,” you shrugged, “My mom used to watch these old sitcoms all the time too when I was younger. So I think it's cool. It's really nice of you, Wanda.”

“Right,” there was a blistering twinge that brushed her pale cheeks, as her lips echoed a “Cool,” rather pleased with herself.

The tines of the tip of the aluminum fork in your possession, then pressed between the face of your right index finger and thumb, made to dip and break the loose dough of the plump cake placed right on top of the small plate that was supported by your left hand, before taking a significant amount of the sweet dessert so that it could be taken all the way up to your half-open mouth.

You hummed fortunately against the softly sweet taste on the face of your tongue. It was delicious on the palate, in fact, still warm as if fresh from the oven, with a comforting touch of nostalgia for something you had never experienced before – it was as if Wanda was sharing a tiny fraction of her Sokovian childhood with you. It tasted of sunny country afternoons and homemade desserts dotted with a coat of maternal affability. Tasted like pure, simple happiness of old infantile days to the sharpest feeling of the sentence.

Realizing that you were indeed eating something she had so selflessly prepared just a few minutes earlier, an emerald spotlight with an expectant green gaze engaged your facial expressions, as in an analysis project by Wanda, whose subject matter of study was none other than yourself.

“Man, this is really, really good!” it was a cry bordered by a half-child affinity, before you went back to reaching for more of the cake with the tines of your fork.

“You liked it?” Wanda's face glowed with exultant euphoria, shimmering a veil of pale green on her pretty irises, “It’s ptichye moloko, my mom used to bake it all the time when Pietro and I were kids back in Novi Grad.”

“Right, don't tell her I said that but I'm sure yours is better.”

“What?!” Wanda smiled a little dumbfounded, as her left shoulder bumped against your right bicep in a light-hearted way, witty in her comfortable good-humor that was slowly unfolding in front of you, “You haven't even tasted hers, Y/n!”

“Yeah, sorry, but as much as I’d be willing to literally die for your mom's cooking, you baked it, so I'm automatically sure yours is better.”

The high flesh of her cheeks burned in deep shades of rosy-crimson at your utterly sincere statement.

After a few episodes of the old television series (no less than five, but certainly more than two and a half), with the walls of your stomach already satisfied in your abdomen with that generous piece of cake made with a strictly followed recipe in the traditional Sokovian style, Wanda's gaze, who was then chuckling softly at some harmless silly joke made by the main character, dropped to your right profile, burning the bone in your jaw in scheming thoughts.

“When did you start smoking?”

Sweeping your eyes away from the colorful figures on the television, you glanced at the girl sitting next to you, finding a pretty face brightening before your gaze, “Sorry, what?”

“Your cigarette,” her index finger pointed at the small cylindrical object blistered behind your ear, skimming against your silver earrings, “When did you start smoking? If... if you don't mind talking about it, of course. Sorry if I'm being invasive."

“Oh, that,” you recalled suddenly from the presence of your addiction, bringing your right fingers to pick it up between your digits.

“It’s okay, I don't mind talking about it. But... I think it's been a while, actually. When my mom left my dad started smoking again and, well... I wanted to sneak some from him to see what it was like. About two years ago or so, I guess. Something like that."

You shrugged it off, because the matter had been over for longer than you cared to remember, and there wasn't much you could do if your mom just didn't want to stay anymore. But a warm grip slid across your skin as Wanda's right hand settled over the bare skin of your forearm, and there the tip of her thumb gave a cordial caress in affectionate circular motions, when her eyelids flicker so courteously into your face.

She was just a sweet girl after all, albeit under dark, torn clothes and dangling chains. Such a virtuous soul in the face of the oppressions of such an overwhelming world. When your eyes locked in midair, one trying to understand the glimmering behind the other, even the rehearsed lines coming from the television in the corner weren't enough to loosen the knot that was tied between you and Wanda.

“I… I get it, Y/n,” she mussed, leaning a little closer to your body, “I mean… it was hard when my dad left as soon as we arrived in the country. Quite hard, actually. My mom, she... she bought wine, for a while. Lots of wine bottles. I mean, she's better now, but I think that's when Pietro started doing... those things he does.”

The girl nibbled on her lower lip, and you, up close, just followed her with your eyes as she did.

“I didn't mean to bring you bad memories, it's just that...” her voice trailed off, getting smaller and smaller, as the tips of her ears reddened like two ripe peppers, “You... you look pretty when... when you smoke.”

Your heart missed a beat, and the oxygen just became unpalatable there inside that scrawny room filled with some disembodied laughter chuckled by the television set long forgotten in its sunny corner.

Setting the unsmoked cigarette aside, your right hand then dared to reach up on your forearm to search for what you've been searching for in the last few months, just snuggling your open palm against Wanda's soft cheek where, like the caresses bestowed by her finger, your own thumb tried to stroke a tiny freckle high up on her sharp cheekbone.

“Hey, look at me,” you asked in a tone bathed in tenderness, which she matched in a trace of pale green in her flickering irises, “It's okay Wanda, you didn't do anything wrong, don't worry about it. And on top of that," you half-giggled, “I think you're pretty too, you know.”

The thick dark lashes flickered out of her eyes, a half-formed mantilla of limping anguish, setting the stage for a color imbued with traces of what would be dizzying hope, flushing bright red on the pale alabaster skin of her accentuated face.

“You think I'm pretty...?”

“Of course I think so,” you nodded, your pupils dilated in close juncture with hers.

“You're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen, Wanda. I wish I could make you laugh every day of my life just to see you smiling. Your... your smile is beautiful. And the way you sit and fiddle with your hair, or the way you care so much about everyone… everything about you is beautiful. Not a single day goes by that I don't notice how beautiful you are.”

She swallowed when you did too; an abyssal gaze that slanted magnetically down your face, to the outline of your lips as close to hers as they were.

“Can I…” she breathed beneath her ruffled voice, “Can I kiss you, Y/n? I really want to kiss you...”

What happened next, on the initiative of a Wanda who didn't even wait for half a second when you nodded in restraint, was a needy kiss that tasted like cake, cinnamon, cigarettes and, at the end, a hint of crystalline need not contained. Your upper teeth kind of clashed with each other at first, though that didn't stop you or Wanda, who just hooked her gentle fingers into the outline of the skin on your neck. Your brain needed oxygen, but your chest just needed her; her touch, her tongue, her red.

“Please,” Wanda mussed with her swollen lip against your, her eyes heavy, warm air caressing the pulp of the commission in your mouth, “Please tell me this is as important to you as it is to me.”

“It is,” you muttered, going back to more of the taste of her tongue, “God, Wanda, you don't know how long I've been wanting to do this…”

The girl kissed you again with excruciating need, as if she really wanted to keep your soul tied to hers between the flicks of your tongues, as you felt the commission of her lips against yours twitch in a goofy smile, both hands roaming in search of the strands of your hair to hold them between her fingers, as if she wanted to breathe in from them the scent of cigarettes that so soothed her heart.

Wanda ran her hands down the length of your back, the roll of frigid rings feeling icy against your warm, bristly skin, hugging you around the waist as you wrapped your arms around her waist, your noses touching, mirrored smiles on your lips broken by kisses that were increasingly equipped with a mutual meaning that pointed to a need pulsing in your veins.

“Can I...?” she understood the meaning behind your little question when your left palm brushed lightly against her enclosed breast, covered by the thin material of her dark blouse.

“Yes...” was a breathy sigh, “P–please, yes...”

There was consent in a tiny nod of the head, and a tiny groan breathed out from the back of her throat that reverberated through your bones as you pressed your palm lightly against her mound, one erect nipple protruding behind the fabric for, there, you've found her lacking the material of a bra to slip between your skin and hers, massaging the warm, soft flesh between the lengths of your cunning fingers.

“Fuck Wanda,” you groaned because she did too, “You're so beautiful…”

You just can't help but do it when your teeth came into contact with the pale sensitive skin of Wanda's throat, where you captured between your lips a pinkish lump of flesh glistening with a thin layer of sweat and buffed it with the tip of your tongue as if it were just a sweet dessert, feeling the burning saccharinity of the girl's naked skin as the caresses aimed at her breast became somewhat more continuous and erratic in the movements of your left forearm.

But you caught yourself surprised, when you felt a gentle grip on both your shoulders and saw that Wanda, with care as if handling the most fragile of flowers, was pulling you to fit over her, guiding you to the top.

She laid the length of her spine against the inconvenient length of the sofa, causing your wandering eyes to land on the piece of alabaster skin that had become exposed as the hem of her blouse rose, revealing, there, a band of abs marked by tiny dots sprinkled here and there, like a particular galaxy.

“You're so fucking beautiful, Wanda” was said between kisses and strokes of tongue over Wanda's abdomen, when you writhed inside the clothes that seemed too stuffy for her there, laying under your body.

“Y/n...” she moaned, but there was no word that could complement your own name whispered through her peachy lips.

Blood burned hot on the sharp red cheeks of Wanda's ivory face, her lids closed as if to hold back the tears of arousal that threatened to slip down her doll face. The rosebud mouth with the brief traces of your lustrous saliva was, every now and then, moaning in the form of a shy, smothered request.

Her lips were apparently forming delusional words, but your conscience no longer registered them, because you were too busy just watching her. Wanda was rosy, dusted with droplets of sweat, covered by the veil of ardor without realizing she was surrounded by a red haze of lust. Perfect, really. Your fingers hooked on the hem of her dark blouse, and in a slow flick of your wrist you pulled it over as you tucked the garment under Wanda's bared collarbones, revealing a pair of bare breasts there.

Watching with delight the flushed girl's unrestricted enjoyment of her satisfying freedom from the pieces of cloth that covered her silhouette, you propped yourself up on your elbows for a voluptuous view of full breasts partially covered by cascades of dark hair, blushing breasts in its perfect contours, of clear and erect nipples which you found yourself seized by a desire to squeeze between your lips and encircle it between your tongue.

However, as you threatened to resume the posture so that he could have those desirable breasts between your teeth, Wanda put a hand on your collarbone, preventing you before you even completed the act. You blinked at her face, lifting your head.

“Are you okay…?" you whispered, to which Wanda only looked away with her dark green gaze to the side, “Wanda, what is it…?”

“It's just that I've never,” she stifled, but at your encouraging gaze, something in her compelled to continue her speech, “I've never done… you know, that… with anyone… before.”

You bit your bottom lip. Well, fuck.

“It… It's all right. I've only done it once or twice, too, and I don't think one of them even counted properly,” and then, a hesitant half second passed, as you looked at her again, “You… do you want me to stop here? I don't mind stopping if you want me to. I want this to be pleasurable for you, not that you feel pressured to do it.”

“No, it's just that,” Wanda looked at you with two dark pools outlined in earnest green, pink eyelids and puffy lips, “Could this… not be a one time thing? I… I don't want to do it if it's just a one time thing.”

Your heart rose high in your chest as the idea dawned on you that Wanda wanted more than you did because you were willing to do what she wanted.

You just smiled small as you brought your face close to hers; you studied her carefully in a brief sunny moment (your crush, half-naked and fragile, had a lock of dark hair falling over her forehead and her brows furrowed, but her eyes were simple and sincere), drinking in her radiant red beauty like a drug addict – the feminine silhouette splashed with sun and, in a way, even with a synoptic veil of purity that accompanied your muse in the utopian world of dreams, like a poor helpless girl.

Gently, you kissed the corner of her rosy mouth.

“It was never intended for this to be a one time thing, Wanda,” you kissed her again, and then again and again, “I… I really like you, you know? I... I care about you. Much more than you can imagine, I promise.”

