#sharon carton

[abuckygirlarchive]

Steve: They told us at the Pilsburg Inn that you were the daughter of the previous owners? Betty: Yes... mom and dad ran the inn a long time ago.  Steve: Your mother was Gretchen Zeller, before she married your father? And she’s from Germany? Sharon: We’re not the only people to ask about your mother recently, are we? Betty: No... there was someone, a little over a week ago.  Steve: Was it this man? Betty: Yes... only his hair was different, shorter. He seemed like a nice enough man, but I think he was a little out of his tree, if you know what I mean. Steve: Because he said he knew your mother a long time ago? Betty: She never talked about the war... but sometimes an old movie would come on the TV, and she would get distant... quiet. Dad said she lost a lot of people she cared about back there... Her father was killed by the Nazis.  Steve: She was a resistance fighter... and brave as hell. My friend, the man who visited you... he loved her.  Better: Yes... you could see that in his eyes. Like I said, I thought he must’ve been confused.  Sharon: Did he say where he was headed? Or what plans he had? Betty: He just wanted to know where she was buried... said he wanted to pay his respects before it was too late.  Sharon: What do you think he meant by ‘ before it’s too late ? ’ Steve: I think he’s going to try to kill Lukin for what they did to him.. and I don’t think he plans to survive the attack.

Captain America Volume 5 #16 and 17. 

#Bucky Barnes #winter soldier #gretchen zeller #capain america #sharon carton #volume 5 #collision courses #man out of time #2006 #ed brubaker #mike perkins #frank d'armata #YOU COULD SEE THAT IN HIS EYES #bucky barnes doing the most #betty tolin

[krispyweiss]

Album Review: Aoife O’Donovan - The Apathy Sessions

Aoife O’Donovan shows off her multi-instrumentalist and stacked-harmony chops on “Drover” and “I Love You But I’m Lost.”

The true solo cuts - covers of Bill Callahan and Sharon Van Etten, respectively, on which O’Donovan plays and sings every part - represent the two previously unreleased tracks on the Apathy Sessions, the digital-only deluxe edition of Age of Apathy.

The balance of the 20 tracks comprise the 2022 album; various singles from 2021 including streaming joints with with Milk Carton Kids, Donovan Woods and Kris Drever and others that wound up on the available-only-at-gigs Turn up the Music and Do Whatever You Want Volume 1; “Prodigal Daughter” from Live from the Hi•Fi; and covers of Joan Baez’s “Love Song to a Stranger” and Lin-Manuel Miranda’s “What Else Can I Do?,” previously released as streaming singles.

“I am so excited to have all of these songs live in one special place,” O’Donovan said in a statement.

Long-time followers are already familiar with 18 of these 20 tracks and in that regard the “new” album is slightly disappointing. Newcomers, however, are in for a treat and are advised to use the Apathy Sessions as a springboard backward though O’Donovan’s previous solo work and her recordings with I’m With Her and Crooked Still.

Grade card: Aoife O’Donovan - The Apathy Sessions - A-

2/1/23

#aoife o'donovan #the apathy sessions #2023 albums #the milk carton kids #kris drever #donovan woods #bill callahan #sharon van etten #crooked still #i’m with her #joan baez #lin manuel miranda

[wmarximoff]

𝐝é𝐣à 𝐯𝐮 | 𝐰. 𝐦𝐚𝐱𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐟𝐟

summary: as you slowly reconnect with Wanda, you feel a familiar feeling of déjà vu.

warnings: making out, smut, strap-on sex (Wanda receiving) mentions of smoking, mentions of drinking, canon typical violence, angst.

pairing: Wanda x fem!reader

word count: 10k

main masterlist| series masterlist|

༺ᱬ༻

A carton of almond milk, a jar of peanut butter, a dozen eggs, a stick of butter, a can of peas, a bag of soft multigrain bread and a sizable bottle of wine are the components of the plastic basket that Wanda carries slung over her right arm. She doesn't know that she forgot to get a can of corn too. But the basket is kind of weighty and she might as well use her magic to levitate the items around her own silhouette, but she prefers that way, holding them down herself with her own arm strength.

Sometimes it's good to keep the sense of normality active. Even if normality just means carrying a basket full of groceries around the supermarket. She then looks at the face of the brown watch buttoned at the base of her left wrist and checks the time, blinking her greenish eyes after squeezing a long, full yawn in the back of her throat.

A gray-haired old lady (Mrs. Sharon Davis, an elderly widow, all wrapped in her pale blue cardigan) in front of her appears to be in a conflict with herself to find some of the change interred in the lowest of her silver wallet. And Wanda scrutinizes the establishment around herself, between the shelves stocked with groceries and the glossy linoleum floor; the weary gaze wavering absorbedly over her own white-fabric sneakers and contingently fixing on a dark, even smear on the floor between them.

 Old Mrs. Davis still hasn't spotted her desired coins, and she's been digging into her wallet for the silver pennies for a good few minutes now. Wanda listens over her shoulder as someone pulls into a shopping cart right behind herself and lets out an audible groan, evidentially annoyed at the delay of the old lady with her change, but Wanda doesn't see the point in bothering to torment herself.

It's not yet six o'clock and she'll be peaceably walking home, for Westview is a small, undisturbed, reticent suburban town where everything is so close and easy to find. And she knows that, with her house being just a few blocks away from the locality of the modest market, she won't be long in coming to prepare dinner for her and her boys (whom she has left securely at the house, both doing their math homework). She smiles tenderly to herself when she thinks about Billy and Tommy.

After all, she knows she's never loved anyone as passionately as she loves those two little boys (the grace of her life, the reason for her morning smile and for the blaze of keenness pulsing within the fond fortifications of her warmish heart). For her they are everything, and that is why she would do anything for them – they are the epithet of the purest form of love that Y/N had ever gifted her with; the culmination of their love converted into two vulnerable little creatures that are made up of the best of the two of them.

She just knows, like a good mother who understands both her children so well, that at that moment, the twin boys are probably watching some silly cartoon on the television set beside the broad fireplace found in the corner of the commodious living room. And she is placid in a supermarket line, getting a whiff of the eccentric consequence of the odd combination of the full-bodied aromas of cleaning product and some sturdy feminine perfume – an even slightly nauseating aroma, kind of overpowering and suffocating. In some aisle away from her, a child is heatedly asking his mother to buy him some treats.

Wanda then ponders about making something a little special for dinner, and recalls about the delicious kugel recipethat her mother used to prepare in the length of her childhood days, back in devastated Sokovia, so many years in the remote past that encompasses the beginning of the disasters that marked her life.

The memory that gushes over her is sentimental and bittersweetly recurring to her core; she deliberates about the sporadic months of starveling and a small humble family of four, when her father was lucky with his sales and there was a sufficient amount of money left to buy the soldiers' leftover ingredients.

But then, she retrieves back to the years of her late youth, all lived in the restful caresses of the compound in upper Manhattan. She was still understanding about how to breathe without having Pietro to hold her hand. She was learning to live on her own. She was coming to terms with the truth that living didn't inevitably have to be a bad experience at all; not when Y/n showed her that there could still be delight in the little things in life.

And it was Y/n who used to marvelously praise the dish when Wanda found comfort in the act of cooking, and she always repeat a few slices every time Wanda cooked it so long ago, when they were just two teenage lovers (and eventually also young wives, both living in a small bubble of love and companionship on the edge of a comfortable wooden cottage surrounded by dozen of yards of apple orchards).

There was the sweet virtuousness of the warmth of two young girls' lives at that time. It was the first time that Wanda was really fond of being young (of breathing and having a beating heart, of having a life to live valuing every little detail of it).

She memorizes the exultant smile of her ex-wife, looking so light and beautiful even while talking with her mouth full (a half-crocken smirk drawn to her left-side, like the smirk also articulated in the innocuous characteristics of her little Tommy after he was born, which reminds her so much of the radiance that used to gleam in the sweet features of her former companion). Her ex-wife wasn't always a lonesome and distant creature creeping in the corners of her mind, and it genuinely aches inside her chest to remember that.

Y/n always devoured lavishly every traditional Sokovian dish she has ever prepared and promptly asked for more – and then thanked her with a chaste kiss placed on the pulp of her lips, which promptly evolved into the building of an intimate, sweaty moment with two bodies rubbing greedily against each other. But she soon lets out a crestfallen, rather disillusioned sigh, repressing herself for having gone back to those secluded memories amorously stored in the edge of her brain in the first place (of the concept of two adolescent girlfriends absorbed in love in the purest sense of the word, emulating the seriousness of a relationship with adult bearing, but never losing, at its core, the youthful sweetness worthy of teenage lovers). Two girls playing love in a world that was a little too hard on them.

She glares ruefully at the bulbous base of the red wine bottle and then lets out a sorrowful exhalation. Her relationship with Y/n felt like it was straight out of the old sitcoms that she always appreciated so much, where no problem was a genuine obstacle and that, by the end of the day, the two lovers would be in each other's affectionately secure arms again (and that perhaps she let have an effect on her a little too much, when dealing about decisions made early on in her adult life).

But then she reminisces that she was merely turning eighteen years old when she became a wanted on an international scale, and that, prior to that, she had also grown up in a war-torn country. She never knew how to behave like a normal person per se – whether that was before or after she became able to expel bolts of magical energy from her fingertips. She never quite knew how to fit into the role of a child or a young adult in the first place. Not by herself.

There was no time in Wanda’s life to understand precisely how to fit these labels (she was protesting with so much loathe constricted within her heart, volunteering to save her homeland, being made of little more than a lab rat by the clutches of a bunch of mad men, being used by the being that promised her greatness, but only ended up costing her the life of her darling brother).

In the cramped confines of a bleak, sullied cell, with only a modest television in the corner to entertain her mind away from the needles and the brutality, there were not many allusions of love and passions that elapsed through her life outside a square screen.

Wanda was aware that she just mimicked other people's movements and transcribed them into her own actions, as if it was all just a show and she was its young star, trying to intomb in her core the path of catastrophe and violence that had always shadowed her closely; it was only the years of strict therapy, self-knowledge and self-care, right after being blipped and coming back, that edified her to be her own person in a truly healthy way. There would be no more extremes in her life.

Her cohabitation with Y/n at the time facilitated, of course – even though her wife had changed a lot in the time that followed since the blip, at first, things had worked out well between them. Or as well as possible under the anomalous circumstances. The two of them took care of the (still) newborn twins and of each other, always with great tenderness and affection while they did it. At least that's how it worked for the first year after their reunion – until Y/N got into alcohol's graces for good, that is.

Their relationship had always felt rather light and jovial before Thanos snapped his fingers. And after that she might even have come back, but it was indeed her marriage that had turned to dust in that remote dreary day in Wakanda. In all honestly, she's not quite sure what's changed in that meantime that she's been away (dead, she was dead). And it's uneasy to ponder about it, but sometimes she does – she can’t help it.

Her corporeal existence had disintegrated into a sift of life, crumbling into her own ashes. There was color, and then the dreadfully wide expanse of emptiness (death); she, as a self-aware being, ceased to exist with just a thought and a snap of two fingers.

Her consciousness faded before she could even realize she was doing it – the palms of both her hands constrained firmly against the wound in YN's stomach that was leaking bundles of fresh blood. And Wanda never relatively questioned her existence before that (she only questioned why she ceased to exist in the first place). Returning to dust, as people of faith would say. Five long years that slipped through her fingers and dripped onto the floor in the form of a veil of dust.

It still feels odd in her guts, even ten years later, to remember that there's a void somewhere in her life that would be filled with the time that was thieved from her by the Infinity Gauntlet. A void that had once been filled by the subtle presence of Y/n's love.

Once, when the twins were about a year old after the blip, Y/N drunkenly knelt down with her face defectively reclining on Wanda’s thighs and questioned her as to why Wanda and the babies where the ones erased from existence while she stayed behind, abandoned like an old piece of furniture that no one wants to use anymore. Wanda never knew how to answer it, but they got divorced about a month later or so.

But she imagines that it, the crumbliness of their relationship, has something to do with the fact that they were both a little precocious in getting married before their twenties properly speaking; maybe if they were older and more experienced before doing it, she thinks, standing in line at the supermarket, maybe then they wouldn't have had the sorrowful culmination that they did (the crying faces and the broken hearts).

Maybe they could have risen together, and not just drifted further and further away as the days passed. Maybe Y/n didn't feel guilt-ridden every time the twins cried in need to be held or fed. Maybe Wanda wouldn't have queried her for the love she no longer knew how to give – she is fully aware of the fact that she has always had a somewhat pushy nature, after all. Maybe this, maybe that.

She doesn't know why she's been thinking about maybe so much these past few days. But it's not her fault that her ex-wife happens to be so pleasing to the eye. The person behind her in line grumbles again, and there is a mischievous chuckle that reaches her ears with airs of grace. Wanda is sincerely considering summoning some coins with her magic for Mrs. Davis.

“Oh my God, this wine is divine!”

It is Sarah Proctor who addresses Wanda, the key to undeniably everything in this town. Wanda knows it's the other woman because a sudden pulsing urge to fade away takes over her nervous system as soon as the voice echoes behind herself.

She is the high-nose blonde woman who lives up the street, is a devoted member of the Westview Elementary School parent-teacher association (in the year before Wanda had witnessed her make a young teacher leave the room in tears after a meeting), proudly cultivates the most exquisite yellow roses in the neighborhood and wears a pair of classy yoga pants that would fit a young teenager with half of her age. A self-proclaimed wine mom.

Her daughter is a classmate of Billy and Tommy, and the children often attend both the Proctor and Maximoff residences – which occasioned in Sarah a vague idea of intimacy that only endures in the head of the blonde woman with bobbed hair.

She has already invited Wanda several times to Westview Pool Club girls' gatherings, but Wanda politely declined with an odd smile and a trivial wave of her hand, because she's never been the socially outgoing kind of type—and she's always been under the impression that every attempt Sarah made from approaching her were due to the fact that the other woman knew of her past as an Avenger (as did most of the small-town citizens), and so was trying to turn her into a kind of living-tourist-spot for the eyes of the rest of the world to witness.

Rumors had it that Sarah would run for mayor in the upcoming election, and having a former Avenger as the face of her campaign certainly sells well with the predilections of the American public. Little does she know that Wanda won't vote for her.

“Oh yes, it's one of my favorites,” Wanda retorts, talking about the dark tall bottle of red wine prudently deposited inside her plastic basket, “It's been a while since I've had a drink, so I decided to buy a bottle to open this weekend.”

“Some special occasion, I suppose?” Sarah articulates a suggestive grin, but Wanda just frowns uncertainly, half squinting at her neighbor, “Maybe some... special visitor? I always knew you had it in you, Wanda. You know what they say about the quiet ones...”

“What– no, no. No,” she flashes a half embarrassed, half awkward smile, chuckling nervously while doing so, “Y/n is staying with the boys for the weekend, so it's just a special little thing for me. All by myself. A quarantine-style staycation. A whole weekend... just to myself.”

“Y/n, huh?” Sarah raises a well-crafted eyebrow in a pique of curiosity, “Your ex-wife, right? I remember seeing her at the twins' birthday party. I mean, she's pretty, yes, but she's quite the quiet type, huh... just minding her own business with a cup of soda.”

“Yeah, she was never one to talk much in public, even when we were with our teammates… but neither am I, honestly.”

“A pair made in heaven, indeed,” Sarah then flashes a smile, but the taste that slides across Wanda's tongue is bitter and kind of hard to swallow. Wanda shifts her body weight uncomfortably from one leg to the other.

“But wait, she's also an Avenger, isn’t she? Yeah, she's the one in the black and white outfit! Oh my God! Who wore a jacket over it and had that kinda mean attitude, all punk rock and stuff?”

“Herself,” Wanda agrees, pressing her lips together in a long, clumsy line. She just wants to go home and cook her damn kugel.

“My my, how did I not notice this before? I remember seeing her in the news once, when I was in college. I also had quite a taste for delinquents back then, if you know what I mean. And, well... I explored a lot in college.”

Wanda feels a hot twinge high in her face and she bites the inside of her cheek in a rather timid act (but there's no denying that Y/n's somewhat rebellious attitude has always had a lewd effect on her legs as a young teenager with a schoolgirl’s heart).

“She and Black Widow, I think, saved the life of the mayor in that bombing on the Fourth of July in... ‘15, ‘16, maybe? Yeah, I remember that! She's the one who's super strong, isn't she? Who held up a scaffold once and saved those kids!”

“That's her, yes.”

The brunette muss in a limp voice, which seems to draw a slightly indecent laugh from the blonde woman with her shopping cart full of knick-knacks and silver hoops clicking in her earlobes. It is from her that the aroma of sturdy perfume comes.

“Well, I imagine that super strength of hers comes in handy in some… situations.”

“Situ–” but then she blinks just one time, “Oh,” Mmrtification hangs over Wanda like a bucket of paint spilled over her dark-haired head.

She opens and closes her mouth like a golden fish, frowning, and her cheeks don't take long to reach strong shades of scarlet, glowing red like one of the tomatoes inside Sarah's cart.

It's inappropriate, and she knows it, but she can't help but feel a certain tingle in her breasts as lapses of memory enlighten her thoughts with the ghost of touches coursing along her body. Then she thinks of Y/N's warm, measured breath against her earlobe (of strong hands pinning her wrists above her head, of a tense, impassive hip against her own hip, of the cracked headboard and the broken bedframe). A movement and a moan. An electrical discharge in her bowels. And then, fuck... just Y/n tearing her insides apart.

The other woman smiles viciously, and Wanda suddenly wishes she hadn't put on a sweater before leaving the house, because she can actually feel herself starting to perspire at the expectant look her neighbor bestows on her.

She's never been one to deal with such intimacies with anyone other than her ex-wife (merely some casual, unsuccessful and sporadic blind dates that's never been more than a few kisses and a few touches here and there, by no means ending up in her or anyone else's bed). But she permits herself only to flash a wan grin towards the other woman when she realizes that, in front of her, the old lady has lastly found her damn change. Fucking finally.

And then, with the memory still boiling hungrily in her innards, like a hungry beast devouring her from the inside out, she takes a large step in the other direction, trying to walk away from Sarah as humanly possible, as if the other woman carries with her a toxic cloud that sickens everything that comes in contact with her. If Wanda couldn't probably get a nice lawsuit for that (or worst), she'd turn Sarah into a disgusting slimy frog.

“Well, I, I, I need to go, Sarah, but it was really nice meeting you around here. Bye,” the enchantress raises her wrist, bidding the blonde woman goodbye with a wave of her hand and a small, introverted (half-awkward) grin.

There is barely time for an answer to be formulated on the part of the housewife. Wanda's cheeks are still red hot as she (virtually) dashes through the small supermarket's automatic double doors like a fugitive on the run. Mrs. Davis drops a coin on the floor on her way out.

ᗢ

You don't know exactly how long you've been raising and lowering the joint of your bent elbow above your head. It doesn't feel right to do it, just as it doesn't do it if it feels wrong. It's just necessary – it’s like cracking some eggs if you're in the mood for an omelet for breakfast. You just have the fullest conception that a few good minutes have passed since the beginning of all the activity, and as in the rehearsal of a play, you are repeating the gestures until you overcome them with great proficiency and your culmination comes out perfect, from your liking.

And you don't bother to intend to stop doing it anytime soon – such a guttural, animalistic and barbaric action. At this point, the movement is already instinctive after being recorded in at the core of your memory, an automatic message engraved between the ligaments of your neurons. You've done it innumerable times before, and you know you'll do it a few more times after this one.

You lift your right arm, lowers your implacable fist constricted like a steel ball, the resonance of smashed cartilage and wrecked bones echoing in your eardrums, all instructed by the figure of a bloodthirsty invisible conductor within the ramparts of your own cranium. The face of the bewildered guy lying beneath you looks like a loaf of raw, misshapen meat as you repeat a cadence of sequentially delivered punches against his facial bones. And he, who is at least twice as big as you, lets out a piercing howl of pain from the cavernous depths of his throat, as even a wild bear would do if attacked deep in a forest.

But in that alley on Long Island there is not a soul available to help him to get rid of your uncomplacent fists – not at the end of a passage that is unpopulated, far from prying eyes that could creep in your direction during the action which takes place there, a beacon of environment squeezed between two amorphous walls of scorched bricks, which gives the illusion of a single long, damp, narrow street. 

A sphere of blood is clotted on your face, like an eccentric gemstone, a dark red pearl splattered under the arch of your left eyebrow. And you pant heavily, your veins stiffening.

You've never been one to refuse punching a motherfucker in the face – your forte has always been pounding up things, whether on the countless missions conveyed alongside your teammates or at work during your teenage years, taking advantage of your inhuman gifts to have something to eat at the end of the week.

You've never had a dilemma in whacking someone’s ass. Even more so when that said someone had committed a hate crime against a racial minority and got away with the trial, because that's the way it is in New York City. The recurring metallic scent of fresh blood squirts in a jet of reddish color, thick and gleaming across your rigid, compact knuckles. The gruesome fragrance is no stranger to your sense of smell, and you're not quite sure whether you want it to be or not.

But it is what you are; as an inherent component of your biological chemistry (like the serum gushing through Steve's veins, altering him from inside out, or the magic pulsing within Wanda's core, changing the structure of her brainwaves), you know that hostility is a primeval part of your nature longer than the placid ends of an ordinary, quiet life.

The peaceable domestic life lived alongside Wanda is long gone, and desolation and wrath are your only roommates within the walls of your morbidly valueless apartment. You've been living like a cornered animal for fifteen years in programmed mode, always exposing your fangs and your claws at any sign of danger, just self-destructing, dying little by little, not craving to exist for one more day after laying your head on the blandishments of your pillow and staring blankly at the ceiling, whirling through your usual drunken state. Just desiring to somehow wreck your imperishable body that can't be cut or torn by human hands or tools.

People much well-intentioned than you are long gone, and you, by some implausible probabilities, were (cursed) fortunate to have endured thorough all the catastrophes that life directed at you. The car accident as a child. The blip as a mother and as a wife, as a friend.

The damn journey by the mountain of Vormir, in which three of you went in the grip of that appallingly isolated planet, and only two came back with a chest full of oxygen and life pumping through your nervures. The avid combat for proprietorship of all the six Infinity Stones, and the provenance of the final snap that brought back peace to the equilibrium of the universe by eliminating the existence of its greatest known threat at the time.

You just seem to live confined in this unbearable cycle of misfortune, and it's not fair to others that you are the person left to tell the story of those who are gone. If only you could, you would swap places with the true heroes who gave their lives for the greater good. You would even be honored to do so yourself.

Your chest heaves and deflates severely within the molds of your leather jacket fitted around your shoulders over a short-sleeved plain shirt, your veins bulging with rushing blood, and you rise to your feet, setting up your knees, and step back to inspect the big man who lies defeated to the floor of the alley, amidst a pool of his own blood and filth typical of places like this — your jacket sleeve shimmering with bundles of fresh blood, a coat of gleaming sweat limping glistening on the beam of skin on your forehead, near your hairline.

He is still alive, groaning in a vital position, and is severely battered. And it was never your intention to kill anyone. He probably learned his lesson. Maybe you should break his legs, just in case. A tremor rolls under your black sneaker feet as a loud motorcycle passes by in the distance. Sirens also pass presently afterwards, coming and going with their blue and red outcome.

But there, squeezed inside the claustrophobic walls of the dim alley, you are far from any possible intervention. You then register a single shake that travels along the outline of your left leg as your cellphone pulses inside the back pocket of your old jeans, shivering against your hip bone.

 You take an elongated gulp of air before diving into your flickering pocket and hooking the device through your fuming, blooded finger length. You know your pupils are dilated and dark. Your gaze is empty and brittle as you scrutinize between the digitally formed words before your motionless eyes. Frequent bursts of oxygen are a method of neutralizing the pulses of adrenaline throbbing in the artery inside your neck. But the taste that slips between your teeth is acid and sour, and you lock your jawbone at the information that is cognitive to you.

Hey, Y/n. Are you really going to come get the boys tonight? I saw somewhere that it will rain later, so I wanted to check with you just to make sure.

(seen)

It’s Wanda.

(seen)

By the way.

(seen)

Yes, you know it's Wanda (your sweet Wanda, the trace of humanity lingering inside your icy chest), that she texted you. And it doesn't astonish you at all (not anymore), because not many people contact you lately during the sunny period of the day. You two have been keeping in touch the last few days, after all, you told her that you wanted to be more present in the twins' lives. And it's not an untruth at all, but your sly creaking anxiety makes you feel like it's a kind of uncertainty inside your throbbing stomach walls.

Maybe it's not the right decision, the voice inside your head spoke. Maybe at this point in life they don't need you anymore. Maybe this is a breakthrough, or even the commencement of a calamity worthy of a Greek novel, you're not quite sure yet. You turn on your heels and spin your back on the battered man, so you can send your reply to your ex-wife's number without looking at the ferocious outcome of your latent tantrum.

yup, your avid thumbs type along the digital keyboard provided on the screen of the small electronic device, i’ll be there in 1 hour or so. hope they like cheeseburgers.

And then you slide your upper teeth along the flesh of your lower lip, somewhat unsure of how to proceed.

try to enjoy your staycation btw. you deserve it

(seen)

:)

(seen)

You don't know why you sent her that stupid emoji. It's not like you're a teenager reproducing a failed flirtation attempt with the girl you have a crush on anymore.

But a lapse of realism is present as your vision aims on the blood folds on your stinging fingers folded around the cellphone, and you feel a heavy ball of constricted lamentation taking shape in the back of your throat when your sorrowful eyes scrutinize thorough the lines of your hands and find there only odious signs of a cavernous viciousness (a raw, physical cruelty also reflected within the mirror of your shattered soul).

In the background, the man is still groaning in pain. And you're not sorry you broke him in a beating. No, no. You're just sorry for yourself, because you didn't bat an eye when you did it. Vaguely the memory of Wanda placing chaste kisses along your hands invades you, and you realize you wouldn't want her to kiss your unseemly fingers right now (because you find her too pure to dwell on the filthiness of your touch).

The skin on your hands abruptly itches and feels dull, and you don't feel like having those plagued fingers around your children’s immaculate faces anymore.

ᗢ

The twilight of dusk breaks with the trepidation of an ingrained thunder, which rumbles all in a glow of white light that splits along the longitudinal path that comprised the pleasant suburb that is Westview. So, this is an opaque afternoon resulting from the middle of the rainy day, gray and hazy in its chilly essence, with tenuous threads of a torrential drizzle protecting the foundations of the two-story house on the slopes of the street, making the dewy ivy rustle on its ground, dripping slowly from the eaves of the ceramic tiles.

Standing on the porch of Wanda's house, you ponder that you should have listened to the weather forecast when it was said that during the afternoon there would be a period of rain. Your dark hoodie is really soaked through and your hair, pulled back in a high half ponytail, is damp against the skin of your own forehead. You feel kind of stupid.

Compact, opulent, slate-colored clouds were uneven against the emerald green of the panorama of howling houses, hills and trees, like the leaning of thick smoke from a desolate fire. A fierce storm, nevertheless, is not anomalous in the face of the oscillating spring climate of the state of New Jersey, which is not a real stranger to the rainy weather of the season. Thus, the nonstop drizzle is not the atypical episode of the day altogether.

The conquering event of such a rank happens when Wanda opens the door and finds you there, standing with your elbows dripping cold droplets water in the light wood entrance, and then pulls you into the cozy embrace of the pleasant climate established within that domestic environment of her own home.

“For God’s sake, Y/n, you're soaking wet!”

She reiterates, surveying you with an apprehensive gaze that runs the length of your head to toe, her slender ringless fingers still pressed worriedly around the outline of your right forearm tucked beneath the humid fabric of your damp blouse – but Wanda doesn't seem to realize as she's still carries with the action, and you kind of don't want her to let go of you anytime soon, so you say nothing about the warm touch tingling on your cold skin.

“Yeah, the rain started when I was halfway there and there was no way for me to avoid it, so I just went with it,” you mutter, with a certain lack of interest smoldering in your quiet voice “Sometimes I wish I still had a car...”

“But you didn't bring an umbrella?” Her gaze is accusatory in your direction, the tone of voice sounding dangerously concerned inside your ears, “Wait, you walk all the way over here?! I could have gone to get you!”

“Well,” you kind of sigh, shrugging your shoulders within your hoodie, without looking her straight in the eye “You see, I, hah… I didn’t think it was actually going to… you know… to rain. And technically I have some level of super speed in me, so...”

And then you look at her, and the exact facial expression you'd expect to find there makes its way until it slides all over her face. She’s pissed off.

“But I told you it was going to rain!” she then frowns at you, looking a little exasperated while doing it, her beautiful features drenched in an irritated tone of incredulity, “Seriously Y/n, you need to listen to what I say more! What if you get sick?”