“I like you too, Y/n,” she mussed in a low voice, her forehead pressed against yours, “Really like you.”

But then, your touch approached the hollow of her groin.

“Y/n...” Wanda's tone softened, as if she was slightly embarrassed, “Y/n, please...”

“You touched yourself before, Wanda?”

The middle of her legs fluttered as it was that, even if in a partially measured way, Wanda just nodded shyly, her warm forehead still touching yours.

“Damn, you're so hot… so hot, pretty girl…”

Mouth wide and swollen, you let out a knowing smile, and gently lowered your head in a languid, lingering action, a withdrawn ecstasy making you feel compelled to bring your full lips to Wanda's soft mouth, who returned you in a wavering and sloppy kiss.

Making yourself helpful, you dipped your fingers towards the legs not completely closed under the hem of the other girl's skirt, locating between them, shrouded by the thin silk of an underwear, the fragile and swollen aroused clit, inciting a delicious moan that popped out of the girl's mouth to crash into your parted lips.

Your mouth throbbed at the sight of her like this, the gloomy, empty pupils doubling in size at the work of art that was born out of Wanda's orgasmic experience – her dark hair swept back in a purely sensual gesture, the tight mouth swallowing desperately sucking in a hiss of air, the length of her pale neck completely exposed. Her round, perfect breasts with erect nipples of a strong rosy hue, her eyelids closed and her dark brows furrowed. So desirable. So intoxicating.

You wanted to have her right there, on that little couch that would be the witness of your willingness to give her everything you had in you. You increased the pressure on Wanda's little bundle of nerves through the rising damp garment, almost even torturing her at your whim, only to see her writhe beneath your own body and groan indecently and disconnected.

A yelp was raised as your mouth closed around her right nipple, which you pampered for a while, still lingering in your low caresses, until you migrated to the other to lick and suck it into the hollow of flesh inside your cheeks. But something in you wanted more; you wanted to taste her, feel her run down your throat. And she shivered in anticipation as your mouth sailed south of her body, fitting your nose beneath her dark skirt.

“Red, huh,” you thought aloud, at the tiny wet wedge of clothing that was the only barrier erected between you and Wanda's source of pleasure; a thin lacy panty of crimson fabric, whose middle gained wet tones that made it darker at that specific point, “It suits you.”

Fingers tightened in a firm grip on the ridge of your scalp as you placed a chaste kiss on Wanda's clit, albeit over the fabric of her panties, who choked on a sudden loud yelp.

“Y/n, fuck–!”

“I don't think I've ever heard you curse like this before,” you mussed, licking the skin of your own lips, “This is new. I'll take them off, okay? Wanna taste you.”

You threaded your fingers around the inside of Wanda's black skirt, and bringing the straps of the red underwear to you, you had the girl completely naked, exposed, desirable, as soon as you moved your elbows and made your way towards what you were looking for.

From that intimate region flowed a honey of pleasure, exhaling a bittersweet odor, pink as the inside of a strawberry, bringing water to your predatory mouth. Wanda's fidgety pale legs were spread apart, and her partially shaved pussy was on display. You took your index and middle fingers to the sensitive area, and dragging the tip against the entire pink and wet extension of the inside of Wanda's labias, you collected the viscous liquid with strong flavor, drawing a strangled moan from the other girl.

You brought your smeared middle finger to your lips, fervently sucking Wanda's nectar, tasting just as you supposed it would be on the tip of your tongue; as addictive as the nicotine in your cigarette. You took them out of your mouth with a violent pop, only to then unroll your tongue to slide it into the other girl's untouched hole, which pulsed and throbbed, rubbing against the purest nothingness.

Wanda moaned, dripping against your chin. Your pace was slow at first, but you searched for more of her, and Wanda gave you what you wanted. She squirmed and grunted and squeezed your hair between her fisted hands, tangling them in the circulation of her silver rings. And your tongue wasn't very experienced indeed, but you knew what to do. The tip of your right index finger pressed against the rosy entrance as your head came out from under her skirt.

“Can I put in…?”

You felt her cunt pulse against your digit.

“Y-yes,” she yelped, “Please–!”

You kissed the inside of her thigh before carefully dipping your finger into that warm grip. And there was some resistance at first, her furrowed brow glistening in a layer of sweat, and you kept your wrist steady when it was when you again got on top of Wanda, who buried her head in your chest as you did.

“It hurts?” you asked against her ear, and she just shook her head in a hesitant move.

“N–no, but it's... it's weird,” she sighed, “I never... when–when I did, I never...”

“It's okay, pretty girl” you kissed her hair, “Gonna move now, okay? Let me know if it hurts or if you want me to stop.”

A cunning finger reached across Wanda's intimate region, reaching for what you begged to be reached, making its way towards what it sought, and, as an inevitable consequence, penetrated her through her point of entry.

In the face of the action, Wanda arched her entire spine, splitting a visceral groan from her vocal cords – for she had barely become familiar with the finger when the movement began, giving her something new to feel.

You skimmed her, filled her and understood her as nothing more than a girl with needs (needs that only yours could supply). Then Wanda squeaked; the hungry hands for something to keep within themselves searched for your shoulder blades tucked inside your crop top, and there, over your back muscles, the nails dyed in black dug breaking into the skin. Your foreheads supported each other, because during the carnal act, each other was just what you both had and what you both were.

Your forearm pumped down Wanda's skirt towards a hot, dripping grip, and as you hooked your single finger inside her tight walls, there was a moan from the other girl as you kissed it back down the inside of her throat. You kissed her sweaty forehead, then the prominent cheekbone of her flushed cheek, and a sliver of skin down the tip of her jawbone.

“Here?” touching her on a specific spot that caused a dizzying reaction, that's what you asked.

“Y–yes, please don't stop Y/n, please don't stop, please... I–I, I'll–”

“Fuck, come for me, pretty girl.”

“Y/n!”

Her velvety walls squeezed your finger before Wanda came in a loud weeping moan against your ear, pressing you against her body as if this were the last day on Earth, and she would never see you again. Silently, you just held her back, inhaling her scent from the shirt balled up over her exposed chest. You just stayed there, drinking from the moment, because you belonged to her.

The serenity that came from the unspoken heartbeats coming from Wanda's breastplate was enough to establish, at your core, the most complete and genuine feeling of latent rest that you could bear.

With your eyes closed, the room immersed in a pool of accentuated silence, you were able to hear her breathing for much longer than you could count, as she brought you unparalleled peace and immeasurable calm as nothing else had done before. She was there, and she was yours.

With your head resting on the girl's chest, lying on top of Wanda was like basking in a ray of sunlight – tender and cordial like coming home after a long journey.

The unclothed skin superimposed over the open palms of both your hands was warm and sunny, as smooth as the finest silk, and your hips were hitched in a precise, if not perfect fit—the remnants of the apex ascended in a moment of pleasure smeared the inner sides of her thighs, like a ghost of what had once been the height of the carnal act in which you were so vividly engaged minutes before.

The austere digits of your fingers amused themselves with ruffling the ends of her dark hair, cradling them around your index and middle fingers, until finally Wanda descended from her apex, her chest heavy beneath your face.

“Y/n,” she called out to you, as the seconds ticked by and the minutes settled in, “I think I wanna date you.”

Because you couldn't help but smile at such a modest return, bordering the ethereal innocence of a legitimate child, you brought your mouths together so that you could press, to the pearly lips of Wanda, a long, tongueless kiss. You ended it only to laugh, the tip of your own nose brushing the other girl's.

“You think?”

“I-I’m sure of it,” she blushed.

“I wanna date you too, Wanda,” you confessed, even though it wasn't a secret, “Is that okay with you?”

“Yeah...” she smiled – weakly and languorously when in a wave of post-orgasm fatigue, but still a genuine and sincere smile, “Yeah, it is. You’re cute.”

“Nah, pretty girl,” you shrugged, “You’re cute. I’m… something else. I’m a freak.”

“No, no, don’t say that. You’re the most beautiful girl that I’ve ever seen, Y/n,” she whispered, “And I wanna kiss you again.”

“Well, then,” you smiled towards her jadish irises, “Let me do the honors, pretty girl.”

In such a way, you approached Wanda so that you could kiss her jaw, while your hands, clasped between the sofa and the shoulder blades of your beloved, held her in a soft and pleasant embrace. Then you kissed Wanda on the patch of skin that joined her neck to her shoulder, her collarbone and her throat. And on her lips, over and over again.

And neither of you, in that newly found little bubble of love in each other's arms, even heard the front door open.

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mutanthex · 2 years

Text

Scarlet Witch! By artist @iminpainrz on Twitter.

Inspired by her Romani Heritage.

#wanda maximoff #scarlet witch #marvel cinematic universe #wandavision #x-men #marvel comics #marvel mcu #mutants #vision #the avengers #pietro maximoff #marvel #magneto #erik lensherr #quicksilver #agatha harkness #billy kaplan #tommy shepherd

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hocuspocusbabyy · 2 years

Text

Wanda: *Eating m&ms and watching the movie*

Y/N: *a little intoxicated, gazing obsessively at Wanda*

Y/N: “YOU’RE GOING TO BE SUCH A MILF”

Vision: 👀

Agatha: 🤨

Nat: 🤷🏻‍♀️

Pietro: ☺️

Wanda: “Uhm thank you?”

#wanda maximoff #fanfiction #natasha romanoff #black widow #avengers #wandavision #wanda x yn #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff x reader #agatha harkness #inccorrect quotes #inncorrect marvel quotes #pietro maximoff

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cocoabubbelle · 1 year

Text

Magneto: How was school today?

Wanda: It was good, but someone pushed Pietro off the seesaw.

Magneto: And where were you?

Wanda: I was over on the bench.

Magneto: And what did you do?

Wanda: Nothing. I was over on the bench.

Magneto: And you saw what happened?

Wanda: Yeah, ‘cause I was over on the bench.

Magneto: So you saw what happened, and you did nothing?

Wanda: Yeah, ‘cause I was sitting over on the bench.

Magneto: Let me ask you this. In Nazi Germany…

Pietro: *speeds out of discussion faster than the speed of light*

Magneto: When people saw what the Nazis were doing and did nothing, were those good people?

Wanda: Uh, no. Those were bad people. You gotta stop the Nazis.

Magneto: But you saw what they were doing to Pietro, and you did NOTHING.

Wanda: ‘CAUSE I WAS OVER ON THE BENCH!

Magneto: …Just explain to me this. How are YOU better than a NAZI?

Agatha Harkness: *intervenes b4 WW3 breaks out between these two* I made a salad with craisins!

#shenanigans #xmen evolution #x men evolution #xmen #x men #marvel #marvel xmen #magneto #erik lensherr #erik lehnsherr #scarlet witch #wanda maximov #quicksilver #pietro maximov #agatha harkness

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thegarden-ofeden · 2 years

Text

wanda maximoff icons “scarlet”

marvel masterlist

ꪶ 🪞 ꫂ ˖ like or reblog, please.

#wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff icons #marvel #pietro and wanda #vision x wanda #wandavision #agatha harkness #tommy maximoff #billy maximoff #doctor strange #multiverse of madness #mcu multiverse #marvel icons #scarlet witch

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sincerethoughtsblog · 2 years

Text

<333

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abduloki · 2 years

Text

Scarlet Witch in X-Men Evolution

Remember that time when both Professor X and Magneto couldn’t handle Scarlet Witch because she was too powerful and angry?

X-Men Evolution S2E17 : Day of Reckoning

Magneto unleashes his evil plot against the X-Men who couldn’t stop him but only to be foiled by Scarlet Witch, the only one who COULD stop him.