You flick an eyelid at the grumpy figure of a very upset Wanda standing right in front of you, exhaling aromas of tea and crimson color. It's funny how the pique of nostalgia slips through your bones – there is an air of familiarity when a subtle sense of déjà vu settles into your cognitive system, like the feeling of coming home after a long trip. You feel at home. You feel belonging.

This image is very cherished to your spirit, and you can't help but to articulate a small grin that feels light in your heart in front of your ex-wife, who then aims towards your gaze with a gleam that is an assortment of misunderstanding and irritability flickering in the greenish irises, the color that look like two emerald stones embedded within her eyeballs, curving a single one of her sharp dark eyebrows in an high arching cut.

You feel married to her again for half a fraction of a second – it's like your remote newlywed routine all over again. And the feeling is actually good. She looks so pretty. It's like you could kiss her lips right there.

“What? What's so funny?”

Wanda questions you in an almost petulant way, and you let out a pleasant chuckle as she tilts her head slightly to the side of her right elbow, her chin pointing toward the tip of your nose – her typical irritating movement as the harbinger of an angry reaction to anything that troubles her spirit.

“You know I'm physically incapable of getting sick, don't you?” you declare, still with a smile carved along the outline of your own lips, and Wanda crosses her forearms close to her chest in an even vaguely embarrassed way in front of you. She was always a stubborn type anyways.

“It's that super durability mutant thing or some shit like that. At least that's what Banner told me once, and he's a smart guy y’know, so I believe him,” you casually shrug, “I haven't had a cold since I was, like, thirteen. Shit, I don't even know if I remember what it's like anymore. You don't have to worry about me, Wanda.”

“W-well,” she exasperated in a timidly cute way, even a little childish in essence, pressing her open palms against the sides of her hips well-guarded by a pair of pale mom jeans – the attire so far from the miniskirts and chains and torn clothes she used to wear when she was younger, at the apex of her mean girl phase.

Today isn't the first time you've noticed that her waist got wider as a result of the prudent ripening endowments of late adulthood blossoming into her beautiful body-type. It suits her well. You want to touch her skin through the fabric of those flimsy jeans and the thin white cotton blouse; your fingers itch to do it.

“Just because you don't get sick like other people it doesn’t mean you can walk around in the rain whenever you feel like it. You look like a wet dog right now, you know.”

“Alright, alright, I get it,” you raise both your hands to shoulder height in a placid gesture of surrender, “No more walks in the rain, I promise you.”

“You're impossible, Y/n,” she then rolls her green eyes into their sockets, but you just smirk jokily at her reaction.

It only takes a nonchalant magical flutter of Wanda's wrist, with her right five fingers all enveloped in a fading mist of crimson steam, for the well-versed witch to make your garments still swell on your body, expelling from the bristles of fabric, as even in a chemical separation reaction, the water molecules that soaked them in the first place.

It's like a huge hair dryer blowing hot air the entire length of your body and then unexpectedly stopping as if pulled from the socket, making your skin temperature pleasant again like a sunny embrace all around your body. You find yourself dry in a matter of seconds, from your socks to your underwear, thanks to her remarkable magical gifts.

The tingles consequential from the scarlet mist touching your skin still slither down the length of your body. It is familiar and eccentrically comforting – it's like eating again a candy that you used to eat during the preludes of your childhood; tastes like home and happiness.

“You know what, your powers come in handy sometimes, I’ll give you that,” you say in a mocking tone of voice, and she raises a single eyebrow in response.

“You’re annoying. I'm still considering throwing you out back in the rain for dripping water all over my carpet, just so you know.”

“All right, mom, relax. I won’t do it again, girl scout word.”

“You were never a girl scout, Y/n.”

Wanda just casts a weary glance in your direction, but there's a slight lighthearted tone that resides in the green outline of her graceful irises, as if an inside joke has taken hold between you two. She smiles, and so do you, because you feel comfortable while doing it – a pair of complicit grins from someone whose chest is filled of joy and fullness. The atmosphere that sets in is comfortable, and you feel more relaxed being close to her.

You don't really do it, but it feels like your fingers are entwined with the fingers of her own hand – the specter of touch is written between the two of you, and it's as if your soul can really feel hers at its core, like two magnets that can't stop attracting each other instantaneously. You've always gravitated towards Wanda's overwhelming presence, and things won't be any different now.

“Come on, the boys are watching cartoons in the living room,” Wanda says, then turning her back on you so that you follow her lead to the intimates of the house, “You can stay until the rain stops.”

You follow after your ex-wife without further circumlocution, the two of you passing through the small and comfy entrance hall as you go after Wanda into the large rectangular living room, your hands always tucked inside the single pocket of your hoodie as you accompany her with phlegmatic steps in your essence. Your shoulders feel even lighter as she turns to you and casually offers you the sweetest smile you've ever seen in your life.

Torrential rain is still pouring down from the sky outside the house, and the boys Billy and Tommy can be seen wearing warm, comfortable clothes, both the twins snuggled up against the back of the gray linen sofa, their little smart eyes looking smilingly at each other’s faces and not towards the television screen, where some cartoon that seems unfamiliar to you is shown.

They seem to share some secret that only two people with some primal connection as to what unites them would be able to do it, but the sounds of banter irrigated in the air of childish shenanigans reveals the mockery between their giggles.

They are brothers and they are twins, yes, two parts of a whole, born of the same womb that they shared from the beginning of their existence as two living beings, but you were always a little happier to realize the closeness established in the friendship between your children. Billy and Tommy are each other's best friends.

The pair then seem to make themselves aware of the presence of their two mothers as they enter the room, and the smiles of both children scintillate in enthusiasm as the pairs of eyes look up and acknowledge your appearance a little further behind Wanda's still figure, following her very closely, ceasing the small section of chitchats they had between the two of them.

“Mom!”

“Mommy!”

From the sofa the boys joyfully call out to you, beaming in your direction. You can't help but do the same to them.

“Hey, my demons spawn. What are you up to there, huh?”

“We were preparing something! Okay, so, mom,” Billy speaks in response, barely seeming to be able to contain the glee of excitement inside his tiny body.

“Listen to this-!” Tommy complements his brother's phrase, in a tone of enthusiastic anticipation.

"Hey, I want to start it!" but the other twin intervenes promptly, almost indignantly.

Tommy frowns, turning up his freckled little nose towards a rather annoyed Billy, who is sitting next to his left elbow. The little boy briefly tilts his head to the left side towards his brother, and you know you've seen similar action in Wanda's characteristic mannerisms.

“No, I want to start it!”

"I want to start it!"

“But I want to start it!”

“I want to start it!”

“Why don't you both,” Wanda then promptly interferes with the small disagreement between the boys, increasing her mother's reproachful tone of voice a little, preventing, at the beginning, that the intrigue takes a somewhat bigger proportions, “Start it together?”

“Yeah,” you support her in a complacent tone of voice, “You two came up with the idea together, so the right thing would be to do it together too. Whatever it is, I mean.”

"Okay."

"Okay..."

The two of them mutter almost in almost defeated tune, fidgeting together on the couch. You think that they look cute while they're there, tiny and sitting like two baby rabbits.

"You ready?" Billy questions in a low voice, turning to the brother beside him.

“Yeah,” Tommy mussed back, nodding in agreement.

“Okay,” says Billy then, almost proudly, “Three, two, one, go.”

And then, you can barely contain a smirk when the boys, in different and discrepant voice tones, begin a silly chant in their thin children's voices. In the corner of your peripheral vision, you notice that Wanda also lets out an amorous smile, melting into a comfortable puddle of kindness, dying in love with her two singing little children sitting across from the two of you.

“We like ice cream like any child should,” they hum together, vocalizing playful tones as they proceed through the song's component words, “And if we get some ice cream, we pro-mise to be… good!”

Then they look towards the two of you, displaying expectant smiles written all over their childish faces. And you and Wanda exchange glances, and the smile she offers you is very similar to the one that graces the curve of Billy's lips.

"Nice try, smarty-pants, but you haven't even had dinner yet."

“But mama,” Tommy replies in a pleading tone of voice, “We really want ice cream!”

“Yes, we want ice cream!” exclaims Billy in agrément, "We can't wait!"

“Well, we can have dinner first, then ice cream. What do you guys think?" you offer them, your eyes darting towards Wanda's face, "But you need to have dinner first to grow to be strong and healthy, and ice cream is for dessert only. Right, mama?"

Wanda looks in your direction, and then smiles. And you smile back, because the situation is prone to do so. You, for the first time in so long, feel welcomed and hassle-free in the presence of others. The air inside the house is blissful and warm, so unlike your empty, disdainful apartment forgotten somewhere on the West Side of Midtown Manhattan. Wanda doesn't feel like your ex-wife right now – at least, that's not how she looks at you.

“Right,” her eyes flash pale green beams towards you “Let's have dinner first, mommy.”

ᗢ

You wake up in the middle of the night, but maybe you just haven't fallen asleep at all. The sheets that grace the bottom of your body are soft and comfortable, and the pajama set you wear is not your property. It's late in the course of the long night, and like so many that have passed before this one, you just know you wouldn't be able to rest your relaxation anytime soon.

How could you even do it? Perhaps you stayed longer than you realized detailing the gloomy ceiling of Wanda's guest room, counting in your mind as you scrutinized every passing second so that you still had control over something (time being something), so that you wouldn't go mad at being dismembered alive by each of your own inner demons.

If the beginning of the night was watered in jubilation and a serene comforting coziness on your part, the firstfruits of the dawn soon came to frustrate you in the form of intrusive thoughts quite harmful to your twisted mental health.

The torrential rain didn't stop anytime soon, and after having dinner with Wanda and the boys (in a very warm congregation, you were sitting at the table with your family, eating the same food as them and breathing the same oxygen, always supported by grins of pleasure as you chatted eagerly with each other), and the twins were slow to fall asleep after two generous mugs of chocolate mint ice cream each.

Your ex-wife insisted that you stay for the night after the two of you carried them upstairs and deposited them in their respective tidy beds, showering each of them with chaste kisses to the tops of their childish heads – Wanda's little staycation was long-forgotten by then. You let out a disturbed sigh, both palms of your hands polishing the length of the dull face of yours.

What the fuck, you think, what the fuck are you doing there? This may even be your family, but this is not your house. It's not your home. Not anymore. Reverberating through your insides you find the throttling need for a drag of a cigarette eating away at the bottom of your lungs like a harmful parasite sucking the life from its source, and then you get up to do it, because lying down feels like it consumes you from within in a profuse haze of bubbling anxiety that bursts from your stomach to your mouth, making you feel so weak inside.

It has always struck you as a somewhat ironic cynicism on the part of the universe that you, who are possessed of an impenetrable shell on the outside, suffer so much from the brittle fragility of your own interior – hard skin does nothing to protect a broken mind.

The lavender bedclothes had begun to tighten the muscle in your neck after a while, and in the room just down the hall, you assume Wanda sleeps comfortably cuddling in her bed. When searching inside the single pocket of your hoodie, the well-folded garment on top of a plain desk in the corner of the room, soaked in the darkness of the shadowy environment, the absconse pack of cigarettes from a brand that you are quite familiar with, that keeps you company in the acrimonious moments of solitude, you take a single cylindrical unit towards the spaces open to your drooping mouth and then you find the cold lighter with your fingertips, leaving for the entrance door of the room offered to you by your ex-wife.

After descending the stairs, stepping one step at a time with your bare feet, you are surprised that the door leading to the backyard is already open before you are even there, and the cold night wind has blown inside the house like a curious, invisible animal, installing an icy feeling of dysphoria within the broad walls.

But before you could search with your watchful eye for some intruder who went beyond the icy specter of the night, in avid state of alert, you notice an apollonian silhouette hunched outside, sitting on the step outside the door, with a long waterfall of soft hair in the color of a raven's down running halfway down her spine.

The restlessness that weighed heavily on your shoulders eased as the familiar full-bodied scent of hibiscus tea mixed with the sweetness of a mild strawberry shampoo slithered into your nostrils and filled your lungs thirsty for smoke and tobacco. As you approach, you see that Wanda, wearing a sheer silk robe over a red nightgown, is accompanied by a large cup that exhales small clouds of steam, with the tiny bundle that carries the tea herbs submerged into the hot water inside the dark container.

"You really have loud thoughts," Wanda's small, soft voice ripples through the air and then hugs your body as your ex-wife turns toward you with a lingering slowness that, to you, is as familiar as the taste of your unsmoked cigarette.

Her eyes glow an intoxicating green hue amid the darkness of the night, only supported by the silver light of the moonlight coming from outside the residence. You feel like a frog being studied on a silver platter in some high school biology class.

Wanda's diligent gaze always seemed to be able to penetrate through the cracks of your soul – she always understood you as if she were an expert when dealing with any subject concerning you. You let out an uneasy sigh, oddly scratching the inside of your throat as you do.

"Sorry if I woke you up, it wasn't... it wasn't my... intention."

“It’s okay,” she mumbles serenely over a sip of hot tea, the pulp of her nacarine lips being moistened by the hot liquid she's ingested, “I still haven't been able to sleep anyway.”

And it's no surprise to you, because you slept and woke up next to this woman for several of the component years of your life span, and it was always well known to you that Wanda is a woman quite affected by long sleepless nights, not being able to afford to actually close her eyes and be fortunate enough to have a good night's sleep.

Countless were the nights turned to morning dawns, when you both resided under the same roof in the compound back at the Avengers Tower, so many years before you were there, standing in the middle of her kitchen, silently watching her perform the simple act of drinking tea at her backyard door.

“Still having trouble sleeping?”

“Once in a while,” Wanda answers you, and with her eyes she indicates the empty space next to her right elbow so you can sit there, “Sometimes I need to relearn how to sleep all by myself. And... It's not easy, when I’m under the same roof as you again.”

Without saying a word, you cross the entire length of the kitchen, passing by the island and the marble sink, to be seated on the marble step that freezes your warm skin, next to the woman who smells of hibiscus with strawberries and deep scarlet tones.

Her eyes recognize the figure of the unsmoked cigarette between your fingers, unlit and forgotten like the insignificant little rolled-up tobacco paper that it is, and then she looks toward the profile of your silhouette, blinking once with her thick eyelashes as she does so.

“You start smoking again?”

“Yeah, it's been a while, actually. A couple of years to be honest. Not that I'm proud of it, but,” your gaze shifts to the small cylinder, turning it between the digits of your index and middle fingers of your tender right hand, “This little shit here helps me calm down, I guess. Or at least I like to think so. I don’t know."

Silence touches both of you shoulders, and there is a moment for Wanda to sip more of the tea that has spilled into her cup. When the drink is gone, then all the way into her stomach, she places the container on the floor, close to her left ankle like a tame kitten, safe from her company. You are still hesitating in the uncertainty of whether or not to light up that damned tempting cigarette.

“Earlier today,” she begins, immediately drawing your attention to her pretty face, and you're met with her pink lip as she clamps her upper teeth over the contour of her wet mouth.

“You and me and the boys... it was good. They like having you around. And I... I like it too, Y/n. It felt right.”

She hums in the sigh of the night. You feel a crackling feeling swelling inside your swollen chest, but you don't say anything in sequence, because it's Wanda who continues to talk in her silver moonlight monologue.

“I had forgotten what it was like to feel like this. Me and you acting like family with the boys the way we’re supposed to be. And it's good, Y/n. It’s… really good. I missed that, you. I missed you.”

You choke relatively. For Wanda, a heartbeat rumbled in her ears. And then she looks at you, and you look at her.

And suddenly, you don't want to light that cigarette anymore – because she leans her chin forward, leaning her head towards you, and you do the same when your body cries out for her, lips colliding in midair like the consolidation of a wish, a scarlet fever supernova bursting within your own chest.

And then, the full-bodied freshness of hibiscus darts into the half-open breach in the gap between your lips, pressing a velvety tongue against the slit between your teeth, discharging into your mouth a red-sour-sweet flavor, definitely good though, but rougher than usual as the two of you now share a needy, somewhat sloppy, even animalistic kiss.

Even if there is indeed a need on Wanda's part, and you just need someone to scare you away from the evil inside your head. Your ex-wife, in a thoughtless act, dives with her clever hands into the thin fabric of the tank top that clothes your impenetrable skin, grabbing the sides of your waist in a needy way, as if all she wanted at that moment was to feel you, as if her entire existence existed based on physically feeling you snuggled into her icy body.

She blinks, consenting to the overflow of her feelings, enraptured by the image of your cheeks burning and your chest heaving. And she does what she thinks is right to do, which seems to be the only option possible in this small moment of affection and dedication, filled with an ember that if she could name it, she would call it love - because she knows she love you, even if she didn't say it out loud yet. You are the love of her life, and she is the love of yours.

Wanda then hurls herself even farther forward, a nymph figure smitten with idolatry, and takes her prize, pressing the commission of her red lips against the outlined mouth with the flavor of melancholy that could belong to none other than you, so exotic, and never the same.

You feel the smart hands rest at the end of your spine with an almost practiced disregard, seeking nothing but feeling at first, far from the lascivious idea of consolidating the carnal act. Wanda just wants to feel you close, all to herself, comfortable in her grip. Between a set of pink lips, a tongue is present, and this tongue curls up in another in a not hasty and exaggerated way. It's elegant. It's careful. It is harmonious.

But a slow kiss unravels, and Wanda holds her breath and returns in search of more of her favorite flavor to keep in her mouth, only to be promptly reciprocated by a devoted you, a soft nostalgic familiarity edging your silhouettes connected by the lips beneath a star-studded sky, with an absorbed perfection that no one else but the two of you would be able to achieve.

Up and down, side and side; surrounded by genuine attunement, lips moved carefully, following an invisible line that dictates your not so reckless actions. A waltz of delicate, tangible lips that still fit together so perfectly, so neatly, that you might as well cry.

But the pacified kiss soon takes the form of a fervent kiss as you pant hot against your ex-wife's lips, and the fervent kiss becomes little kisses sprinkled around her neck that soon dissolve into a hollow moan, into a world where there didn't seem to be any more worries as long as you were in each other's arms.

In her own time, Wanda drags her teeth along the lower lip of your mouth, which groans deeply in response with a tingling in your throat, a tiny fraction of time passing until, like a buzz, quick, rough lips take refuge again in a tongue inside your mouth, and you feel an icy hand grasp your breast in a primitive way.

Clever fingers, soaked in crimson, traveled to your scalp, and a light mouth caresses yet another moan of yours. In a heartbeat, Wanda swings a leg over your knees and sits right on top of your lap, grabbing your wrists to put your hands around her waist.

“Please,” she cries against your lips, “Please, Y/n, touch me. Make me feel you again.”

The feeling is familiar. Toxically familiar. It is the red invading your senses, intoxicating you with dense doses of scarlet. You know very well that, even before the enticements of alcohol and cigarettes, your primary vice has always been the crimson sweetness of Wanda's body. And, well… you're not known for being resistant to the temptations of your addictions.

ᗢ

A crimson marble glow glistening under the palms of both your hands. Sweat glistened in the hollow of your groin across your burning hips. Wanda riding on your lap, naked as a Renaissance painting displayed in the dim light of a museum, her chest heavy like a marathon runner. The long, thick length of the red strap brushed against a specific spot on her inner walls that made her delirious and increasingly pivot her hips toward you, seeking more, brushing against each other like two animals in heat.

There was nothing rational in that animalistic act. The symphony in the room was that of skin beating wet against skin; of her lascivious wetness voraciously swallowing your cock.

You could see it from the single, retracted drop of sweat that poured into the valley between her own swollen breasts, the two mounds swaying just before your lascivious eyes; a delight modulated to your stormy gaze, profuse as sea water, which clouded your young girlfriend's body with a predatory look, immersed in illicit labor.

Your insides tingled in a white-hot tingle, both clits sliding through the material of the strap, the insides of your thighs strong and wet against Wanda's pulsing center.

Her tight pussy pressing against the erect silicone phallus between your legs, the red of the material buffed with the sticky juices from inside of her. That was her bed, her sheets wet beneath your sweaty bodies, the walls of her room reverberating the pornographic grunts and moans from deep in her throat.

“F-fuck-!” she clenched her teeth, her nails lacquered with black nail polish carving red paths in the muscles of your back, “Y/n, fuck, right there, ah-!”

Her thick Sokovian accent spilled into your ears, and something primal and cavernous rumbled inside you, like a spark that explodes in a raging fire. You wanted to own her. You wanted to consume her.

You wanted to eat her alive; fuck her until the mold of your strap was forever etched into the walls of her greedy cunt, which was increasingly squeezing the silicone phallus, a delicious pressure forming a red knot just below her belly button.

“Ah-! Ah-!, pozhaluysta, pozhaluysta-!” she gasped in her native dialect, loud and clear against your ear as you fucked her as hard as possible “Trakhni menya... ya pochti u tseli, ya po-pochti u tseli... Ugh, dorogaya!”

“Fuck, are you close?”

“M-mhmm! ” she kind of moaned, both eyes squinted two lewd lines “Please don't stop, don't stop Y/n, ah-!”

The scream was loud as you dropped her suddenly onto the sheets, her sweaty back slamming against the thick material of the mattress, her dark hair spilling across the pale material of the pillow.

You slipped your hands between the folds of both her knees and brought her lower back close, barely giving her time to miss your strap inside her dripping cunt before guiding the red material between her sticky folds, resuming the vigorous action of fucking your way against her cervix.

Your strong hand pressed itself (as did the bone of your jaw) against the upholstered headboard, and there a rip was deferred by your own touch – as it had done to a plucked pillow, and a lampshade shattered to the ground.

The lamp above your heads flashed white. Wanda's eyes glowed a profuse scarlet that swallowed the moss green of her irises, the darkening of her dilated pupils making her eyes look like two bottomless wells of lust. You buried your face against the beam of sweaty skin that joined her neck to her collarbone, and placed a generous, savage bite there.

“Fuck- I’m gonna cum, I'm gonna– fuck! Y/n! Oh, fuck!” she decreed, panting against your bare neck, pressing her fingers against your buttocks in an incitement to the act they so indomitably committed.

“Come for me Wanda,” you murmured against her ear, “Come on my cock, pretty girl, make a mess for me. I wanna hear you fucking scream my name.”

The bed hit the wall again. And again. And again. You didn't stop at the first orgasm. Nor in the second. Nor on the third. Until you abandoned her in the middle of the night.

#wanda x y/n #wanda maximoff x you #wanda x you #wanda maximoff #wanda reader #wanda maximoff imagine #billy maximoff #tommy maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x y/n #wanda x reader #scarlet witch #scarlet witch x reader #scarlet witch imagine #scarlet witch x you #bottom wanda maximoff #bottom!wanda #bottom!wanda maximoff x you #bottom scarlet witch #elizabeth olsen #elizabeth olsen x reader

[marximoff]

déjà vu | w. maximoff

summary: as you slowly reconnect with Wanda, you feel a familiar feeling of déjà vu.

warnings: heavy make out, smut, strap-on sex (Wanda receiving) mentions of smoking, mentions of drinking, canon typical violence, angst.

pairing: Wanda x fem!reader

word count: 10k

A/N: this chapter sure was long awaited (i know it was you horny gays) but before the hot sapphic sex everyone wanted (emo wanda my beloved), this chapter deals with a character study of both r and wanda, to understand a little more about who they are rn as people

((by the way, I'll be taglisting the chapters from now on, so if you want to participate, just say something in the comments

enjoy!

|series masterlist|

|part one| |part two| |part four| |part five| |part six|

《《《《《《《ᱬ》》》》》》》

A carton of almond milk, a jar of peanut butter, a dozen eggs, a stick of butter, a can of peas, a bag of soft multigrain bread and a sizable bottle of wine are the components of the plastic basket that Wanda carries slung over her right arm.

She doesn't know that she forgot to get a can of corn too.

But the basket is kind of weighty and she might as well use her magic to levitate the items around her own silhouette, but she prefers that way, holding them down herself with her own arm strength.

Sometimes it's good to keep the sense of normality active. Even if normality just means carrying a basket full of groceries around the supermarket.

She then looks at the face of the brown watch buttoned at the base of her left wrist and checks the time, blinking her greenish eyes after squeezing a long, full yawn in the back of her throat.

A gray-haired old lady (Mrs. Sharon Davis, an elderly widow, all wrapped in her pale blue cardigan) in front of her appears to be in a conflict with herself to find some of the change interred in the lowest of her silver wallet.

And Wanda scrutinizes the establishment around herself, between the shelves stocked with groceries and the glossy linoleum floor; the weary gaze wavering absorbedly over her own white-fabric sneakers and contingently fixing on a dark, even smear on the floor between them.

 Old Mrs. Davis still hasn't spotted her desired coins, and she's been digging into her wallet for the silver pennies for a good few minutes now.

Wanda listens over her shoulder as someone pulls into a shopping cart right behind herself and lets out an audible groan, evidentially annoyed at the delay of the old lady with her change, but Wanda doesn't see the point in bothering to torment herself.

It's not yet six o'clock and she'll be peaceably walking home, for Westview is a small, undisturbed, reticent suburban town where everything is so close and easy to find. And she knows that, with her house being just a few blocks away from the locality of the modest market, she won't be long in coming to prepare dinner for her and her boys (whom she has left securely at the house, both doing their math homework).

She smiles tenderly to herself when she thinks about Billy and Tommy.

After all, she knows she's never loved anyone as passionately as she loves those two little boys (the grace of her life, the reason for her morning smile and for the blaze of keenness pulsing within the fond fortifications of her warmish heart).

For her they are everything, and that is why she would do anything for them – they are the epithet of the purest form of love that Y/N had ever gifted her with; the culmination of their love converted into two vulnerable little creatures that are made up of the best of the two of them.

She just knows, like a good mother who understands both her children so well, that at that moment, the twin boys are probably watching some silly cartoon on the television set beside the broad fireplace found in the corner of the commodious living room.

And she is placid in a supermarket line, getting a whiff of the eccentric consequence of the odd combination of the full-bodied aromas of cleaning product and some sturdy feminine perfume – an even slightly nauseating aroma, kind of overpowering and suffocating.

(In some aisle away from her, a child is heatedly asking his mother to buy him some treats)

Wanda then ponders about making something a little special for dinner, and recalls about the delicious kugel recipethat her mother used to prepare in the length of her childhood days, back in devastated Sokovia, so many years in the remote past that encompasses the beginning of the disasters that marked her life.

The memory that gushes over her is sentimental and bittersweetly recurring to her core; she deliberates about the sporadic months of starveling and a small humble family of four, when her father was lucky with his sales and there was a sufficient amount of money left to buy the soldiers' leftover ingredients.

But then, she retrieves back to the years of her late youth, all lived in the restful caresses of the compound in upper Manhattan. She was still understanding about how to breathe without having Pietro to hold her hand. She was learning to live on her own.

She was coming to terms with the truth that living didn't inevitably have to be a bad experience at all; not when Y/N showed her that there could still be delight in the little things in life.

And it was Y/N who used to marvelously praise the dish when Wanda found comfort in the act of cooking, and she always repeat a few slices every time Wanda cooked it so long ago, when they were just two teenage lovers (and eventually also young wives, both living in a small bubble of love and companionship on the edge of a comfortable wooden cottage surrounded by dozen of yards of apple orchards).

There was the sweet virtuousness of the warmth of two young girls' lives at that time. It was the first time that Wanda was really fond of being young (of breathing and having a beating heart, of having a life to live valuing every little detail of it).

She memorizes the exultant smile of her ex-wife, looking so light and beautiful even while talking with her mouth full (a half-crocken smirk drawn to her left-side, like the smirk also articulated in the innocuous characteristics of her little Tommy after he was born, which reminds her so much of the radiance that used to gleam in the sweet features of her former companion).

Her ex-wife wasn't always a lonesome and distant creature creeping in the corners of her mind, and it genuinely aches inside her chest to remember that.

Y/N always devoured lavishly every traditional Sokovian dish she has ever prepared and promptly asked for more – and then thanked her with a chaste kiss placed on the pulp of her lips, which promptly evolved into the building of an intimate, sweaty moment with two bodies rubbing greedily against each other.

But she soon lets out a crestfallen, rather disillusioned sigh, repressing herself for having gone back to those secluded memories amorously stored in the edge of her brain in the first place (of the concept of two adolescent girlfriends absorbed in love in the purest sense of the word, emulating the seriousness of a relationship with adult bearing, but never losing, at its core, the youthful sweetness worthy of teenage lovers). Two girls playing love in a world that was a little too hard on them.

She glares ruefully at the bulbous base of the red wine bottle and then lets out a sorrowful exhalation.