She made her grand entrance to her father by zapping her brother, Quicksilver.

X-Men Evolution S2E15 : The Hex Factor

Professor X visits Wanda several times in an attempt to quell her anger before bringing her to the institute but realises it’s much difficult than he thought.

Do you know who was the only one who was able to control her anger?

AGATHA HARKNESS

When I watched Doctor Strange in the Multiverse of Madness, I suddenly remember this animated series of how even Magneto was afraid of her.

#x-men evolution #x-men #professor x #charles xavier #magneto #erik lansherr #quicksilver #pietro maximoff #scarlet witch #wanda maximoff #agatha harkness #marvel #marvel cinematic universe #mcu #doctor strange in the multiverse of madness

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aparticularbandit · 1 year

Note

jealousy prompts

13 w agatha/wanda 💗

jealousy prompts 13) "Oh, so they are just a friend, right? That's what you're telling me?" modified this one slightly in terms of pronoun, but otherwise, it holds.

Vision, Wanda’s husband, has never been particularly interested in her relationship with their next door neighbor. If he’s ever noticed the way Wanda glances at her, he never comments on it, and while on occasion he’s met Agnes’s eyes with a curiously raised brow, he’s never seemed to feel the need to ask her either. He readily accepts that she is over at any hour of the day without warning, and although she has, just before entering through their backdoor with the doghouse, heard him question her coming with whatever they happen to need, it isn’t Agnes that he’s questioning – only Wanda and her perceived control over the world in which they live.

Pietro – fake Pietro – Fietro, on the other hand.

Agatha makes sure to stay out of the way while her puppet does his work, but she can’t help needling the other witch, pressing her to see if she will confess certain other thoughts to the body she currently believes is her brother.

Particularly when Fietro catches Wanda glancing over to Agatha’s – Agnes’s – house one too many times.

“You keep looking over there a lot, sis.” Fietro looks back to her house, pretends not to see what Wanda is looking for, even though, under Agatha’s control, he knows exactly what she’s looking for. Or who, as the case may be. “You leave something at the house, or—?”

“Oh, no.” Wanda gives a little shake of her head, hands fidgeting together in front of her. “It’s just.” Her nose scrunches up, and she looks back at Agnes’s house again, head tilting. “You haven’t happened to see Agnes today, have you?”

Fietro blinks. “Who’s Agnes?”

Agatha has fun with him. Honestly. Such fun.

“Oh, she’s just.” Wanda turns back, waves one hand, and then goes back to fidgeting her fingers together. “My next-door neighbor. Babysits the kids a lot. You know Agnes.”

“Never met her.” Fietro shrugs. As they keep walking, as he – as Agatha through him – notices Wanda look back again, he knocks into her. “She special or something?”

Wanda shakes her head again, turns back to front. “No. Of course not.”

“Because you’re acting like she’s special.”

“I’m married—”

“Oh, she’s that kind of special.” Fietro’s eyes widen. He grins and gives a nod of approval. “Right on, little sis.” His hand clenches into a fist, and he holds it up for a fist bump.

“No, no, no.” Wanda waves her hands in front of her. “It’s not like that! That’s what I meant!”

Fietro raises an eyebrow. “Oh, so she’s just a friend right? That’s what you’re telling me?” His grin grows smug, and Agatha moves him – he speeds around in front of Wanda, walks backwards, but leans forward when he says, “So you can set me up, right? Your bro needs a good pal, if you get what I’m saying.”

Immediately, Wanda’s eyes blaze scarlet. One of her hands moves from where they’ve been fidgeting together, and her fingers crackle in the way that they do when she conjures up one of her scarlet blasts. Still, she holds back. “No,” she says, teeth gritted together. “She’s mine.”

Agatha, looking through Fietro’s eyes, licks her lips. Yours, hon? She opens FIetro’s mouth as though to say something, but the script changes, the world rewinds itself. Fietro speeds backwards, everything speeds backwards, as Wanda prepares to rewrite the entire exchange. It doesn’t matter. Agatha will still remember all of it.

She especially notices when, just before Wanda sets the world going again, she glances back to what she thinks is Agnes’s house and whispers, not expecting to be heard, “Where are you? You’re supposed to be helping with the kids.” Her lips press together in a thin little line. “Is everyone just going to abandon me? On Halloween?” She sighs, pinches the bridge of her nose, and then waves her hand, starting the show back in motion.

“Oh, my poor dear,” Agatha says as she leans back in her car, fully focused on Wanda and her fake twin while still maintaining an eye on whatever it is Vision is happening to do, “I would never abandon you. You are much too….” One corner of her lips curves upward. “…appetizing.”

#anonymous #bandit fic #bandit answers questions #wanda maximoff #agatha harkness #wandagatha #wagatha #harximoff #wanda maximoff x agatha harkness #agatha harkness x wanda maximoff #wandavision #mcu #vision #vision mcu #mcu vision #pietro maximoff

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noonecares915 · 2 years

Text

How can someone be so seductive, yet so cute?

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ginnsbaker · 9 months

Text

In Losing Grip On Sinking Ships (17 - I/22)

Chapter summary: Natasha visits Wanda; You reach your breaking point at the end of a night after trying to understand why Wanda ever betrayed you

Chapter A word count: 6.1k | Warnings: Heavy angst, heavy drinking, toxic relationships, profound sadness | Ship: Wanda x Female Reader

Author's note: Decided to split Chapter 17 into two parts because it got too long in the end. Enjoy!

AO3 | Masterlist

Next Part: Seventeen - Part Two

Seventeen - Part One

For the third consecutive time, Wanda skips her therapy session.

She leaves Calliope's calls unanswered, letting them go straight to voicemail (and cowardly deleting the messages without listening to them), and as a result, her therapist stops trying to contact her by the end of the week.

Facing Calliope or putting up with her sensible talks is too much for Wanda right now. She doesn’t want other voices in her head right now. She wants to listen to her heart this time. And it’s saying that you need her right now despite how it might affect her progress.

Wanda hadn't intended to stop going to her sessions altogether. She had, in fact, confirmed for Tuesday, but you showed up at her apartment once again the night before, and, well, one thing led to another. You both ended up so wiped out that she didn't stir until nearly noon. By that time, two hours have slipped by, and her session with Calliope might as well be considered canceled.

Since she's handed over the weekday cafe opening duties to Peter, Wanda doesn't need to be there at the break of dawn anymore. But this also has its downside; there isn't enough inventory prepped for the full day's rush. This leaves her drowning in work from midday right up until closing time.

The way this arrangement saps her energy and leaves her feeling more fatigued than usual is hardly beneficial, yet—

Yet, it's hard for her to harbor any regrets when she feels your comforting warmth cocooned against her back, your body spooning hers, your gentle snores vibrating softly against her skin. In these snatched moments, she can delude herself into believing that the ring she now wears around her neck should rightfully still be on her finger.

She can pretend that you're still unequivocally hers, and all the traumatic events of the past year are merely fragments of an extended, horrendous nightmare.

It's turning into a routine. You'd show up unannounced, stay until dawn. Once the post-coital haze clears, Wanda tries to nudge you both into discussing what all this means. But as soon as she utters the words, "can", "we", and "talk"—in that exact order—you're heading for the door with a speed that's hard to believe.

But after enduring another week of this unsettling routine, Wanda finally convinces herself that today, she's going to get some answers.

And with that plan in place, she repositions herself on the bed, turning to face you. Looking at your innocent sleeping face, she second-guesses her resolve, opting to postpone the looming confrontation just a bit longer.

Gently, almost reverently, she lets her finger trace the contours of your face. She starts at the bridge of your nose, moves down to your slightly parted lips, then to your neck, and finally your collarbone. It seems to protrude more than she remembers, hinting that you've lost weight. This realization stirs guilt in her, as she acknowledges she's partly to blame.

Her cautious touch eventually rouses you, and she observes as your eyelashes flutter before your eyes slowly open. For a moment, you look disoriented even as your eyes meet her clear green ones. You blink up at her as if you don’t recognize the woman you’re in bed with, but then, as recognition sets in, you nestle closer to her and tuck your head beneath her chin, seeking shelter from the daylight filtering through the slatted blinds.

“I can hear you thinking,” you murmur, your breath whispering across her neck, a spot particularly ticklish for Wanda.

She stifles her giggles, and the resulting tremors resonate against your forehead. The sound is sweet, familiar, and it conjures up memories of moments you've longed for. But it also accentuates the odd situation you're in right now, sharing a bed with your ex-wife, skirting around the glaring issue between you.

“Can you?” Wanda retorts with a teasing tone in her voice, her fingers idly tracing patterns on your arm. “I think we–”

“Need to talk?” you finish her sentence offhandedly.

A nervous laugh slips from Wanda. “So you can read my thoughts. Can you guess what I want to talk about?”

You grow quiet, giving the impression that you're attempting to actually read her mind. But then you pull away from Wanda's warmth and she immediately senses the shift in the air. Instinctively, she yanks the sheets up to cover her bare chest, suddenly feeling very vulnerable.

“I have an idea,” you finally say, your humorless smile straining at the corners. The amusement in your eyes has disappeared, replaced by a heavy, unreadable look. Wanda waits for you to go on, but it becomes increasingly clear that coaxing your thoughts into words will require a lot more effort.

Wanda hesitates, her words sticking in her throat like stubborn boulders. She swallows hard, mustering her courage. “We need to talk about this, Y/N. We can't keep... This can't go on like this.”

“Like what, Wanda?” you ask, your tone edging towards sarcasm. “Like how we've started sleeping together again? Or about how we've conveniently skipped over the reason we divorced? Or the fact that you cheated on me–with a fucking video to prove it?” Your words hang heavy in the air, the accusation clear in your voice. “Or maybe how I cheated on Yelena with you?”

Wanda recoils. This confrontation is as painful as she'd imagined, but she knows it's necessary.

“If we need to tackle all that, then sure. I’m ready to talk through them with you.” Wanda says.

“You always make things sound so easy, Wanda,” you say, sitting up on the bed, the sheets pooling at your waist as you turn to face her. “'Let's just talk,' you say, as if talking can magically make everything better.”

Wanda winces at your words, the hurt visible in her eyes. “I'm not saying that talking will solve everything, but it's a start.”

“A start? We're way past the start, Wanda," you snap, your voice rising with your growing frustration. “We're neck-deep in this mess and I… I don't even know how we ended up here,” you trail off, talking more to yourself than to her by the end.

Wanda absorbs your frustration, taking a deep breath before she responds. “You're right,” she admits, her voice a soft plea against the harsh edges of your argument. “We're deep into this mess, and we both contributed to it.”

The admission hangs in the air between you, a bitter truth acknowledged. But she doesn’t let it linger for too long. Instead, she pushes forward, trying to bridge the widening chasm between you.

“But we don't have to stay stuck here,” she insists, her gaze holding yours. “We can work on it–together. Regaining trust isn't going to be a walk in the park. I know it's hard, it's... it's daunting. But it's not impossible.”

You're silent, the word ‘trust’ bearing down on you. Wanda’s gaze feels heavy, too full of hope. But you don't respond, your features etched in stubborn resolve. She’s trying to make you see something that maybe you no longer have faith in. You can’t give her what she’s asking.

Her expression falls, as she reads your lack of response correctly. There's a small, choked noise from her throat before she manages to whisper, “Is it because you think you'll never be able to trust me anymore?”

There's a beat of silence as you process her question, the pain of her words seeping deep into your bones, but you can't bring yourself to deny it. “I don't know, Wanda,” you admit quietly, honesty lacing every word. “I don't know if I can.”

The words hit harder than Wanda was expecting, and she flinches as if struck. She knew it was the truth, but hearing it from your mouth was another thing altogether.

“I’m just gonna go.” you say after some time.

“Sure,” she says tightly, her eyes becoming stony. Wet. “That's the only thing you're good at, isn't it?”

You say nothing as you retrieve your clothes from the floor.

Wanda’s hand hovers mid-air, aching to reach out to you, to hold you back. But she refrains, lets it fall to her side. “If you walk out that door, don't bother coming back unless you're ready to work through this,” she declares firmly .

You pause at her words, your back still turned to her. The silence that follows is heavy, pregnant with tension that seems to seep into the walls, the furniture, the very air around you. Then, a bitter laugh escapes you.

“You enjoy this, don't you?” you ask, finally turning to face her. Your expression is ruthless, your eyes devoid of any warmth that used to be there when you looked at her. “You like that I keep coming back to you, don't you?”

Wanda's jaw tightens at your accusation. It strings, but she doesn't say anything else that she might regret later. She merely meets your gaze, her green eyes resolute and unyielding. It's her silent acceptance of your statement, her silent promise that she won't back down this time.

Without another word, you turn and walk out, the door closing behind you with a soft click.

The conversation is done, at least for now.

***

The journey back to your apartment is a blur, consumed by a hollow emptiness that echoes the space once filled by Wanda.

As soon as you push through the door, you make a beeline for the bottle of bourbon left opened in the kitchen from the night before. You're running purely on anger and adrenaline, the aftermath of your argument with Wanda coursing through your veins.

Why couldn't she just leave things as they were? Why did she have to spoil the one thing that was bringing you a modicum of happiness from your suffocating reality? Why did she have to care about you when you’re giving her what she wants?

You take a hefty gulp from the bottle before frantically grabbing your phone. You scroll through your contacts and hit call when you reach Yelena’s name. The call doesn't even go through, instead, a busy signal immediately begins, an all-too-familiar sound. Next, you try Natasha, and while the call connects, it only results in endless ringing, until finally, her automated voicemail message starts.

In a fit of rage, you scream expletives at the top of your lungs. Your anger peaks and in a reckless moment, you hurl your phone against the wall. It shatters with a loud crunch, breaking into countless small parts, clearly beyond repair.

The kiss was a lapse in judgment during a weak moment.

You never slept with Wanda while you were still with Yelena.

Why does it feel like you're being unfairly penalized? Did they never love you like you thought they did? Do you really disgust them so much that they’ll just forget that you exist altogether?

These thoughts gnaw at you, stoking the flames of abandonment, leaving you with a haunting feeling of being easily discarded.

Your heart beats erratically in your chest as you look at the wreckage of your phone. It's a fitting metaphor for your life at this moment—shattered, fragmented, irreparable. You slump down onto the kitchen floor, the chill of the tiles seeping through your pants' fabric, but you barely notice.

This time, drinking remains a problem but caution has been thrown out the window. With the bottle in your hand, you take one long swig after another. The room starts to spin, your vision blurs, and you don't fight it. Instead, you let the waves of oblivion wash over you, your grip on the bottle slackening as you slump against the kitchen cabinets.

Just as you drift into unconsciousness, a beep from your laptop fills the quiet room. It's a new email from your company's HR, asking about your unexpected absences. But with you passed out on the kitchen floor, the urgent email goes unnoticed.

***

The moment Natasha strides into Wanda's café, the world seems to freeze on its axis. Agatha, having heard about your best friend through Wanda, knows this can’t be good for your ex-wife.

Her aura is menacing, enhanced by her leather jacket, and her stern gaze holds a lethal quality that could vaporize everyone in the room if it were possible.

(It’s also incredibly hot, but Agatha has no room to explore that thought when she immediately fetches Wanda, who's been buried in the backroom task of refilling the condiment bottles for each table.)

“Got a visitor out front,” Agatha blurts out, slightly breathless. “I'm pretty sure it's Natasha.”

Startled, Wanda looks up from her crouched position on the floor, a fine dusting of cinnamon, sugar, and other seasonings speckling her figure. “Are you sure?”

“Fiery red hair, a bit intimidating, and strangely attractive,” Agatha elaborates. “I'm absolutely sure it's her.”

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, Wanda gradually pushes up from the floor. “Okay, um…” She pauses, gathering her scattered thoughts. “Alright.”

Agatha practically pushes her forward, making her stumble into the bustling open kitchen where Natasha is nonchalantly leaning against the counter.

With a soft clearing of her throat, Wanda tries to shake off the sudden onslaught of nerves. She pulls herself upright, trying to project a calm she's far from feeling. “Natasha,” she begins, “What can I do for you?”

Natasha fixes her with a piercing gaze. “We need to talk,” she states, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Wanda nods. “Sure, if you could just–”

The words are barely out of her mouth when Natasha spins around, heading for the cafe's exit. Wanda, utterly perplexed, follows her, casting a backward glance at Agatha who responds with an encouraging nod.

As soon as they step onto the sidewalk, Natasha progresses wordlessly, Wanda falling in step behind her. The silent walk stretches for a few minutes until, abruptly, Natasha halts. Wanda finds herself in front of a different coffee shop, one noticeably larger than her own. Without a moment's pause, Natasha steps inside.

Wanda suspects this might be a passive-aggressive move on Natasha's part, choosing to hold their discussion in a competitor's establishment of all places. They navigate to a table tucked away in the corner, and Wanda takes the seat opposite Natasha. Without skipping a beat, Natasha flags down a waiter and places her order, all without so much as a glance in Wanda's direction.

“I hope you don't mind, but their coffee is something of a guilty pleasure,” Natasha remarks, a hint of mischief glinting in her eyes.

“No, not at all,” Wanda replies, forcing a polite smile onto her face. “It's always nice to see what the competition is up to.”

A heavy pause falls between them, and Natasha's gaze sharpens with seriousness. “I didn't invite you here to talk about coffee, Wanda,” she begins, her tone eerily neutral and hard to read. “I'm here to understand why you couldn't let Y/N go.”

Wanda casually picks up the menu on the table. Her eyes scan the menu with small interest, avoiding Natasha’s pointed stare.

“I'm not sure what you're asking, Natasha.”

“I want to know why you couldn't move on from Y/N. Why you have to cling onto her, even after everything that happened. I'm not saying it's entirely your fault that Y/N cheated on Yelena... But why couldn't you just leave them alone?” Natasha's tone is more accusatory now, and her eyes are steely, demanding answers.

The full brunt of Natasha's presence sinks in only now for Wanda, hitting her hard. If Natasha is seeking her out, it suggests she has severed ties with you. A pang of guilt ricochets through her, understanding all too well how much you depended on that friendship, and how deeply it mattered to you.

The far-reaching consequences of one kiss–a kiss that had made Wanda feel incredibly alive–are glaringly clear now. It initiated a domino effect that razed not just your relationship with Yelena, but countless other connections in its path.

“It's... complicated,” Wanda finally confesses, her eyes dropping to the table.

“Is it really that complicated, Wanda?” Natasha counters, her tone harder than she'd meant for it to be. “You and Y/N were married. You messed up, you cheated, and it ended. Why couldn't you just let it be?”

Wanda draws a shaky breath, the bitter truth spoken out loud wounds more than any physical blow.

“I never stopped loving her,” she concedes despite knowing it will fall on deaf ears. As if on cue, the waiter reappears with Natasha's coffee order. Wanda uses the momentary distraction to request a glass of water.

The skepticism in Natasha's eyes intensifies as she leans forward, her arms resting on the table between them. “So you never stopped loving her,” she repeats Wanda's admission with evident disbelief. “Yet, you cheated on her. You agreed to sign the divorce papers. Can you explain how that works?”

Wanda’s green eyes dart away nervously. Until now, she doesn’t have satisfying answers for those questions. And Wanda doesn’t expect anyone to understand when she doesn’t understand them herself–most of all, Natasha.

She and Natasha were never close. But Wanda loved her just the same, knowing how she took care of you and acted like a sister when you have no siblings of your own. Wanda cherished her for that, even though Natasha never quite reciprocated the affection. Their relationship had always been cordial but it had never ventured into the realm of true friendship.

“Look, I didn't understand what was happening to me,” Wanda murmurs softly, her nail absently scratching the table's surface as she tries to explain herself to someone who never genuinely bothered to care about her. “Something was… missing. A void that I couldn't understand or explain. And it kept growing, despite Y/N’s consistent efforts to keep me happy.”

Natasha’s face remains stoic. “So you thought cheating would fill this void?” Her words sound more like a statement than a question.

Wanda winces, but she doesn't deny it. “I thought, maybe, if I could feel something... anything else, it might help. By the time I realized what I had done, what I had thrown away, it was too late.”

Upon hearing this, Natasha shakes her head and lets out a cynical laugh. She folds her arms across her chest in an undeniably condescending manner.

“Do you know why I hate you, Wanda? It’s not just because I’m concerned for Y/N or you ruined, yet again, another relationship. You took away the Y/N I knew. She’s not the same person I grew up with.”

“Don’t you think I don’t know that? She’s been coming to me. She’s a wreck, Natasha. I know how empty she feels if she’s turning to me for reprieve.”

“Why then?” Natasha asks.

“What do you mean by ‘why’?”

“Why do you still want her? You couldn't love her the right way when she was easy to love. What's changed that makes you believe you can now, when she’s just a shell of who she used to be?”

Wanda grits her teeth, her hands balling into fists on her lap, out of Natasha's sight.

“Don’t you think it’s rather hypocritical of you to ask me this? Y-You’ve abandoned Y/N… haven’t you? It’s why you came to me right? Because you left her!” Wanda counters, her voice rising enough to catch the attention of a few customers nearby.

Unfazed by Wanda's impassioned outburst, Natasha simply sits still, her expression remaining unchanged. “You don't know what you're talking about, Wanda,” she says, her tone icier than ever.

“Well, it appears I've hit a nerve,” Wanda retorts, the edges of her lips twitching into a bitter smirk. “Let me make this clear, Natasha. I may have made mistakes in the past, I may have hurt Y/N, but I'm not the one who walked away when she needed someone the most.”

“You think you're what's best for her now?” Natasha shoots back, her eyes flashing with anger. “After all the pain you've caused?”

Seeing Natasha rise from the table, Wanda braces herself for what's coming next. “I need you to understand, Wanda,” Natasha says, her tone laced with a quiet intensity. “I can't pretend that what happened didn't affect me. Y/N lied to me, hurt my sister. And while I want to be there for her, it's difficult–”

“You mean you won't be there for her,” Wanda cuts her off, her voice edged with resentment.

“No,” Natasha implores, her voice shaky around the edges. “I mean it's hard. It's hard to watch someone you care about suffer and know that they played a role in their own pain. And at the same time, of course I'm angry at Y/N for how she treated Yelena and disrespected our friendship as a result. But that doesn't mean I've abandoned her, Wanda. Why the fuck would I see you if I have?”

Wanda flinches at her crudeness. She never intended to question Natasha's care for you or cast judgment on it.

She’s just tired. Tired from the constant need to justify her love for you to those who question it. Tired of having to constantly prove herself. If people choose not to believe her, even as she recognizes and admits to her past errors and shortcomings, then she has to come to terms with the fact that not everyone will forgive her.

But she is determined to earn your forgiveness.