Her relationship with Y/N felt like it was straight out of the old sitcoms that she always appreciated so much, where no problem was a genuine obstacle and that, by the end of the day, the two lovers would be in each other's affectionately secure arms again (and that perhaps she let have an effect on her a little too much, when dealing about decisions made early on in her adult life).

But then she reminisces that she was merely turning eighteen years old when she became a wanted on an international scale, and that, prior to that, she had also grown up in a war-torn country.

She never knew how to behave like a normal person per se – whether that was before or after she became able to expel bolts of magical energy from her fingertips. She never quite knew how to fit into the role of a child or a young adult in the first place. Not by herself.

There was no time in Wanda’s life to understand precisely how to fit these labels (she was protesting with so much loathe constricted within her heart, volunteering to save her homeland, being made of little more than a lab rat by the clutches of a bunch of mad men, being used by the being that promised her greatness, but only ended up costing her the life of her darling brother).

In the cramped confines of a bleak, sullied cell, with only a modest television in the corner to entertain her mind away from the needles and the brutality, there were not many allusions of love and passions that elapsed through her life outside a square screen.

Wanda was aware that she just mimicked other people's movements and transcribed them into her own actions, as if it was all just a show and she was its young star, trying to intomb in her core the path of catastrophe and violence that had always shadowed her closely; it was only the years of strict therapy, self-knowledge and self-care, right after being blipped and coming back, that edified her to be her own person in a truly healthy way. There would be no more extremes in her life.

Her cohabitation with Y/N at the time facilitated, of course – even though her wife had changed a lot in the time that followed since the blip, at first, things had worked out well between them. Or as well as possible under the anomalous circumstances.

The two of them took care of the (still) newborn twins and of each other, always with great tenderness and affection while they did it. At least that's how it worked for the first year after their reunion – until Y/N got into alcohol's graces for good, that is.

Their relationship had always felt rather light and jovial before Thanos snapped his fingers. And after that she might even have come back, but it was indeed her marriage that had turned to dust in that remote dreary day in Wakanda. In all honestly, she's not quite sure what's changed in that meantime that she's been away (dead, she was dead). And it's uneasy to ponder about it, but sometimes she does – she can’t help it.

Her corporeal existence had disintegrated into a sift of life, crumbling into her own ashes. There was color, and then the dreadfully wide expanse of emptiness (death); she, as a self-aware being, ceased to exist with just a thought and a snap of two fingers.

Her consciousness faded before she could even realize she was doing it – the palms of both her hands constrained firmly against the wound in YN's stomach that was leaking bundles of fresh blood. And Wanda never relatively questioned her existence before that (she only questioned why she ceased to exist in the first place). Returning to dust, as people of faith would say.

Five long years that slipped through her fingers and dripped onto the floor in the form of a veil of dust.

It still feels odd in her guts, even ten years later, to remember that there's a void somewhere in her life that would be filled with the time that was thieved from her by the Infinity Gauntlet. A void that had once been filled by the subtle presence of Y/N's love.

(Once, when the twins were about a year old after the blip, Y/N drunkenly knelt down with her face defectively reclining on Wanda’s thighs and questioned her as to why Wanda and the babies where the ones erased from existence while she stayed behind, abandoned like an old piece of furniture that no one wants to use anymore. Wanda never knew how to answer it, but they got divorced about a month later)

But she imagines that it, the crumbliness of their relationship, has something to do with the fact that they were both a little precocious in getting married before their twenties properly speaking; maybe if they were older and more experienced before doing it, she thinks, standing in line at the supermarket, maybe then they wouldn't have had the sorrowful culmination that they did (the crying faces and the broken hearts).

Maybe they could have risen together, and not just drifted further and further away as the days passed.

Maybe Y/N didn't feel guilt-ridden every time the twins cried in need to be held or fed. Maybe Wanda wouldn't have queried her for the love she no longer knew how to give – she is fully aware of the fact that she has always had a somewhat pushy nature, after all.

Maybe this, maybe that.

She doesn't know why she's been thinking about maybe so much these past few days. But it's not her fault that her ex-wife happens to be so pleasing to the eye.

The person behind her in line grumbles again, and there is a mischievous chuckle that reaches her ears with airs of grace. Wanda is sincerely considering summoning some coins with her magic for Mrs. Davis.

“Oh my God, this wine is divine!”

It is Sarah Proctor who addresses Wanda, the key to undeniably everything in this town. Wanda knows it's the other woman because a sudden pulsing urge to fade away takes over her nervous system as soon as the voice echoes behind herself.

She is the high-nose blonde woman who lives up the street, is a devoted member of the Westview Elementary School parent-teacher association (in the year before Wanda had witnessed her make a young teacher leave the room in tears after a meeting), proudly cultivates the most exquisite yellow roses in the neighborhood and wears a pair of classy yoga pants that would fit a young teenager with half of her age. A self-proclaimed wine mom.

Her daughter is a classmate of Billy and Tommy, and the children often attend both the Proctor and Maximoff residences – which occasioned in Sarah a vague idea of intimacy that only endures in the head of the blonde woman with bobbed hair.

She has already invited Wanda several times to Westview Pool Club girls' gatherings, but Wanda politely declined with an odd smile and a trivial wave of her hand, because she's never been the socially outgoing kind of type—and she's always been under the impression that every attempt Sarah made from approaching her were due to the fact that the other woman knew of her past as an Avenger (as did most of the small-town citizens), and so was trying to turn her into a kind of living-tourist-spot for the eyes of the rest of the world to witness.

(Rumors had it that Sarah would run for mayor in the upcoming election, and having a former Avenger as the face of her campaign certainly sells well with the predilections of the American public. Little does she know that Wanda won't vote for her)

“Oh yes, it's one of my favorites” Wanda retorts, talking about the dark tall bottle of red wine prudently deposited inside her plastic basket “It's been a while since I've had a drink, so I decided to buy a bottle to open this weekend”

“Some special occasion, I suppose?” Sarah articulates a suggestive grin, but Wanda just frowns uncertainly, half squinting at her neighbor.

“What- no, no. No” she flashes a half embarrassed, half awkward smile, chuckling nervously while doing so “Y/N is staying with the boys for the weekend, so it's just a special little thing for me. All by myself. A quarantine-style staycation. A whole weekend... just to myself"

“Y/N, huh?” Sarah raises a well-crafted eyebrow in a pique of curiosity “Your ex-wife, right? I remember seeing her at the twins' birthday party. I mean, she's pretty, yes, but she's quite the quiet type, huh...”

“Yeah, she was never one to talk much… but neither am I, honestly"

“A pair made in heaven, indeed” Sarah then flashes a smile, but the taste that slides across Wanda's tongue is bitter and kind of hard to swallow.

She shifts her body weight uncomfortably from one leg to the other.

“But wait, she's also an Avenger, isn’t she? Yeah, she's the one in the black and white outfit! Oh my God! Who wore a jacket over it and had that kinda mean attitude, all punk rock and stuff?”

“Herself” Wanda agrees, pressing her lips together in a long, clumsy line. She just wants to go home and cook her damn kugel.

“Oh my, how did I not notice this before? I remember seeing her in the news once, when I was in college. I also had a taste for delinquents back then, if you know what I mean”

Wanda feels a hot twinge high in her face and she bites the inside of her cheek in a rather timid act (but there's no denying that Y/N's somewhat rebellious attitude has always had a lewd effect on her legs as a young teenager with a schoolgirl’s heart).

“She and Black Widow, I think, saved the life of the mayor in that bombing on the Fourth of July in... 2015, 2016, maybe? Yeah, I remember that! She's the one who's super strong, isn't she? Who held up a scaffold once and saved those kids”

 "That's her, yes"

The brunette muss in a limp voice, which seems to draw a slightly indecent laugh from the blonde woman with her shopping cart full of knick-knacks and silver hoops clicking in her earlobes. It is from her that the aroma of sturdy perfume comes.

“Well, I imagine that super strength of hers comes in handy in some… situations”

“Situ-“ but then she blinks just one time “Oh”

Mortification hangs over Wanda like a bucket of paint spilled over her dark-haired head.

She opens and closes her mouth like a golden fish, frowning, and her cheeks don't take long to reach strong shades of scarlet, glowing red like one of the tomatoes inside Sarah's cart.

It's inappropriate, and she knows it, but she can't help but feel a certain tingle in her breasts as lapses of memory enlighten her thoughts with the ghost of touches coursing along her body. Then she thinks of Y/N's warm, measured breath against her earlobe (of strong hands pinning her wrists above her head, of a tense, impassive hip against her own hip, of the cracked headboard and the broken bedframe). A movement and a moan. An electrical discharge in her bowels.

And then, fuck...

Just Y/N tearing her insides apart.

The other woman smiles viciously, and Wanda suddenly wishes she hadn't put on a sweater before leaving the house, because she can actually feel herself starting to perspire at the expectant look her neighbor bestows on her.

She's never been one to deal with such intimacies with anyone other than her ex-wife (merely some casual, unsuccessful and sporadic blind dates that's never been more than a few kisses and a few touches here and there, by no means ending up in her or anyone else's bed).

But she permits herself only to flash a wan grin towards the other woman when she realizes that, in front of her, the old lady has lastly found her damn change.

Fucking finally.

And then, with the memory still boiling hungrily in her innards, like a hungry beast devouring her from the inside out, she takes a large step in the other direction, trying to walk away from Sarah as humanly possible, as if the other woman carries with her a toxic cloud that sickens everything that comes in contact with her.

If Wanda couldn't probably get a nice lawsuit for that (or worst), she'd turn Sarah into a disgusting slimy frog.

“Well, I, I, I need to go, Sarah, but it was really nice meeting you around here. Bye” the enchantress raises her wrist, bidding the blonde woman goodbye with a wave of her hand and a small, introverted (half-awkward) grin.

There is barely time for an answer to be formulated on the part of the housewife. Wanda's cheeks are still red hot as she (virtually) dashes through the small supermarket's automatic double doors like a fugitive on the run. Mrs. Davis drops a coin on the floor on her way out.

ᗢ

You don't know exactly how long you've been raising and lowering the joint of your bent elbow above your head. It doesn't feel right to do it, just as it doesn't do it if it feels wrong. It's just necessary – it’s like cracking some eggs if you're in the mood for an omelet for breakfast.

You just have the fullest conception that a few good minutes have passed since the beginning of all the activity, and as in the rehearsal of a play, you are repeating the gestures until you overcome them with great proficiency and your culmination comes out perfect, from your liking.

And you don't bother to intend to stop doing it anytime soon – such a guttural, animalistic and barbaric action. At this point, the movement is already instinctive after being recorded in at the core of your memory, an automatic message engraved between the ligaments of your neurons.

 You've done it innumerable times before, and you know you'll do it a few more times after this one.

You lift your right arm, lowers your implacable fist constricted like a steel ball, the resonance of smashed cartilage and wrecked bones echoing in your eardrums, all instructed by the figure of a bloodthirsty invisible conductor within the ramparts of your own cranium.

The face of the bewildered guy lying beneath you looks like a loaf of raw, misshapen meat as you repeat a cadence of sequentially delivered punches against his facial bones.

And he, who is at least twice as big as you, lets out a piercing howl of pain from the cavernous depths of his throat, as even a wild bear would do if attacked deep in a forest.

But in that alley on Long Island there is not a soul available to help him to get rid of your uncomplacent fists – not at the end of a passage that is unpopulated, far from prying eyes that could creep in your direction during the action which takes place there, a beacon of environment squeezed between two amorphous walls of scorched bricks, which gives the illusion of a single long, damp, narrow street. 

A sphere of blood is clotted on your face, like an eccentric gemstone, a dark red pearl splattered under the arch of your left eyebrow. And you pant heavily, your veins stiffening.

You've never been one to refuse punching a motherfucker in the face – your forte has always been pounding up things, whether on the countless missions conveyed alongside your teammates or at work during your teenage years, taking advantage of your inhuman gifts to have something to eat at the end of the week.

You've never had a dilemma in whacking someone’s ass. Even more so when that said someone had committed a hate crime against a racial minority and got away with the trial, because that's the way it is in New York City.

The recurring metallic scent of fresh blood squirts in a jet of reddish color, thick and gleaming across your rigid, compact knuckles. The gruesome fragrance is no stranger to your sense of smell, and you're not quite sure whether you want it to be or not.

But it is what you are; as an inherent component of your biological chemistry (like the serum gushing through Steve's veins, altering him from inside out, or the magic pulsing within Wanda's core, changing the structure of her brainwaves), you know that hostility is a primeval part of your nature longer than the placid ends of an ordinary, quiet life.

The peaceable domestic life lived alongside Wanda is long gone, and desolation and wrath are your only roommates within the walls of your morbidly valueless apartment.

You've been living like a cornered animal for fifteen years in programmed mode, always exposing your fangs and your claws at any sign of danger, just self-destructing, dying little by little, not craving to exist for one more day after laying your head on the blandishments of your pillow and staring blankly at the ceiling, whirling through your usual drunken state. Just desiring to somehow wreck your imperishable body that can't be cut or torn by human hands or tools.

People much well-intentioned than you are long gone, and you, by some implausible probabilities, were (cursed) fortunate to have endured thorough all the catastrophes that life directed at you.

The car accident as a child. The blip as a mother and as a wife, as a friend.

The damn journey by the mountain of Vormir, in which three of you went in the grip of that appallingly isolated planet, and only two came back with a chest full of oxygen and life pumping through your nervures. The avid combat for proprietorship of all the six Infinity Stones, and the provenance of the final snap that brought back peace to the equilibrium of the universe by eliminating the existence of its greatest known threat at the time.

You just seem to live confined in this unbearable cycle of misfortune, and it's not fair to others that you are the person left to tell the story of those who are gone.

If only you could, you would swap places with the true heroes who gave their lives for the greater good. You would even be honored to do so yourself.

Your chest heaves and deflates severely within the molds of your leather jacket fitted around your shoulders over a short-sleeved plain shirt, your veins bulging with rushing blood, and you rise to your feet, setting up your knees, and step back to inspect the big man who lies defeated to the floor of the alley, amidst a pool of his own blood and filth typical of places like this — your jacket sleeve shimmering with bundles of fresh blood, a coat of gleaming sweat limping glistening on the beam of skin on your forehead, near your hairline.

He is still alive, groaning in a vital position, and is severely battered. And it was never your intention to kill anyone. He probably learned his lesson. Maybe you should break his legs, just in case.

A tremor rolls under your black sneaker feet as a loud motorcycle passes by in the distance. Sirens also pass presently afterwards, coming and going with their blue and red outcome.