She wants to show you, more than anyone else, that she's changed. That she's learned from her mistakes and that she's capable of loving you the right way this time. You matter to her more than anyone's opinion. Your forgiveness, your acceptance, your love–these are the things she yearns for the most.

“I was wrong,” Wanda admits. “I messed up. I hurt Y/N, and I have to live with that guilt every day. But just because I messed up once doesn't mean I can't try to make things right now. You can be angry all you want about what I did wrong in the past, but at least I’m here for he–”

“And what if you're just making things worse, Wanda? What if you being around is just causing her more pain?” Natasha questions, her hard gaze unwavering.

“I... I don't know,” Wanda admits, looking lost and vulnerable. “But I can't just walk away from her, Natasha. If it turns out that I'm doing more harm than good, I promise I'll step back.”

Natasha's silence stretches on for a moment longer, her cold gaze fixed on Wanda. And then, unexpectedly, a smirk twists her lips. It's not a happy expression, far from it.

“Maybe…” Natasha says, drawing out the word, her tone derisive. “Maybe you two do deserve each other. You with your guilt and her with her... self-destruction.”

Her words linger, a harsh condemnation that has Wanda recoiling. Natasha stands then, leaving her untouched coffee on the table. She throws a handful of bills down, enough to cover the drink and then some.

“As much as I hate to admit it,” Natasha adds, shrugging on her leather jacket, her voice laced with a regret that Wanda can't quite put her finger on, “I hope you can help her. Because god knows, none of us have been able to.”

And with those parting words, Natasha turns, leaving Wanda alone to restructure what being with you truly means now.

***

You don’t come back like she asked you to, and somewhere deep down, Wanda is ashamed to admit she's disappointed.

You were right; she does want you coming back to her every time. But you’re wrong about one thing: she doesn’t enjoy it. She’s worried sick about you. You look like you need help the way she needed help when Pietro discovered her passed out next to an empty bottle of sleeping pills.

She fears that you’re going down the same path she did. And what's worse is that she doesn't know how to stop it. You clearly don't want her help, and she understands why. Trust isn't something one asks from a person they don't believe in. And you don't believe in her.

Wanda picks up her phone and dials Pietro's number, her fingers trembling slightly. They're due for their regular Skype session, but she doesn't feel up to showing her face today.

It only takes two rings before Pietro answers. “Why a call, Wands?” he asks immediately, concern clear in his voice.

“I...I'm not really up for a video call, Piet,” she responds, quickly coming up with a half-hearted excuse about her unstable internet connection. In truth, she knows he’ll be able to tell right away that something is off if she turns on the camera.

“Is that everything?”

“Yes,” Wanda insists.

“And your sessions with Dr. Williams?” Pietro's voice sharpens, clearly not buying her claim. “How are they going?”

Wanda hesitates for a moment before answering. “They're...going,” she admits, though she doesn't elaborate. She doesn't dare to tell Pietro that she's missed a couple of sessions. Her therapy is one of the few things that reassure him from thousands of miles away. He'd only worry more.

Pietro bites back the urge to tell Wanda that Calliope has already informed him of Wanda’s recent non-attendance.

She hears Pietro give a noncommittal hum over the line. It's a simple sound, but it tells her everything. He doesn't believe her. She takes a deep breath, gearing up for her next revelation.

“I...I've been seeing Y/N again,” she reveals, words rushing out in a hasty jumble. There's silence on the other end of the line, and she quickly fills it, not wanting to let Pietro's thoughts linger.

“But it's...it's different this time. There's–there's something there, Pietro. I can feel it. I think we might have a...a breakthrough or something," she stammers, her words racing against one another in their urgency to be voiced.

“And–” she swallows dryly. “And I don't want to ruin my chances this time.”

“Wanda,” Pietro interjects gently, his voice suffused with the kind of worry only a brother could bear. “I think you need to step back and really look at the situation.”

“But I am, Piet,” Wanda retorts, the pitch of her voice wavering with each syllable. “I am looking at this, really looking. When I see Y/N... it's like... it's like…”

“Like you're being sucked back in?” Pietro finishes for her despondently. “Isn't that exactly what happened last time? She’s clouding your judgment–again. You're not seeing clearly. You're just...You're just getting lost in what you used to have.”

There's a pause, and Wanda can hear Pietro let out a deep sigh. “Wanda, you deserve better. You deserve to be with someone who won't tear you apart. I know you still care about Y/N, I get it. But you need to think about what's best for you.”

“Piet…” Wanda attempts, her heart a hefty load in her chest. “I–”

“I can't stand by and watch you do this to yourself again. Not after everything that happened. Not after seeing you... after seeing you in that hospital bed,” he articulates, his voice choked.

There's another pause, this one longer and more poignant. Wanda can hear Pietro struggling to hold back his emotions on the other side of the line. “I'm sorry, Wands,” he finally manages, and even though she can't see him, she knows he's barely keeping the tears at bay. “I just can't.”

And then there's a soft click as Pietro disconnects the call and the line goes silent.

Still reeling, Wanda is left reassuring herself that she can handle it this time. She’ll have to–for you.

As for Pietro, he’s prepared to do something that Wanda might hate him for in the future.

If he can’t convince his sister, then he’ll have to convince you.

***

Wanda's last words to you have stuck in your mind, popping up more often than you'd like to admit. You haven't been back to see her since, knowing all too well she'd bring up that same topic again without beating around the bush.

You're worried about what you might say to her. You'd rather avoid her than hurt her like you have so many times since you two split. You've been striking out at her, and you can't figure out why you keep doing it. You’ve been using sex as a means to be with Wanda without really being with her–at least not in every sense of the word. Not in the way you want to but can’t bring yourself to. Not in the way you’re capable of.

Without Wanda and your loved ones around, all you have is an empty apartment and a job that feels more like an obligation now. Joy seems elusive, life seems bland–eating just to fill your belly, working just to pass the day.

You're starting to realize that the best parts of life come from sharing it with others; when you have a friend to call after a long day; when you retire into the arms of someone you love; when your demons aren’t as loud as they are now in your head.

To your astonishment, your Stark Industries badge still functions when you arrive at work the day after collapsing on your kitchen floor. However, it's not long before HR summons you to meet an in-house specialist. After a short evaluation, you're prescribed pills to be taken twice a day and given a mild warning.

Later, when some of your colleagues invite you out to unwind after work, you accept, much to their surprise because you never once went out drinking with them, always preferring to keep your professional and personal lives separate.

You all head to a local bar, a place humming with people seeking an escape from their hectic lives. But the background music, the low murmuring of conversations, and the occasional laughter are just noises to you. The muted light from the suspended bulbs adds to the promise of a good time, but it barely registers.

You're not really there for the party vibe or the camaraderie with your colleagues; rather, it's the dulling effect of alcohol that you crave. You don’t even join their table, you prefer sitting by the bar where you can ask for a refill with just a snap of your fingers anytime.

A while later, one of your coworkers suddenly totters over to you with a loud, obnoxious laugh.

“Hey, how 'bout you stop moping over here and join us on the dance floor?” he slurs out suggestively, his eyes wandering all over your body.

You’ve heard the whispers around the office, the snide remarks about a woman leading their team. Their resentment rears its ugly head now, fueled by liquid courage.

“I'm good here, thanks,” you try to deflect, hiding your discomfort behind a casual sip of whisky.

But he isn't taking 'no' for an answer. He dismissively scoffs at your refusal and grabs your arm, attempting to pull you from your seat.

A surge of anger bubbles up within you.

“Don’t fucking touch me!” you shout, yanking your arm back. Your voice is swallowed by the pounding techno music echoing around the bar. It's so loud, you doubt anyone heard your outcry, until a figure materializes from the edge of your sight.

“The lady said no,” she intervenes briskly, positioning herself between you and your colleague.

Taken aback, he stutters, pointing at her in a feeble attempt to salvage his bruised ego. “How about you, babe? Care to dance with me?”

Her eyes narrow ever so slightly, and the corners of her mouth curve up into a sardonic smile. “I think I'll pass,” she replies. “You see, I have a strict policy against dancing with pathetic boys.”

A few eavesdroppers start clapping, appreciating her firm stand. You can't help but feel satisfied as his face turns a bright shade of red. Muttering under his breath, he staggers off, swallowed up by the crowd.

The woman turns her attention back to you, signaling the bartender to pour you another drink.

“Sorry about that,” she starts, her voice just loud enough to cut through the ambient noise. “Some men just can’t take no for an answer. It bruises their fragile ego.”

“Thanks,” you say. “You didn't have to step in, but I appreciate it.”

She shrugs, taking a sip of her own drink. “Sometimes, a little intervention goes a long way,” she says, her eyes meeting yours. “And from what I saw, you're not one to be pushed around. I respect that. Cheers to standing up for ourselves!”

You can't help but chuckle as you clink your glass with hers. Her spirit is infectious, and, for the first time that night, you find yourself genuinely smiling.

An hour later, you find yourself doing more than just smiling, in a position you couldn't have predicted at the start of the night.

You're pinned against the wall of a college student's dorm, her eager mouth marking your neck in an almost painful way. You’re both drunk and you agreed for the woman from the bar to take you home because you wanted to find out something.

You wanted to understand why Wanda cheated on you. You wanted to be caught up in an attractive stranger. You want to know what it’s like to be wanted by someone young and alluring. This is not about revenge or trying to level the playing field; it's about grasping what led Wanda down that path.

And in the warm, dimly lit room of a young college student, you are willing to go to great lengths for that understanding.

“You’re so hot,” she moans into your heaving chest when you slip your leg between her thighs and draw her closer, encouraging her to grind against it. But as her head lulls back, caught in the pleasure of your advances, Wanda's vivid green eyes hauntingly flash before yours.

The taste of cheap alcohol is still strong on your tongue and a stranger's hand persistently roams over your overheated skin when a jarring realization strikes you.

This isn't what you want. It never was.

You find yourself unable to follow through, to do to Wanda what she did to you. It's not a matter of a moral high ground, it's simply because you just can't.

Feeling the touch of someone else, when you were in Wanda's bed just last week makes your stomach churn. Technically, you’re not doing anything wrong; you and Wanda haven't committed to any kind of relationship. And yet–

And yet, it feels like the worst betrayal. Like you're tarnishing something far deeper than any label can define.

It feels as though you're cheating on Wanda–and it makes you want to throw up.

“Y/N?”

An immediate, desperate need to flee consumes you. It's not something you can articulate, but something primal, a pressing demand from your body to get away.

“I'm sorry, I can't do this,” you utter hastily, not giving her a chance to respond as you scramble to grab your coat. Panic claws at you, and in your haste to escape, you find yourself practically running out of her apartment, her protests echoing faintly behind you, growing softer as you sprint down the hallway and out into the cool night.

It's a double-edged sword of hurt and confusion. On one side, your heart breaks at the very thought of being with someone else, of betraying Wanda, even when you have every reason to. On the other side, the very fact that Wanda managed to do it, to betray you so effortlessly, twists the knife even deeper into wounds that never quite healed properly.

Trying to understand why Wanda did what she did only makes her actions feel worse. It's as if you're learning about her deception all over again, like a new wound overlapping an old one.

Even as your eyes start to sting with unshed tears, the sudden blinking light from your pocket catches your attention. You instinctively reach down and pull out your phone, squinting against the bright screen, as an incoming anonymous message shows up on the notification bar. With a trembling finger, you curiously tap on it.

Your phone screen displays a photo that instantly drains the color from your face.

A sterile hospital room, bleak and unwelcoming. And on the bed is Wanda, looking pale, fragile, and disturbingly still, with tubes running from her mouth and nose. She seems lifeless in a way that makes your heart drop.

A surge of fear and concern washes over you, sobering you up instantly. Your stomach knots, your heart thunders in your chest. Your mind spins with unanswered questions, but one screams louder than all others: “What happened?”

Sensing there’s more to the message, you scroll down.

There’s a date attached showing when this picture was taken, along with five words that make your blood run cold: ‘What you've put her through’.

The message, even in its brevity, hits you like a punch to the gut.

And then, like some dark cosmic joke, rain begins to fall, splattering against the pavement that threatens to crumble beneath your feet.

365 notes · View notes

wmarximoff · 2 years

Note

Prompt: y/n is best friends with Pietro, he knows everything about his ex who cheated on her . (Y/n doesn't know that Wanda is Pietro s sister)

So what will happen when Pietro introduces his sister to Y/n not knowing that they are exes .

just tonight | w. maximoff

summary: it should just be a night out with friends that you weren't even interested in going to. it wasn't in your plans, of course, that your ex-girlfriend who cheated on you would be your best friend's twin sister.

warnings (18+): heavy angst, cheating, hints of internalized homophobia, brief smut, oral sex (Wanda receiving), drinking, smoking.

pairing: Wanda x fem!reader

word count: 7k

A/N: okay, that's sad. i'm sad i wrote this, not gonna lie (but it's not like i don't like angst content lol)

(by the way, if anyone is interested in a closed ending for this fic, I suggest you read this little thread here about the possibilities after the end of the story)

|masterlist|

༺ᱬ༻

The aroma that permeated the atmosphere was a distinctive mix of freshly brewed full-bodied coffee and a compact cloud of despondency typical of towering over the heads of tired adults; those who wake up early to go to work only to return to their homes, exhausted and hungry and lacking of doses of patience, when the sun has already said goodbye to the horizon and the white of the streetlamps have already been lit – a wrapper of annoyance, a set of tired faces gathered inside the same room like an adoption fair of dejected people.

It was a rectangular room, spacious and well-ventilated, though sparsely surrounded by second-hand furniture, lit by large glass windows set behind skinny blinds of cheap plastic – a beam of golden morning luminescence penetrated the room through the cracks open there, sunrays that crossed your still warm coffee cup, projected in three specific points through the serene countenance pierced by the placid extension of your face.

You were seated at one of the many small circular tables dotted around the room (in the middle of the open door was a brass plaque that spelled out the words “staff room”). The Staff Room, that place whose lands are outside the students' domains.

From the medium cup you then sipped a long sip of warm coffee, your eyes spilling over a handful of papers chaotically deposited on the face of the table as if you'd accidentally spilled the entire contents of your bag there.

So, in sequence, you picked up the last traces of the drink by sliding the tip of your tongue along the commission of your lips, the bitterness of the coffee courting the harshness of a freshly smoked cigarette on the face of your tongue, to which you added both woody palates in a single homogeneous flavor inside your mouth. The inside of your throat was grateful for the momentary source of heat.

It was cold in Westview. Cold enough that you would have left your house on the lower north side of town, still in the preamble to that very morning, braced by your thick polyester coat and a high-necked shirt made of dark wool, your armor draped over your body for a battle waged against a merciless cold – or, perhaps, a severe hypothermia. A pair of thin-rimmed glasses peeked out from the bridge of your nose.

Wintry coldness took possession of the small town so that the leaves of the trees took on endogenous shades of orange and red, and the sky, in turn, became more gray and opaque each day, instigating mornings covered by clouds so gray and thick as the down of a wild raccoon. But despite the seasonal frosts, it still hadn't snowed.

More swigs of coffee came and went until a male figure passed through the front door (he was wearing a thick beaten leather jacket and a navy blue scarf around his neck), his short hair dyed in a platinum color that reminded you of those wedding cake frostings, drawing the ugly scowls of some of the elderly gazes (thick glasses, bald heads, pompous, incongruously old-fashioned hairstyles) from the little table that held the group of older teachers, the ones who weren't very fond of you or the young lad who was Pietro.

The elders, still drinking from that out-of-date fountain from back when teachers were real devils in the lives of a bunch of lost teenagers, muttering insults among themselves and following Pietro with a contemptuous look, just thought you were a couple of incompetents for being so much younger than them (Miss Harkness, with the profuse dark hair, who always had that brooch pinned in her lapel, was a welcome exception, but perhaps she was only friendly because something in her liked to take drags of your cigarettes in between classes).

But your friend didn't give a damn about such a bad reception, and so you chose to do the same, keeping your eyes down on the line you read in a ninth grader's essay. A student who thought the musical Hamilton was inspired by a Shakespearean play. That piece of paper deserved to be marked with a big, red, round zero.

Pietro, therefore, merely pulled out a chair opposite your own and sat down, placing his leather mailbag there on the table, next to your papers, with a yawn hollowed out in your direction like a newly awakened dog.

He was charismatic and charming, a real hit with impressionable students who always asked you if he was your boyfriend, but to you Pietro was nothing more than a friend figure, even a brother just a few months younger than you – the best of them, perhaps the only and most sincere among the others, but still, just a friend. He had a half-bitten doughnut in his right hand, and sugar porridge pasted at the corner of his lips.

“So,” he had said, who coached the school’s football team (the Avengers), known for being averse to getting out of the sheets on cold mornings, “You’re going tonight, aren’t you?”

“Good morning to you too, Piet,” you teased morosely, still not setting your gaze on the blue of his irises.

“Yes, I'm having a lot of fun checking these hundreds of essays about students' familiarity with Shakespeare's works, thanks for asking me. And how are you on this cold morning?”

Pietro, however, never touched by your condemnations of him, just brandished his bitten doughnut in your direction.

“C’mon, Y/n, I scheduled it like, two weeks ago,” and then, he finally took another bite of the fried dessert, barely bothering to chew and swallow properly before resuming his own speech.

“You need to go, it's important to me that you go. I want you to be there! My sister recently moved to town, you know, and I want you to meet her.”

The enthusiastic fervor in Pietro's voice didn't go unnoticed. Not when you remember him parroting about his twin sister left and right throughout the course of the last week – like an intersection, it was that one project of his, a well-crafted, weird project that he was working too hard on to your liking, like a kid building a volcano for a school science fair.

After all, his beautiful, cool, amazing single (single!) sister was in town after recently asserting her sexuality to the world, and it turns out you were the only queer person he knew who was single too – so it was a match, a perfect couple forming before his eyes, as a screenwriter then makes the two main characters of his play consummate a kiss with a happy ending so longed for by the audience.

For Pietro, it was like a well-accepted convenience – two worlds colliding, two of his favorite people together in one place, two single (single!) and financially stable adults of the same age, in comfortable careers and experienced enough not to be sacals, that he, as a good older brother and a then discovered true matchmaker friend, should bless and sponsor in a relationship that, in fact, was only planned within his utopian daydreams.

“I have to grade the exams from last week,” you replied in a monotone, a little dull in your words.

“Fury will be pissed if I pass the grades to the report card late again, you know how he is. Last time this happened he was talking my ear off for a week.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, I know. But you can do that on Saturday,” reiterated the man with the neatly trimmed beard, always so adamant when he wanted to be convincing.

“C’mon, it's just a Friday night to drink with friends, have a few laughs, relax a little, take your mind off work for a change. Have fun. And you sure need some fun in your life, dude.”

“Please Pietro, don't start it,” you huffed.

“But it's true! You know it's true!” Exclaimed Pietro back, raising both of his thick, dark brows, “Your life is all work and home, Y/n! You need to relax a little! Maybe hang out more with us, or maybe even go back to the dating scene–”

“No way,” your gaze then finally unscrewed from the papers to soar up to your friend's vigorous face. Behind your glasses was only expressive displeasure, translucent in irises sprinkled with disdain.

“You know I have no interest in this at all, man. I don't really need this in my life, not again, not right now. I have better things to do than go on stupid blind dates with people I know will lead me to absolutely nowhere.”

“C’mon, Y/n, everyone likes a little fun now and then,” he whimpered, though he wasn't at all really bothered by his friend's grumpy mutterings.

“And you really need to get laid, you know? You need to relax more, man. Do more with your life besides being a boring high school teacher. Did you download Tinder like I told you to?”

“Christ, no,” the word was unrolled from between your lips, dry as a rag, “And I'm fine just the way I am,” you muttered grudgingly, then groping with your open right hand for your cup of coffee, “I don't need more than that to live well.”

“All you need to do is grade exams on your days off, watch some Netflix late at night, and then gorge yourself on coffee and cigarettes the next day to stay awake and working? Really?” he teased, as if to put it in other words that your lifestyle, in fact, was just boring.

“Yeah,” the lenses of your glasses fogged up, as they came in contact with the puffs of steam emanating from the coffee cup held up to your jaw height.

“And you only think it's different now because Monica started dating you. Until last month everything you said was about how the fun of life is being single and not having to give anyone satisfaction about all the shit you do out there.”

“Yes, that's exactly what I'm talking about! I'm a changed man, Y/n!” He smeared a donut-sugar hand on his chest like a fussy child.

“And I'm much happier now, if you ask me. And that's why I want you to get someone too, because I'm your friend and I want to see you happy.”

“I don't need someone in my life to make me happy,” the bitterness in your mouth hadn't come from the coffee, of course, but maybe it was just always there, little by little growing and branching inside you.

“This is a very problematic thought, you know that? I’m happy alone and I intend to stay that way, thank you.”

“Dude,” he sighed. Blue eyes scanned your face in an unpleasant glow of pity.

“Seriously, you need to give it a chance. Just once. I mean, I bet there are a lot of nice, pretty girls out there who would love to meet you, and why are you going to miss it? Because of an asshole who clearly didn't deserve you and who broke your heart what, ten years ago? You deserve better than that, Y/n. And I mean it.”

The grip of your right fingers screwed into the circumvallation of the styrofoam cup increased the pressure a little, your digits pressed into the fragile material, and for half a split second, shooting daggers with a glare, you just needed yell at your friend to go fuck himself. Fuck you, Pietro. Fuck you.

Your brows creased between your forehead, pressing between them a beam of wrinkled skin. You just frowned, as if Pietro had said the greatest nonsense that a human being could speak.

There was a brief grunt inside your stomach armed with a meager breakfast (half an apple with cereal and milk flanked by a wilted granola bar found in the bottom of your bag on the way to school), and getting angry sounded like a good defensive option, like the quills of a porcupine—after all, there came a quick inhalation into your lungs as your lips curled into a sour line, and into your polyester coat, your shoulders heaved for a moment, mouthful like an angry lion ready to roar.

You held back because you just didn't want to be mad at Pietro so early on such a cold morning. After all, he wasn't there. It would not be fair.

He didn't even know you in college, having graduated in California, on the other side of the country – a promise of the football sports leagues, Pietro found himself obliged to say goodbye definitively to any and all chances of joining a pro team after a calamitous hamstring injury sustained from lack of stretching, which made him come home to lick his wounds like you, in a way; his dream was nothing more than a stillbirth, like every good child's dream when in contact with the hardships of the adult world.

He hadn't been there then, and he just didn't know anything but the story told from your own mouth, like tasteless gossip told from lips soaked in hot beer – the story of how your ex-girlfriend made you an idiot in your senior year of college, when you planned to propose to her. How she slept with a smug philosophy student because she didn't want to like sleeping with you that much. And who respects an idiot? Your side teeth chose to press the flesh on the inside of your cheek together. Idiot. He was an idiot for making you feel like an idiot.

“Six years ago,” you mussed, your eyes darting into your coffee cup as if there, soaked in the dark liquid, there was some answer to your baggage of grievances, “Six years, not ten.”