But there, squeezed inside the claustrophobic walls of the dim alley, you are far from any possible intervention. You then register a single shake that travels along the outline of your left leg as your cellphone pulses inside the back pocket of your old jeans, shivering against your hip bone.

 You take an elongated gulp of air before diving into your flickering pocket and hooking the device through your fuming, blooded finger length. You know your pupils are dilated and dark.

Your gaze is empty and brittle as you scrutinize between the digitally formed words before your motionless eyes.

Frequent bursts of oxygen are a method of neutralizing the pulses of adrenaline throbbing in the artery inside your neck. But the taste that slips between your teeth is acid and sour, and you lock your jawbone at the information that is cognitive to you.

Hey, Y/N. Are you really going to come get the boys tonight? I saw in the weather forecast that it will rain later, so I wanted to check with you just to make sure

(seen)

It’s Wanda

(seen)

By the way

(seen)

Yes, you know it's Wanda (your sweet Wanda, the trace of humanity lingering inside your icy chest), that she texted you. And it doesn't astonish you at all (not anymore), because not many people contact you lately during the sunny period of the day.

You two have been keeping in touch the last few days, after all, you told her that you wanted to be more present in the twins' lives. And it's not an untruth at all, but your sly creaking anxiety makes you feel like it's a kind of uncertainty inside your throbbing stomach walls.

Maybe it's not the right decision, the voice inside your head spoke. Maybe at this point in life they don't need you anymore. Maybe this is a breakthrough, or even the commencement of a calamity worthy of a Greek novel, you're not quite sure yet.

You turn on your heels and spin your back on the battered man, so you can send your reply to your ex-wife's number without looking at the ferocious outcome of your latent tantrum.

yup, your avid thumbs type along the digital keyboard provided on the screen of the small electronic device, i’ll be there in 1 hour or so. hope they like cheeseburgers.

And then you slide your upper teeth along the flesh of your lower lip, somewhat unsure of how to proceed.

try to enjoy your staycation btw. you deserve it

(seen)

:)

(seen)

You don't know why you sent her that stupid emoji.

It's not like you're a teenager reproducing a failed flirtation attempt with the girl you have a crush on anymore.

But a lapse of realism is present as your vision aims on the blood folds on your stinging fingers folded around the cellphone, and you feel a heavy ball of constricted lamentation taking shape in the back of your throat when your sorrowful eyes scrutinize thorough the lines of your hands and find there only odious signs of a cavernous viciousness (a raw, physical cruelty also reflected within the mirror of your shattered soul).

In the background, the man is still groaning in pain. And you're not sorry you broke him in a beating. No, no. You're just sorry for yourself, because you didn't bat an eye when you did it.

Vaguely the memory of Wanda placing chaste kisses along your hands invades you, and you realize you wouldn't want her to kiss your unseemly fingers right now (because you find her too pure to dwell on the filthiness of your touch).

The skin on your hands abruptly itches and feels dull, and you don't feel like having those plagued fingers around your children’s immaculate faces anymore.

ᗢ

The twilight of dusk breaks with the trepidation of an ingrained thunder, which rumbles all in a glow of white light that splits along the longitudinal path that comprised the pleasant suburb that is Westview.

So, this is an opaque afternoon resulting from the middle of the rainy day, gray and hazy in its chilly essence, with tenuous threads of a torrential drizzle protecting the foundations of the two-story house on the slopes of the street, making the dewy ivy rustle on its ground, dripping slowly from the eaves of the ceramic tiles.

Standing on the porch of Wanda's house, you ponder that you should have listened to the weather forecast when it was said that during the afternoon there would be a period of rain. Your dark hoodie is really soaked through and your hair, pulled back in a high half ponytail, is damp against the skin of your own forehead. You feel kind of stupid.

Compact, opulent, slate-colored clouds were uneven against the emerald green of the panorama of howling houses, hills and trees, like the leaning of thick smoke from a desolate fire.

A fierce storm, nevertheless, is not anomalous in the face of the oscillating spring climate of the state of New Jersey, which is not a real stranger to the rainy weather of the season. Thus, the nonstop drizzle is not the atypical episode of the day altogether.

The conquering event of such a rank happens when Wanda opens the door and finds you there, standing with your elbows dripping cold droplets water in the light wood entrance, and then pulls you into the cozy embrace of the pleasant climate established within that domestic environment of her own home.

“For God’s sake, Y/N, you're soaking wet!”

She reiterates, surveying you with an apprehensive gaze that runs the length of your head to toe, her slender ringless fingers still pressed worriedly around the outline of your right forearm tucked beneath the humid fabric of your damp blouse – but Wanda doesn't seem to realize as she's still carries with the action, and you kind of don't want her to let go of you anytime soon, so you say nothing about the warm touch tingling on your cold skin.

“Yeah, the rain started when I was halfway there and there was no way for me to avoid it, so I just went with it” you mutter, with a certain lack of interest smoldering in your quiet voice “Sometimes I wish I still had a car...”

“But you didn't bring an umbrella?” Her gaze is accusatory in your direction, the tone of voice sounding dangerously concerned inside your ears.

“Well” you kind of sigh, shrugging your shoulders within your hoodie, without looking her straight in the eye “You see, I, hah… I didn’t think it was actually going to… you know… to rain”

And then you look at her, and the exact facial expression you'd expect to find there makes its way until it slides all over her face. She’s pissed off.

“But I told you it was going to rain!” she then frowns at you, looking a little exasperated while doing it, her beautiful features drenched in an irritated tone of incredulity “Seriously Y/N, you need to listen to what I say more! What if you get sick?”

You flick an eyelid at the grumpy figure of a very upset Wanda standing right in front of you, exhaling aromas of tea and crimson color. It's funny how the pique of nostalgia slips through your bones – there is an air of familiarity when a subtle sense of déjà vu settles into your cognitive system, like the feeling of coming home after a long trip. You feel at home. You feel belonging.

This image is very cherished to your spirit, and you can't help but to articulate a small grin that feels light in your heart in front of your ex-wife, who then aims towards your gaze with a gleam that is an assortment of misunderstanding and irritability flickering in the greenish irises, the color that look like two emerald stones embedded within her eyeballs, curving a single one of her sharp dark eyebrows in an high arching cut.

You feel married to her again for half a fraction of a second – it's like your remote newlywed routine all over again. And the feeling is actually good.

She looks so pretty. It's like you could kiss her lips right there.

“What? What's so funny?”

Wanda questions you in an almost petulant way, and you let out a pleasant chuckle as she tilts her head slightly to the side of her right elbow, her chin pointing toward the tip of your nose – her typical irritating movement as the harbinger of an angry reaction to anything that troubles her spirit.

“You know I'm physically incapable of getting sick, don't you?” you declare, still with a smile carved along the outline of your own lips, and Wanda crosses her forearms close to her chest in an even vaguely embarrassed way in front of you.

She was always a stubborn bratty type anyways.

“It's that super durability mutant thing or some shit like that. At least that's what Banner told me once, and he's a smart guy, so I believe him” you casually shrug, “I haven't had a cold since I was, like, thirteen. Shit, I don't even know if I remember what it's like anymore. You don't have to worry about me, Wanda"

“W-well,” she exasperated in a timidly cute way, even a little childish in essence, pressing her open palms against the sides of her hips well-guarded by a pair of pale mom jeans – the attire so far from the miniskirts and chains and torn clothes she used to wear when she was younger, at the apex of her mean girl phase.

Today isn't the first time you've noticed that her waist got wider as a result of the prudent ripening endowments of late adulthood blossoming into her beautiful body-type. It suits her well. You want to touch her skin through the fabric of those flimsy jeans and the thin white cotton blouse; your fingers itch to do it.

“Just because you don't get sick like other people it doesn’t mean you can walk around in the rain whenever you feel like it. You look like a wet dog right now, you know”

“Alright, alright, I get it” you raise both your hands to shoulder height in a placid gesture of surrender “No more walks in the rain”

“You're impossible, Y/N” she then rolls her green eyes into their sockets, but you just smirk jokily at her reaction.

It only takes a nonchalant magical flutter of Wanda's wrist, with her right five fingers all enveloped in a fading mist of crimson steam, for the well-versed witch to make your garments still swell on your body, expelling from the bristles of fabric, as even in a chemical separation reaction, the water molecules that soaked them in the first place.

It's like a huge hair dryer blowing hot air the entire length of your body and then unexpectedly stopping as if pulled from the socket, making your skin temperature pleasant again like a sunny embrace all around your body.

You find yourself dry in a matter of seconds, from your socks to your underwear, thanks to her remarkable magical gifts.

The tingles consequential from the scarlet mist touching your skin still slither down the length of your body. It is familiar and eccentrically comforting – it's like eating again a candy that you used to eat during the preludes of your childhood; tastes like home and happiness.

“You know what, your powers come in handy sometimes, I’ll give you that” you say in a mocking tone of voice, and she raises a single eyebrow in response.

"I'm still considering throwing you out for dripping water on my carpet, just so you know"

Wanda just casts a weary glance in your direction, but there's a slight lighthearted tone that resides in the green outline of her graceful irises, as if an inside joke has taken hold between you two.

She smiles, and so do you, because you feel comfortable while doing it – a pair of complicit grins from someone whose chest is filled of joy and fullness. The atmosphere that sets in is comfortable, and you feel more relaxed being close to her.

You don't really do it, but it feels like your fingers are entwined with the fingers of her own hand – the specter of touch is written between the two of you, and it's as if your soul can really feel hers at its core, like two magnets that can't stop attracting each other instantaneously. You've always gravitated towards Wanda's overwhelming presence, and things won't be any different now.

“Come on, the boys are watching cartoons in the living room” Wanda says, then turning her back on you so that you follow her lead to the intimates of the house, “You can stay until the rain stops”

You follow after your ex-wife without further circumlocution, the two of you passing through the small and comfy entrance hall as you go after Wanda into the large rectangular living room, your hands always tucked inside the single pocket of your hoodie as you accompany her with phlegmatic steps in your essence.

Your shoulders feel even lighter as she turns to you and casually offers you the sweetest smile you've ever seen in your life.

Torrential rain is still pouring down from the sky outside the house, and the boys Billy and Tommy can be seen wearing warm, comfortable clothes, both the twins snuggled up against the back of the gray linen sofa, their little smart eyes looking smilingly at each other’s faces and not towards the television screen, where some cartoon that seems unfamiliar to you is shown.

They seem to share some secret that only two people with some primal connection as to what unites them would be able to do it, but the sounds of banter irrigated in the air of childish shenanigans reveals the mockery between their giggles.

They are brothers and they are twins, yes, two parts of a whole, born of the same womb that they shared from the beginning of their existence as two living beings, but you were always a little happier to realize the closeness established in the friendship between your children. Billy and Tommy are each other's best friends.

The pair then seem to make themselves aware of the presence of their two mothers as they enter the room, and the smiles of both children scintillate in enthusiasm as the pairs of eyes look up and acknowledge your appearance a little further behind Wanda's still figure, following her very closely, ceasing the small section of chitchats they had between the two of them.

"Mom!"

"Mommy!"

From the sofa the boys joyfully call out to you, beaming in your direction. You can't help but do the same to them.

“Hey, my demons spawn. What are you up to there, huh?”

“We were preparing something! Okay, so, mom,” Billy speaks in response, barely seeming to be able to contain the glee of excitement inside his tiny body.

"Listen to this-!" Tommy complements his brother's phrase, in a tone of enthusiastic anticipation.

"Hey, I want to start it!" but the other twin intervenes promptly, almost indignantly.

Tommy frowns, turning up his freckled little nose towards a rather annoyed Billy, who is sitting next to his left elbow. The little boy briefly tilts his head to the left side towards his brother, and you know you've seen similar action in Wanda's characteristic mannerisms.

“No, I want to start it!”

"I want to start it!"

“But I want to start it!”

“I want to start it!”

“Why don't you both” Wanda then promptly interferes with the small disagreement between the boys, increasing her mother's reproachful tone of voice a little, preventing, at the beginning, that the intrigue takes a somewhat bigger proportions “Start it together?”

“Yeah” you support her in a complacent tone of voice “You two came up with the idea together, so the right thing would be to do it together too. Whatever it is, I mean”

"Okay"

"Okay..."

The two of them mutter almost in almost defeated tune, fidgeting together on the couch. You think that they look cute while they're there, tiny and sitting like two baby rabbits.

"You ready?" Billy questions in a low voice, turning to the brother beside him.

“Yeah” Tommy mussed back, nodding in agreement.

“Okay,” says Billy then, almost proudly, “Three, two, one, go”

And then, you can barely contain a smirk when the boys, in different and discrepant voice tones, begin a silly chant in their thin children's voices. In the corner of your peripheral vision, you notice that Wanda also lets out an amorous smile, melting into a comfortable puddle of kindness, dying in love with her two singing little children sitting across from the two of you.

“We like ice cream like any child should” they hum together, vocalizing playful tones as they proceed through the song's component words, “And if we get some ice cream, we pro-mise to be… good!”

Then they look towards the two of you, displaying expectant smiles written all over their childish faces. And you and Wanda exchange glances, and the smile she offers you is very similar to the one that graces the curve of Billy's lips.

"Nice try, smarty-pants, but you haven't even had dinner yet"

“But mama” Tommy replies in a pleading tone of voice “We really want ice cream!”

“Yes, we want ice cream!” exclaims Billy in agreement "We can't wait!"

“Well, we can have dinner first, then ice cream. What do you guys think?" you offer them, your eyes darting towards Wanda's face "But you need to have dinner first to grow to be strong and healthy, and ice cream is for dessert only. Right, mama?"

Wanda looks in your direction, and then smiles. And you smile back, because the situation is prone to do so. You, for the first time in so long, feel welcomed and hassle-free in the presence of others.

The air inside the house is blissful and warm, so unlike your empty, disdainful apartment forgotten somewhere on the West Side of Midtown Manhattan. Wanda doesn't feel like your ex-wife right now – at least, that's not how she looks at you.

“Right” her eyes flash pale green beams towards you “Let's have dinner first, mommy”

ᗢ

You wake up in the middle of the night, but maybe you just haven't fallen asleep at all.

The sheets that grace the bottom of your body are soft and comfortable, and the pajama set you wear is not your property. It's late in the course of the long night, and like so many that have passed before this one, you just know you wouldn't be able to rest your relaxation anytime soon.