“Six years, ten years, whatever, it's been a long time anyway,” he waved his right hand dismissively, as if shooing away an imaginary mosquito, “You deserve to give happiness a chance again, Y/n.”

“When did you become a therapist, hm?”

“When I realized that my best friend needs to smile more,” and, in agreement with his own speech, Pietro gave you a gracious sideways smile – the one that several teenagers sighed for when he walked through the halls.

“You really need to go tonight, Y/n. Please, it’ll be fun.”

Between you and him there was a momentary breath of silence. But soon a lame sigh was sucked out of your nostrils in a blatant sign of giving up, not having the patience to impose yourself much longer on your own emotional limitations as you were.

“Two beers and I'm gone,” was your first offer, a generous suggestion to your catatonic state of mind. Pietro's smile spread at the corner of his lips.

“Four beers and you're not leaving until nine o'clock.”

“Two beers until half past nine,” you scored, “And I'll be there at half past seven.”

He looked at you for half a second, indigo blue shimmering in his irises, but before he could work any response out of his lips, there was the continuous high-pitched chirp of the bell that signaled the start of first period in the morning. With a click, then, Pietro scrambled to his feet, and both of your eyebrows shot up at the fact that the chair he was sitting on hadn't hit the floor.

“Shit, I've got practice,” said the platinum-haired man, before practically flying to the door of the room, but not before turning his chin over his left broad-shouldered in your direction just to say an “See you at seven then, Y/n! And if you don't show up I'll pick you up at your house!”, before quickly leaving the room.

An embarrassed sigh escaped your lips.

“What the fuck...”

You rasped, acid in your words, the upper part of your back leaning against the chair and your arms crossed in front of your chest. Your head still didn't hurt, but there were signs of an upcoming migraine pressing into the back muscle of your neck. Maybe not showing up and then blocking Pietro's contact from your phone would be a good idea.

ᗢ

You lifted the glass of beer and brought it to your lips, sipping more of the thick foam than of the golden cold liquid itself (a cordial act and of a performative, mechanical nature, since you were not a true connoisseur of the alcoholic beverage from barley). You licked your lips in displeasure and never touched the glass again, despising it on the round table awash with chatter and remote happiness, but somehow bordering on comfort at its mellow core.

Seated right in front of you were Natasha Romanoff, the red-haired gym teacher, and Bruce Banner, the introverted chemistry teacher, who narrated the facts that made up the account of the day they exchanged the weirdest and frilly kisses at a party in the freshman year of college in which they studied together, for a challenge, with tongues and teeth and tons of saliva, propelling loud laughter from across the table.

There, everyone present had just congratulated each other in a euphoric toast – in all, there were seven glass cups clinking loudly to each other inside the restaurant, extended above their heads.

But there was one person in particular who was nowhere to be found – Pietro's sister hadn't arrived yet, and so you were a little disappointed, although you weren't entirely sure what to do with it. You didn’t understand why you feel that way right away about someone you'd never even seen before, whose name Pietro never even bothered to mention.

You then were casually chatting with Steve Rogers, the kind-eyed history teacher, and you knew that if you continued at this pace you would be quite snuggled between your blankets even before midnight, and nothing about that thought bothered you so much.

“But yeah, now Peter's been suspended,” Rogers informed you, as he sipped (far more willingly to do than you) from his large serving glass of beer.

You, however, frowned at him, “Wait, Peter Parker got suspended?! But he’s such a great student! He never had any problems in my classes.”

“Yes, he’s a great student. He's a great kid, too. But he saw Flash Thompson getting rough with a freshman and things just got out of hand,” Steve breathed a gust of air through his bulging nostrils, shaking his head, “You know how problematic Thompson is.”

“Of course I know,” you claimed, “I've mentioned him to Fury several times, but the boy's parents always manage to get around it. This is so fucked up, man.”

“I know it is,” agreed the blond man, “By the way, do you remember when—"

“Oh, fucking finally!” Pietro's clamor caught the attention of everyone at the table, such pleasure lavished on his astonished words, "Finally, I thought I was going to drag you here by your ankles!”

You've blended your brows into the middle of your forehead, “What's that...? Oh.”

Aiming at the fact that everyone present there seemed to focus their pupils on something behind your head, you, in procession towards the others, tried to turn your neck towards the final purpose of their gazes, and, over your left shoulder it was that you turned around, facing the sudden, fortuitous, incalculable, pleasurable red – unique and so striking, singular and unmistakable, your need taking the form of agony. The air froze inside your lungs.

The scarlet coloring seized your senses, everywhere, a throb in your throat and a gasp in your nostrils, a flare in your lungs. You came back with your face forward before there was eye contact between your irises and that deep, empty pool of ecstatic green.

What else could you do, in front of such a beautiful and magnificent deadly creature, with crimson tones and warm eyes? What else could you do in front of Wanda Maximoff? It was like wanting to throw up and cry after a long night of drinking.

“Are you okay, Y/n…?” Steve's tiny voice came from somewhere your brain couldn't capture. It was her. And she was there.

“I–I... I... I’m fine… I’m fine, Steve.”

Though the once earth-dark locks were now dyed with a copper-red dye, Wanda had matured her features as the years had passed, and, like a rose that blooms, she had aged as well as the most expensive of wines – and, like wine, you could drink it to the last drop, intoxicating in scents of cinnamon roses, your youthful college sweetheart, there, fully blooming before your eyes, even after so many years of speculation and of solitude.

The frigid winter air had driven her into a shelter that was the long coat she wore, and the heels of a pair of high-soled boots made her a little taller than you remember in your memory. But it was still her, no room for error – the scrunching of the nose and the rabbit smile were unmistakable, easily recognizable, still so vivid in your memory. The simple tip of her porcelain nose was flushed like a button in the icy weather outside those walls, and at that, your heart throbbed hard inside your chest, pumping adrenaline through your swollen veins.

Polite and refined, Wanda greeted them all with a smile on her ungodly peach-colored lips, sitting in a chair next to Pietro's (and therefore also next to yours, in which you inspired from her warm aroma, so full-bodied). You stared at her for long seconds, as if she were indeed an apparition or the most beautiful of mirages your sanity-deprived brain could rave about. Wanda. Oh, Wanda. How you hated her.

“Hey, hi,” a small smile reverberated through Pietro before the red-haired woman, who then just looked at him, her older twin brother.

“Sorry for the delay, but I ended up stuck in this meeting with my editor later than I expected, and… shit, what a day.”

“That bald old man?”

“Don't be like that,” Wanda smacked her right palm on Pietro's shoulder in playful rebuke, “But yeah, Xavier, yes. He's a great professional, but he's kinda... too harsh, I think."

You blinked, wordless, gazing at her as if she were an unchanging deity, the red-haired woman as beautiful as you remembered her to be during the college day – though at the time, still dark-haired, Wanda was a young adult rising into the bosom of youth, and now she was a true, complete woman.

You'd heard from her brother that she was now a writer, having in the past dropped the psychology degree she never got after dropping out of college in her senior year. Increasingly attractive, the inimitable Wanda Maximoff.

“It's okay, you're the one driving back home anyway,” Pietro teased, touching her shoulder with his own playfully, a complicity of twins closing them in a private bubble.

Of course, Wanda Maximoff was Pietro Maximoff's twin sister. You could have punched yourself for never putting one and one together inside your head; the sister who was taking a psychology major at NYU, who dropped out of college in her senior year after some vague love affair that he said was similar to what you had. The twin brother who was studying in California, who for inconvenience you had never crossed paths with even in three long years of dating her.

Both of Sokovian descent, children of immigrants born in Novi Grad. The way he reminded you so much of her figure in certain situations, in the same tone jokes and in the similar laugh. Coincidences, just coincidences.

A need (never felt by you before, in the deepest core of your soul) to sip your beer became latent in your throat as suddenly dry, craggy as if you had swallowed a cocktail of broken glass – for that was when that the newcomer raised her left hand towards her white apollonian cheekbones, aiming to tuck her shiny, soft hair behind her ear with her nails varnished in black enamel, that your brief glance towards the red-haired woman ended up tie a knot in the mouth of your esophagus. Through a band of Wanda's auburn hair, Pietro was looking at you with a smile.

“Hey, Y/n! That's my sister I told you about, by the way,” Pietro exclaimed, with the good nature he'd always had, pouring a smile between you and her, “I told you she's pretty, didn’t I?”

Oh, fuck.

“Y/n...?” her face turned toward you, copper-colored hair swishing to her left, and a pair of eyes studied you for half a split second until the healthy smile on Wanda's lips vanished like smoke in the middle of the room.

Her brows made a twitching movement that betrayed amazement, as if you had materialized in your seat like a ghost from her past. She seemed to feel stupid for not having noticed you there sooner. Your lungs felt heavy as two bowling balls. That voice was familiar to your ears.

So familiar to your hearing, that same velvety voice that woke you in the morning with poetic whispers in your ear, reciting a unique romanticism that would make Jane Austen sincerely envy in her grave that she wasn't the first to conjure up such simple words, so beautiful when joined in amorous prose.

That voice that intoxicated you, brought you to your knees and made you for a moment just be yourself, made you be real and see real things. The voice that managed to be clear and pure as snow and after that to be dirty and say impressive obscenities, as was the case of Wanda Maximoff. You knew her better than anyone. You knew who she truly was.

"W-Wanda..." you mussed in a low breath in front of that verdant immensity, because there was nothing else to do.

Not when she looked at you that way. Not when she looked at you like she wanted to cry over what she broke in you.

“Hi, Y/n.”

ᗢ

You notified them, at the latest, that you would go out in the company of the gloomy fog of night, like a stray cat, wandering senselessly through your paved alleys, to smoke a mere comfortable cigarette. The air was an icy, nose-bad amalgamation of beer and frying.

“You know, that shit will kill you soon,” Natasha had vetoed you before you left the table, but you, as relaxed as you could be, placid in front of your coworker, only gave her a thin, cold smile and shook your head in consent with her words. There wasn't much else you could do other than that.

Leaning against the brick wall of the alley beside the restaurant, your cigarette burning on its end like a firefly in the middle of the night, puffing puffs of smoke in the air like slovenly dancers, you stared down at your own feet – your poorly laced Doc Martens boots, as white as the white winter snow.

As absorbed in your own smoky daydreams as you were, however, you didn't even notice the crimson specter that, like a bad memory crawling inside your head, walked towards you, heavy boots crunching on the cement pavement as it walked in search of the scent of smoked cigarettes that only you could squander. A lustrous red darkness came to you to engulf your soul and forsake your senses.

“You're gonna freeze to death out here,” had said the voice that was so familiar to you, though it sounded just as remote as a utopian dream, “It's as cold as the damn Arctic in here, for Christ's sake.”

You, however, as stagnant as a marble statue, remained still, mute, blinking with your eyelids in a lethargic act – it was as if you blinked her name, Wan–da. You looked towards Wanda as if you wanted her to rip your soul out of your mouth, parked in a feeling of bitterness that only seemed to grow and swell inside your ribcage.

“I... can I get a cigarette, Y/n?”

“You don't smoke,” Wanda hadn't said a word to you in response; her actions spoke for themselves, as she raised, towards you, her pale right hand as if in a begging manner.

“Well, I do now.”

You stared at her for half a second, before your gaze strayed to a dark spot on the floor. The ambient sound of the bar was muffled by the brick walls. You finally held out the little cylindrical object, but avoided at all costs your fingers touching as you did (acting as if Wanda was a damn leper, a red plague).

With the usual dexterity and clumsiness of addicts, Wanda wedged one of the nicotine sticks between her parted rosebud lip, feeling your studious gaze burn into the rosy high of her pale cheekbones. The gloss had left traces on the yellow part of the cigarette filter, and she turned to face you with a kind of acted innocence, masking temptation, gently blinking her moss-dark eyes.

“The lighter,” both of your gazes were screwed into one line, “Light it for me, please?”

You stared at her for a few seconds, pupils dilated in a vortex of darkness, before reaching for the lighter in your jacket pocket. The thick smoke left Wanda's lips pink not long after you did, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

For a few minutes, there was the silence between the two of you like a curious third person who wanted to know more than what you had to say. Wanda took a drag on her cigarette, and after that, you mirrored the action.

“I didn't know you'd gone back to smoking,” the red-haired woman had said, dissolving the stillness like the smoke leaving her ivory lips, “You quit in our senior year.”

“And you're a redhead now,” you muttered grudgingly, an unstoppable dryness in your raw facial expressions, “People change. Shit happens. Old habits return.”

The green of her gaze pierced its way into your pupils well-placed behind the stems of your prescription glasses.

“You've stopped wearing your contacts, too” Wanda continued, however, unabated, blowing more wisps of smoke through her parted lips, “I... I've always liked you wearing glasses, Y/n.”

“Fuck, why are you doing this?”

There was silence after your speech, a silence that was cutting like the edge of a sharp blade that was embedded in the middle of your chest. Wanda pressed her lips together, trapping a cloud of cinereous smoke between them. She was speechless for a few seconds, cluttering with the crimped bone of her jaw.

Illuminated by the night-light in artificial and unnatural colors that bloomed from the long lamps of the poles nearby, her long copper hair was like a waterfall of fire that poured down to the middle of her back – it was as if they were one, the blinking ember of the cigarette and a lock of her auburn hair. Wanda discarded her cigarette butt next to a garbage can crammed near the door that led back to the back of the restaurant, shimmering faint streaks of sharp silver, sending a measured sigh out of her nostrils.

“I'm sorry, I just,” her voice trailed off, as her emerald eyes dropped to the frigid cement beneath her feet, “I just wanted to talk to you, Y/n. Really talk to you.”

Wanda pressed both of her eyelids together, lingered in the action, and then opened them, blinking once at the brick wall after doing so. At her speech, however, a tightness was attributed to your esophagus – it was as if the smoke from your smoked cigarette was concentrated hot just behind the flesh of your cheekbones.

“There's nothing left to say, Wanda,” you spat, in pure, articulate fury, a cover for the hurt exploding inside your chest, “There's nothing you can tell me that I haven't already heard or that I want to hear it now.”

The air was made damp by something not well related to the winter weather, oxygen hard to suck up into your nostrils, your lower jaw jutting out, bruised and vengeful, gritting your teeth so hard you were just sure Wanda could hear the enamel of bones rubbing against each other—for that was when strained eyes flickered toward you, amid the dim lighting whose alleyway was engulfed, as if there were an ancient lantern hanging just above you head.

“What you gonna say this time, huh?” your right knee shot up in a hard, yielding stride toward her, like a predator hunting in a dark forest.

“That you didn't want to do that? That it was a drunk mistake? That you weren't sure what you wanted but knew you still cared about me? That you didn't even know his fucking name? That one was certainly comforting to hear, you can be sure of that.”

Your tone was immersed in an acidic deluge of biting, erosive cynicism that welled up in the pit of your stomach. You were then close enough to the auburn-haired woman that the tips of your noses almost brushed against each other in midair.

“And I've heard it all before, Wanda. Again and again and again. That night in your dorm room when you told me you did that shit, in the fucking text messages you sent me three years in a row, and even in that letter you sent me on my birthday two years ago,” you gasped for air was warm against her pretty face, both the collars of your coats covered in an opulent scent of smoked cigarettes.

She could feel the muffled beer on your breath.

“So, what's new this time, huh? That he wasn't even that good? That he didn't even make you feel like I did? Because that doesn't surprise me at all. No one will ever know you like I did. No one will ever touch you like I touched you, Wanda. And you know that.”

But you were close, dangerously close like a moth to a lamp (close to imminent death), and for half a second you found yourself pondering the idea of Wanda's pretty face being frozen by the cold, because her jadish gaze oozed from inside your pupils to pour between the contour of your nose and then, as if in a prize for the race won, waited in a lingering fall down the height of the outline of your upper lip.

“Let me,” Wanda then moved her elbows close to her ribs inside her coat to smooth both of her scrawny open palms across the lapel of your polyester coat, catching a single lock of your hair between two fingers and sliding it down to the tip, “Let me have you tonight, Y/n. Just tonight.”

Her thick dark lashes were on top of that dark moss green that had crept like an infectious disease in her irises, and you leaned in for a while, wiping the pulp of your own lips with the tip of your tongue, so you could feel the ghostly taste that wasn't there yet, that took you back to the distant past.

“I hate you,” you muttered under your breath, “I hate you, Wanda. I hate you. You broke my heart. You betrayed my trust. I fucking hate you.”

“I'm sorry,” she whispered back, in a small voice, “But I really need to have you one more time, Y/n. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. But I need to remember what it's like to have you.”

The tone was needy, limpid and clear, translucent like crystal crossed by a beam of red light. It went beyond the hate, the tendrils of lust that threaded itself between the two of you like a tight noose. The world around you was nothing but a winter's ember, when did Wanda reach for your torso under the protection of her arms, pressing her warm body against you by virtue of her desire.

“I wish you knew how much I miss you.”

And she smelled like cigarettes, but also like flower perfume and fig moisturizer. She smelled like Wanda. Like the Wanda who slept and woke up next to you in your younger days, where life was troublesomely easy and she still hadn't allowed herself to be touched by anyone other than you.

“And I wish you hadn't cheated on me. I wish I had married you.”

“I'm sorry,” her voice was muffled by the fabric on the left shoulder of your coat, “I missed you so, so much...”

“I hate you,” you whispered against the crown of her orange-haired head, in a tone as if you confessed your feelings to her on a summer afternoon, “I really fucking hate you.”

Wanda cupped your face by the sides with both cold hands and merged your lips in a timed kiss in harmonic cadence, which quickly had you whimpering in dizzying helplessness prickling through your veins. Your heart pulsed explosively in the left side of your chest. The taste was still hers, warm crimson pouring into your lungs, your stomach. You could get drunk on the taste of her saliva.

“Please,” she breathed in a short pause to get some oxygen, “Please make me yours again, Y/n.”

“Shut up.”

The kiss deepened when you projected your lips to take hers in a click of tongues, your tongues entwined until you were both softly panting, your foreheads ruffled touching each other. You snorted against the commission from Wanda's swollen lips. Your coat felt too thick against your shoulders.

“Just… just tonight,” you squinted at your eyes, a strand of reddish hair breaking through your gloomy, empty vision, “Lie to me one more time just for tonight, Wanda. I’ll believe anything you say.”

ᗢ

“F-fuck-fuck- ah! ”

The lascivious voice growled, reverberating like an echoing breath through the four pale walls of her room. The red-haired woman trapped her lower lip with her own incisors, confining a moan to the very core of her being. With the void present there, a thin wind howling in hissing outside, only the wood of the floor could hear the whimpers uttered by a Wanda so unsteady, with a tight mouth and a pink face like a peach in her cheeks, feeling empty in the flesh, but so satisfied in essence.

Pale fingers were fondling between the bundles of your hair, her red head bent back, her mouth half open, her mascara smeared, making her into some sort of sound, but nothing was what left her throat.

You, crouching below her level, turned your face away from the gap between Wanda's opalescent thighs, still throbbing on your tongue, between your teeth, the vigorous taste of honey coming from the red-haired woman's fruit—the skin of your chin gleaming in a glow from the overwhelming orgasm of your ex-girlfriend contorted just above your head, chest heavy, breathing unreasonable.

You, equally deprived of any clothing to cover up your natural nudity, stretched your knees on the bed, hoisting yourself out from between Wanda's inner thighs without much to say after completing your mission.

Before you could even entertain the idea of picking up your clothes scattered on the floor like in a war scenario, however, a hand pressed the back of your neck and, in an inordinate way, ripped it off for a harsh kiss, Wanda sipped from her own cum accumulating through the gaping breach in your mouth buffed by the height of her own orgasm. You took the inside of her mouth with your tongue and, fierce, Wanda curled into the muscle of your mouth cavity, drinking in your ecstasy there.

And just as quickly as it started, you ended the act with a deferential bite to her lower lip, pushing her away across her face as if she were nothing, as if you hadn't been between her legs a few seconds ago, the leading into the ether of jouissance in a way that no one had ever done before, and in no way could do afterward. Wanda was your glory, but she was equally your downfall. You wanted her as much as you hated her.

She remained mute when you got out of bed to put the crumpled clothes lying on the floor back on your body, as if to go back in time, hours before, when you were still dressed and none of that happened between your and her. The only sound in the room was that of fabric being stretched, rubbed and smoothed.

“I wish things were different,” Wanda's voice told the night air, into the wee hours of the morning, “That I could go back and do things differently. That I could have been… been different with you, Y/n.”

“You've always hated having things out of your control, I know.”

She then hummed against the pale pillowcase of the pillow, which exuded a wilted scent of post-orgastic sweat. You had your back to her, standing next to the foot of the bed, sticking your outstretched elbow into the hole in the right arm of your coat.

“Y/n,” she then called out, casting her gaze in your direction, “Are you… are you going to come back, someday?”

You just sighed, letting out a bitter murmur in your speech, “Maybe for your bed, but for you... I really don't think I should, Wanda.”

“Never again?” she tried.

Something in you hesitated for a moment. In slow strides, you then walked over to her side, sitting on the edge of the bed as you tucked your knees into your pants. Your right hand, warm, rested on the sharp of Wanda's cheekbone, giving there a charitable squeeze, so at odds with your words.

“Never it’s a very strong word,” you whispered, “And honestly, I'm not a strong person. If I were, I wouldn't even be here. I would’ve told you to fuck off several hours ago.”

The touch known to both of you, which was accompanied by the intoxicating aroma of cigarettes that was so familiar to her – for you were there, sitting right next to her, with your compassionate eyes conveying, through your gaze, a nostalgic sense of affection swallowed by life’s bumps.

“Don't walk away,” she uttered then against the palm of your hand, in a choked tone that denounced an approaching burst of tears, “Don't walk away, Y/n. I'm sorry. I’m so, so sorry. Please, forgive me."

“It's a small town,” you whistled in response, “We're going to meet each other again at some point, Wanda.”

You declared, in a breath of voice – and then, again, you placed a languid kiss on the pale shoulder bone of the naked woman lying on the bed, mouth agape.

“It will be as if nothing ever happened,” you kissed her in a crack of skin down her clenched jaw, “As if you hadn't cheated on me and if I hadn't just let you use me again ‘cause I'm a fucking weakling.”

In an instant you were in front of Wanda's face, whose lips you pressed together in a soft kiss, “We're going to get to know each other again. As if nothing had happened.”

And then, you bent over so you could place a chaste little kiss on the red-haired woman's forehead. And her tears came when you stood up.

“Maybe this time it will be different. Maybe this time you won’t break my heart.”

“Y/n...” she whimpered, her eyes sunk in emerald pools that were dimly lit by a lamp lit on the nightstand beside her bed.

“Good night Wanda,” you mumbled, pausing at the bedroom door just to look at her, “I really wish next time will be different.”

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