How could you even do it? Perhaps you stayed longer than you realized detailing the gloomy ceiling of Wanda's guest room, counting in your mind as you scrutinized every passing second so that you still had control over something (time being something), so that you wouldn't go mad at being dismembered alive by each of your own inner demons.

If the beginning of the night was watered in jubilation and a serene comforting coziness on your part, the firstfruits of the dawn soon came to frustrate you in the form of intrusive thoughts quite harmful to your twisted mental health.

The torrential rain didn't stop anytime soon, and after having dinner with Wanda and the boys (in a very warm congregation, you were sitting at the table with your family, eating the same food as them and breathing the same oxygen, always supported by grins of pleasure as you chatted eagerly with each other), and the twins were slow to fall asleep after two generous mugs of chocolate mint ice cream each.

Your ex-wife insisted that you stay for the night after the two of you carried them upstairs and deposited them in their respective tidy beds, showering each of them with chaste kisses to the tops of their childish heads – Wanda's little staycation was long-forgotten by then.

You let out a disturbed sigh, both palms of your hands polishing the length of the dull face of yours.

What the fuck, you think, what the fuck are you doing there? This may even be your family, but this is not your house. It's not your home. Not anymore.

Reverberating through your insides you find the throttling need for a drag of a cigarette eating away at the bottom of your lungs like a harmful parasite sucking the life from its source, and then you get up to do it, because lying down feels like it consumes you from within in a profuse haze of bubbling anxiety that bursts from your stomach to your mouth, making you feel so weak inside.

It has always struck you as a somewhat ironic cynicism on the part of the universe that you, who are possessed of an impenetrable shell on the outside, suffer so much from the brittle fragility of your own interior – hard skin does nothing to protect a broken mind.

The lavender bedclothes had begun to tighten the muscle in your neck after a while, and in the room just down the hall, you assume Wanda sleeps comfortably cuddling in her bed.

When searching inside the single pocket of your hoodie, the well-folded garment on top of a plain desk in the corner of the room, soaked in the darkness of the shadowy environment, the absconse pack of cigarettes from a brand that you are quite familiar with, that keeps you company in the acrimonious moments of solitude, you take a single cylindrical unit towards the spaces open to your drooping mouth and then you find the cold lighter with your fingertips, leaving for the entrance door of the room offered to you by your ex-wife.

After descending the stairs, stepping one step at a time with your bare feet, you are surprised that the door leading to the backyard is already open before you are even there, and the cold night wind has blown inside the house like a curious, invisible animal, installing an icy feeling of dysphoria within the broad walls.

But before you could search with your watchful eye for some intruder who went beyond the icy specter of the night, in avid state of alert, you notice an apollonian silhouette hunched outside, sitting on the step outside the door, with a long waterfall of soft hair in the color of a raven's down running halfway down her spine.

The restlessness that weighed heavily on your shoulders eased as the familiar full-bodied scent of hibiscus tea mixed with the sweetness of a mild strawberry shampoo slithered into your nostrils and filled your lungs thirsty for smoke and tobacco.

As you approach, you see that Wanda, wearing a sheer silk robe over a red nightgown, is accompanied by a large cup that exhales small clouds of steam, with the tiny bundle that carries the tea herbs submerged into the hot water inside the dark container.

"You really have loud thoughts" Wanda's small, soft voice ripples through the air and then hugs your body as your ex-wife turns toward you with a lingering slowness that, to you, is as familiar as the taste of your unsmoked cigarette.

Her eyes glow an intoxicating green hue amid the darkness of the night, only supported by the silver light of the moonlight coming from outside the residence.

You feel like a frog being studied on a silver platter in some high school biology class.

Wanda's diligent gaze always seemed to be able to penetrate through the cracks of your soul – she always understood you as if she were an expert when dealing with any subject concerning you.

You let out an uneasy sigh, oddly scratching the inside of your throat as you do.

"Sorry if I woke you up, it wasn't... it wasn't my... intention"

“It’s okay” she mumbles serenely over a sip of hot tea, the pulp of her nacarine lips being moistened by the hot liquid she's ingested.

“I still haven't been able to sleep anyway”

And it's no surprise to you, because you slept and woke up next to this woman for several of the component years of your life span, and it was always well known to you that Wanda is a woman quite affected by long sleepless nights, not being able to afford to actually close her eyes and be fortunate enough to have a good night's sleep.

Countless were the nights turned to morning dawns, when you both resided under the same roof in the compound back at the Avengers Tower, so many years before you were there, standing in the middle of her kitchen, silently watching her perform the simple act of drinking tea at her backyard door.

“Still having trouble sleeping?”

“Once in a while”

Wanda answers you, and with her eyes she indicates the empty space next to her right elbow so you can sit there.

“Sometimes I need to relearn how to sleep all by myself”

Without saying a word, you cross the entire length of the kitchen, passing by the island and the marble sink, to be seated on the marble step that freezes your warm skin, next to the woman who smells of hibiscus with strawberries and deep scarlet tones.

Her eyes recognize the figure of the unsmoked cigarette between your fingers, unlit and forgotten like the insignificant little rolled-up tobacco paper that it is, and then she looks toward the profile of your silhouette, blinking once with her thick eyelashes as she does so.

“You start smoking again?”

“Yeah, it's been a while, actually. Not that I'm proud of it”

Your gaze shifts to the small cylinder, turning it between the digits of your index and middle fingers of your tender right hand.

“That shit helps me calm down, I guess. Or at least I like to think so. I don’t know"

Silence touches both of you shoulders, and there is a moment for Wanda to sip more of the tea that has spilled into her cup. When the drink is gone, then all the way into her stomach, she places the container on the floor, close to her left ankle like a tame kitten, safe from her company.

You are still hesitating in the uncertainty of whether or not to light up that damned tempting cigarette.

“Earlier today,” she begins, immediately drawing your attention to her pretty face, and you're met with her pink lip as she clamps her upper teeth over the contour of her wet mouth.

“You and me and the boys... it was good. They like having you around. And I... I like it too, Y/N”

She hums in the sigh of the night. You feel a crackling feeling swelling inside your swollen chest, but you don't say anything in sequence, because it's Wanda who continues to converse in the silver moonlight.

“I had forgotten what it was like. Me and you acting like family. It's good, It’s… really good"

You choke relatively. For Wanda, a heartbeat rumbled in her ears. And then she looks at you, and you look at her.

And suddenly, you don't want to light that cigarette anymore – because she leans her chin forward, leaning her head towards you, and you do the same when your body cries out for her, lips colliding in midair like the consolidation of a wish, a scarlet fever supernova bursting within your own chest.

And then, the full-bodied freshness of hibiscus darts into the half-open breach in the gap between your lips, pressing a velvety tongue against the slit between your teeth, discharging into your mouth a red-sour-sweet flavor, definitely good though, but rougher than usual as the two of you now share a needy, somewhat sloppy, even animalistic kiss.

Even if there is indeed a need on Wanda's part, and you just need someone to scare you away from the evil inside your head.

 Your ex-wife, in a thoughtless act, dives with her clever hands into the thin fabric of the tank top that clothes your impenetrable skin, grabbing the sides of your waist in a needy way, as if all she wanted at that moment was to feel you, as if her entire existence existed based on physically feeling you snuggled into her icy body.

She blinks, consenting to the overflow of her feelings, enraptured by the image of your cheeks burning and your chest heaving.

And she does what she thinks is right to do, which seems to be the only option possible in this small moment of affection and dedication, filled with an ember that if she could name it, she would call it love - because she knows she love you, even if she didn't say it out loud yet.

You are the love of her life, and she is the love of yours.

Wanda then hurls herself even farther forward, a nymph figure smitten with idolatry, and takes her prize, pressing the commission of her red lips against the outlined mouth with the flavor of melancholy that could belong to none other than you, so exotic, and never the same.

You feel the smart hands rest at the end of your spine with an almost practiced disregard, seeking nothing but feeling at first, far from the lascivious idea of consolidating the carnal act. Wanda just wants to feel you close, all to herself, comfortable in her grip.

Between a set of pink lips, a tongue is present, and this tongue curls up in another in a not hasty and exaggerated way. It's elegant. It's careful. It is harmonious.

But a slow kiss unravels, and Wanda holds her breath and returns in search of more of her favorite flavor to keep in her mouth, only to be promptly reciprocated by a devoted you, a soft nostalgic familiarity edging your silhouettes connected by the lips beneath a star-studded sky, with an absorbed perfection that no one else but the two of you would be able to achieve.

Up and down, side and side; surrounded by genuine attunement, lips moved carefully, following an invisible line that dictates your not so reckless actions.

A waltz of delicate, tangible lips that still fit together so perfectly, so neatly, that you might as well cry.

But the pacified kiss soon takes the form of a fervent kiss as you pant hot against your ex-wife's lips, and the fervent kiss becomes little kisses sprinkled around her neck that soon dissolve into a hollow moan, into a world where there didn't seem to be any more worries as long as you were in each other's arms.

In her own time, Wanda drags her teeth along the lower lip of your mouth, which groans deeply in response with a tingling in your throat, a tiny fraction of time passing until, like a buzz, quick, rough lips take refuge again in a tongue inside your mouth, and you feel an icy hand grasp your breast in a primitive way.

Clever fingers, soaked in crimson, traveled to your scalp, and a light mouth caresses yet another moan of yours. In a heartbeat, Wanda swings a leg over your knees and sits right on top of your lap, grabbing your wrists to put your hands around her waist.

The feeling is familiar. Toxically familiar.

It is the red invading your senses, intoxicating you with dense doses of scarlet.

You know very well that, even before the enticements of alcohol and cigarettes, your primary vice has always been the crimson sweetness of Wanda's body.

And, well… you're not known for being resistant to the temptations of your addictions.

ᗢ

A crimson marble glow glistening under the palms of both your hands. Sweat glistened in the hollow of your groin across your burning hips.

Wanda riding on your lap, naked as a Renaissance painting displayed in the dim light of a museum, her chest heavy like a marathon runner. The long, thick length of the red strap brushed against a specific spot on her inner walls that made her delirious and increasingly pivot her hips toward you, seeking more, brushing against each other like two animals in heat.

There was nothing rational in that animalistic act.

The symphony in the room was that of skin beating wet against skin; of her lascivious wetness voraciously swallowing your cock.

You could see it from the single, retracted drop of sweat that poured into the valley between her own swollen breasts, the two mounds swaying just before your lascivious eyes; a delight modulated to your stormy gaze, profuse as sea water, which clouded your young girlfriend's body with a predatory look, immersed in illicit labor.

Your insides tingled in a white-hot tingle, both clits sliding through the material of the strap, the insides of your thighs strong and wet against Wanda's pulsing center.

Her tight pussy pressing against the erect silicone phallus between your legs, the red of the material buffed with the sticky juices from inside of her. That was her bed, her sheets wet beneath your sweaty bodies, the walls of her room reverberating the pornographic grunts and moans from deep in her throat.

“F-fuck-!” she clenched her teeth, her nails lacquered with black nail polish carving red paths in the muscles of your back, “Y/N, fuck, right there, ah-!”

Her thick Sokovian accent spilled into your ears, and something primal and cavernous rumbled inside you, like a spark that explodes in a raging fire.

You wanted to own her.

You wanted to consume her.

You wanted to eat her alive; fuck her until the mold of your strap was forever etched into the walls of her greedy cunt, which was increasingly squeezing the silicone phallus, a delicious pressure forming a red knot just below her belly button.

“Ah-! Ah-!, pozhaluysta, pozhaluysta-!” she gasped in her native dialect, loud and clear against your ear as you fucked her as hard as possible “Trakhni menya... ya pochti u tseli, ya po-pochti u tseli... Ugh, dorogaya!”

“Fuck, are you close?”

“U-uhum! ” she kind of moaned, both eyes squinted two lewd lines “Please don't stop, don't stop Y/N, ah-!”

The scream was loud as you dropped her suddenly onto the sheets, her sweaty back slamming against the thick material of the mattress, her dark hair spilling across the pale material of the pillow.

You slipped your hands between the folds of both her knees and brought her lower back close, barely giving her time to miss your strap inside her dripping cunt before guiding the red material between her sticky folds, resuming the vigorous action of fucking your way against her coccyx.

Your strong hand pressed itself (as did the bone of your jaw) against the upholstered headboard, and there a rip was deferred by your own touch – as it had done to a plucked pillow, and a lampshade shattered to the ground.

The lamp above your heads flashed white. Wanda's eyes glowed a profuse scarlet that swallowed the moss green of her irises, the darkening of her dilated pupils making her eyes look like two bottomless wells of lust.

You buried your face against the beam of sweaty skin that joined her neck to her collarbone, and placed a generous, savage bite there.

"Fuck- I’m cumming, I'm cumming!" she decreed, panting against your bare neck, pressing her fingers against your buttocks in an incitement to the act they so indomitably committed.

“Cum for me Wanda” you murmured against her ear “Cum on my cock, pretty girl”

The bed hit the wall again. And again. And again.

You didn't stop at the first orgasm. Nor in the second. Nor on the third.

《《《《《《《ᱬ》》》》》》》

#wanda x y/n #wanda maximoff x you #wanda x you #wanda maximoff #wanda reader #wanda maximoff imagine #billy maximoff #tommy maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x y/n #wanda x reader #scarlet witch #scarlet witch x reader #scarlet witch imagine #scarlet witch x you #bottom wanda maximoff #bottom!wanda #bottom!wanda maximoff x you #bottom scarlet witch #elizabeth olsen #elizabeth olsen x reader

[andy-the-8th]

Underrated scene that I'd make gifs of if I knew how to make gifs: Cody sticking to the juice carton and then confusedly staring at his hands like "what is going on" and Sharon notices this and is immediately like "oh OK we're doing hand-contemplation interpretive dance got it got it" and starts mirroring him

#the thirteenth year #I love them so much

[courtforshort15]

Regardless of whether or not you're a Matt/Karen shipper, let's all admit that they at least had more chemistry than Steve Rogers and Sharon Carton

---

#daredevil #matt murdock #karen page #captain America #steve rogers #sharon carter

[guardian-of-fandoms]

Okay so I stay with my grandma a ton, because she's reached the point where she needs more help with stuff. And I'm happy to do it, I LOVE my grandma, she's a fantastic woman.

One thing I'll do for her is go with when she goes for groceries, but I always get nervous when we go. Not because I'm ashamed or anything stupid, no, I'd never be ashamed of being seen with her.

I just get nervous because I'll sometimes see people giving me weird looks, and I'm worried they think I'm shady looking.

Like, my grandma will be wearing these Bright, colorful sweaters with flowers or something, just a Kinda short, cheerful old woman. But I'll be next to her, an acne ridden teen that honestly dresses like the stereotypical teen bully in a 90s highschool movie. One of my favorite outfits is black ripped jeans, a Denim vest with all sorts of embroidery and buttons, this cool looking Skull graphic tee, a chain on the pants, and these old army boots that were a gift from my other grandma.

Like, we'll be out, and as I'm grabbing her a pack of hotdogs or carton of milk, I'll ocassionally see people give me this weird side eye, and I mean I get it, I look like a Punk, that's my astetic. Even when I'm not with my grandma, I get odd looks sometimes, there's a lot of Karens in my area, I'm used to it. I mind my business, it's nothing. But like...

I SEE THAT SIDE EYE SHARON I PROMISE I'D NEVER HURT THIS WOMAN OR DO ANYTHING SHADY RIGHT NOW SHE'S LAUGHING AT ME BECAUSE I TOLD HER ABOUT HOW SOME FRIENDS AND I ARE GOING TO THE MARIO MOVIE ON COSPLAY

#anxienty #gen z #punk aesthetic #punk fashion #grandparents

[popgeek]

When is Captain America New World Order Releasing?

The popular franchise Captain America is back with another sequel to the superhit film, and this time with a fresh approach. Marvel Studios has declared to release the movie in May 2024. However, the film's production hasn’t begun yet, but guess what? Captain America New World Order will feature a surprising MCU return in its latest sequel. Yeah, that’s right. Now, we should wait to see who it is. 

The news of the official title and release date were announced at Comic-Con, where the details of the cast were unveiled at the D23 Expo. So, Captain America 4 will enter Phase 5 of the Marvel Cinematic Universe, continuing its magical saga. 

Earlier reports were that they would begin the production in April 2021, but the latest news from Marvel Studios confirms the film shoot to kick off in spring 2023. Given under the direction of Julius Onah, Captain America: New World Order Is being written by the famous duo Malcolm Spellman and Dalan Musson. And here is what we have covered for Captain America's new world order release date, cast, song, trailer and more. 

When is Captain America 4 Releasing? 

Captain America 4, titled Captain America New World Order, is set to hit theatres on 3rd May 2024. The shooting for the film will begin in Spring 2023, making it the penultimate film of phase 5. None other but Marvel Studio itself has confirmed the news. 

However, we all know how long it takes for an MCU film to come over and make a larger-than-life impact on the audience. Thus, being a big-budgeted film, it won’t be easy for Marvel Studios to release Captain America New World Order within a year of its production. 

Possibilities are the production house may shift the Captain America 4 release date. Although, nothing can be said confidently until and unless the production for the film begins and let’ 's hope we don’t get any news of the delay. 

Who is Likely to Cast in Captain America 4? 

Marvel Studios has confirmed the Captain America 4 cast in its D23 Expo event held between 9th-11th September this year. According to the event’s announcement, Anthony Mackie will return to reprise his titular role of Captain America, aka Sam Wilson. Two other familiar faces are likely to join the Captain America 4 cast alongside him. These will be Carl Lumbly as Isaiah Bradley and Danny Ramirez as Joaquin Torres. 

Captain America New World Order will also see the return of Tim Blake Nelson as Dr Samuel Sterns. For your information, Dr Samuel is now transformed into a leader, and we might seem like foes of Captain America. Meanwhile, the other cast members include Shira Haas as Israeli Sabra and Harrison Ford as General Thaddeus. 

Whether Chris Evans will reprise his role as Steve Rogers is a big question. Will the Marvel Cinematic Universe see the end of former Captain America, or do they have other plans for the character? I think time will tell the tale. As we have seen in the creation of multiverse sag in MCU, the possibilities are Captain America would go with the theme. 

Besides, there are also rumours of Julia Louis Dreyfus returning as Valentina Allegra de Fontaine. To what extent the news would come true can’t be defined either. But for once, can you shout out to our favourite Anthony Mackie for coming back as Captain America? Hell, Yes! 

What Would be the Expected Plot of Captain America: New World Order? 

Unfortunately, Marvel Studios or the film cast hasn’t revealed any information regarding Captain America 4 plot. Therefore, we do not have any official confirmation on the plot details. Still, seeing the crossover cast, It feels like the film will continue the storyline of The Falcon and the Winter Soldier’s events. In the movie, we saw some of the plots were left midway through, which this new sequel may pick up. Zemo was shown alive in the prison while Sharon Carton was seen turning the devil this time. But who exactly is the Captain America 4 villain, which city will face the wrath and if we are to know any multiverse twist are questions Marvel Studios left unanswered. However, we won’t have to wait for the plot confirmation for too long; this information will be delivered soon. 

In November 2021, Marvel Studios showed a glimpse of a fantastic arc that’ll precisely be the show’s underdog. He is neither an avenger, a super soldier, or 100 years old. Thus, watching what the creative team does with the character would be interesting. Indeed, he has wings and a shield, but he is a guy! 

One fundamental thing we can say about the plot is- it is built around Sam Wilson, who will be seen practising to be a good leader. In The Falcon and the Winter Soldier, he is seen as a supporter of his team; this time, he is a team leader. So, what difference will this change in Sam’s position creates in the story? Wait for the Captain America 4 release date. 

Is Captain America 4 Trailer Released? 

The Captain America 4 trailer still needs to be released by Marvel Studios. As the Captain America New World Disorder filming will begin next year, we can’t expect the trailer to release before December 2023.

[sharonys-wears]

Size: 40 to 49 Price: 19k 23k for big sizes 📍Delivery: Nationwide ||Fee applicable depending on location Comes with carton DM || 📞 || WhatsApp Gbenga - 08051709165📍 Sharon -08030629814📍to order #deltastate #ebonyi #imostate #kaduna #kano #riversstate #borno #crossriver #abia #anambra #edostate #oyostate #gombe #katsina #anambra #abia #benue #ogun #enugu #kwara (at Lagos, Nigeria) https://www.instagram.com/p/Cd0a8Tzj4yJ/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

#deltastate #ebonyi #imostate #kaduna #kano #riversstate #borno #crossriver #abia #anambra #edostate #oyostate #gombe #katsina #benue #ogun #enugu #kwara

[buckypascal]

Never Actually Happy, Resident Hero, Silent but Deadly, The Blond Bond

#what if #what if...? #what if spoilers #bucky barnes #sebastian stan #happy hogan #jon favreau #sharon carton #emily vancamp #marvel #it's supposed to say weirdo not hero but we're all gonna ignore that 😅

[wadewilson-parker]

Infamous Iron Man (2016) #11

#victor von doom #stephen strange #sharon carton #mephisto #doctor doom #wednesday spoilers

[loubagoob]

The Janie Series:

Movie:

#the janie series #the face on the milk carton #whatever happened to janie #the voice on the radio #what janie found #what janie saw #janie face to face #caroline b cooney #kellie martin #sharon lawrence #jill clayburgh

[ddalgiboo]

.

#i hate working at a supermarket at times like this 🙃 #ive just got home and it was as busy as it is at christmas time #one woman went up to my friend and dumped her shopping on her and said 'fuck this place'and walked off #how is it our fault that its this busy??? its all u fuckers buying more than u need bc u have no sense of collectivism #WE HAVE NO PROBLEM GETTING STOCK. THE DELIVERIES ARENT GOING TO STOP. STOP ACTING LIKE THEY WILL #ive had so many ppl go 'you must be struggling to get stock in' but no???? we're struggling to stock the SHELVES because sharon decided she #wanted 5 cartons of milk JUST IN CASE but that means another family cant buy any milk because sharon decided she wanted a milk fort #and then we sell out and the deliveries only come twice a day so whos fault is that now sharon??? #needed a rant ugh

[real-jane]

Bucky's Got Game

[Bucky Barnes x doctor!reader]

Summary: Bucky's got a crush, and Sam's a little worried about whether or not he's gonna see it to fruition.

Words: 2,989

A/N: this idea hit me out of the clear blue sky, and made me laugh so much that I stopped packing for my move to write it tonight. Enjoy!

Read the PREQUEL Doc's Got Game!!

like what I do? buy me a coffee on ko-fi. :)

“Oh my god,” Sam breathed. “This is pathetic.”

“Come on. He’s still getting his mojo back.” Steve shook his head, like he didn’t really believe it himself.

“He growled at her. That’s–do we just put him out of his misery, now, or…”

“She didn’t run away. So. That’s positive.”

“I’ve never seen a woman walk that fast in heels before, Rogers. That was bad.”

From where Steve and Sam were sitting in the caf, they had a prime view of Bucky at the coffee bar. They had just witnessed quite the sight: a woman had approached while Bucky was pouring his coffee, his knees turned immediately to jello, his cheeks flushed bright red, and he hadn’t been able to string two words together. He had handed her the creamer carton, only for it to slip out of his hands and hit her in the foot. When they both knelt down to deal with the carnage, they had knocked heads. Bucky had gotten that grumpy look on his face, said something with snarly lips, and then the woman had left quickly… Bucky had just watched her walk away, leaning back so he could catch the entire view through the windows, and then slapped himself in the cheeks and muttered something only he could hear.

He cleaned up the milk spill with rags which had been tossed at him from a safe distance by a caf attendant, and then made his way over to sit–sans coffee–beside Steve. He stared out the window, and said nothing. Sam winced, and nodded for Steve to say something encouraging.

Steve cleared his throat. “You good?”

“Fucking slippery carton,” Bucky grumbled.

“Sure you don’t need that coffee, buddy?” Sam pushed his own mug across the table. Bucky scowled at him.

“No.”

“You know, I’m sure she didn’t even notice.”

“The milk in her shoe, Sam? She didn’t notice it?”

“Some women would take that as flirting.” His eyebrows shot up innocently, and he glanced at Steve. “If you were worried.”

“I wasn’t.” Bucky stood up. “You coulda helped me, ya know. But nooooo. Just sat here. Watchin’. Thanks a lot.” He turned on his heel, rolling his shoulder back in annoyance, fingers clenched.

Sam rubbed his hands over his face. “Every time I think he’s not gonna be a grumpy fucker in the morning, he ramps it up about twelve notches.”

“He’s embarrassed,” Steve sighed.

“Certainly not helping his love life. He cannot keep his shit together around that woman, I swear. What is it about her? I don’t think I’ve seen him say two words to her, but whenever she walks into the room… boom, his brain turns to mush.”

“I dunno. He spent a lot of time in Medical. Maybe he’s got a crush on Doc Y/n.”

“Don’t get me wrong–she’s lovely, if it’s not ungentlemanly for me to say.”

“Agreed, respectfully.”

“Why her, though?”

“Honestly? When I first came outta the ice, if a woman got within six feet of me I became a puddle. Maybe he’s still working through that part.”

“He doesn’t seem to become Gumby around Natasha. Or Wanda. Or Carol. Or Pepper. Or Sharon.” Sam paused to think. “Or my sister. Thought that was a thing for a second–super glad it’s not, given his current flirtation style.”

“Leave him be. If he’s got a little thing for the doctor, maybe it will do him good.”

Unfortunately, ‘leaving Bucky be’ meant observing… very strange behavior.

***

“What the hell?” Sam sighed from the entrance doors to the Medical Bay, on his way to a routine physical before his next assignment.

Bucky sat in the waiting room, holding an ice pack to his forehead, with a marked grimace on his face. Tony was speaking with Doctor Y/n at the nurse’s desk animatedly. Sam approached slowly. The doctor turned to glance at Bucky, whose whole demeanor changed in an instant; he sat up straight, smoothed out his expression almost so he was smiling… like he was an obedient golden retriever. She remained passive, pulling the ice pack from his face carefully. The skin on his head was unmarred. She nodded to him, patted his shoulder (Bucky melted under her touch, practically collapsing against the arm of the chair), and gestured towards the doors.

Tony smiled at the doctor (more than Bucky could manage), and pushed Bucky’s shoulder to encourage him to stand. Doctor Y/n held a hand up in farewell. Tony gripped Bucky by the back of the neck and practically forced him out of her care. When he realized that Sam was approaching, Tony nodded.

“Don’t worry. Nothing serious. I hit him. With my car.”

“What the hell?” Sam repeated.

Bucky put his hands in his pockets. “Testing Shuri’s upgrades.”

“My car is totaled,” Tony said in delight. “And junior here took a radiator to the face. But the Doc set him right.”

At that, Bucky glanced over his shoulder. The doctor was kneeling next to an agent in a leg cast, speaking quietly. She sensed the focus on her, and she looked up. A soft smile pulled at her mouth, which was perfectly lined in a shade of red lipstick that looked like it was made just for her. Bucky looked away quickly, scratching the back of his head.

“Take you for ice cream, Sport?” Tony suggested with a nudge to Bucky’s shoulder. “Least I can do.”

“Um. Sure.” Bucky was quiet. Too quiet.

“Wonder if she was able to dry out her shoes,” Sam said.

Bucky glared at him. “Fuck off, it was three days ago!”

“Did you apologize?”

“I don’t gotta listen to this. Come on, Stark.” Bucky shoved his elbow into Sam’s side as he left. Tony followed closely behind, pleasant as ever despite the fact that he was down a car.

Sam scrubbed his cheek for a minute. Hmm…

“Hey–Doc?” Sam called, as soon as she stepped away from the agent she had been evaluating.

She smiled. “Hey! What’s up?”

“This is gonna seem like it’s coming out of left field, but… you know my pal Barnes, there?” He thumbed over his shoulder. The doctor nodded. “I, uh. You think he’s a good looking guy?”

She seemed to take the question under great consideration, but she finally nodded. “Sure.”

“Like, on a scale of one to ten…”

“Hmmm. Ten.” She raised an eyebrow. “Anything else?”

“I know he can be kind of grumpy, but. I think he’s sweet on you.”

Doc Y/n put her hands on her hips. “Is that so? What proof do you have, then, eh?”

“My man poured almond milk in your shoes.”

“Ah yes. I forgot the ancient, time-honored courting tradition of ruining a girl’s favorite shoes with plant-based creamer. How could I not have seen it?” She laughed. “Thanks, Wilson. I’ll take that under consideration.”

“He’s a really good guy. He’s just awkward as hell.”

“Really? Never had a conversation with him as awkward as this one. And he just had to tell me that he ruined Mr. Stark’s Mercedes with his face.”

“Ha! Right. Sorry–I shouldn't have said anything.” Sam’s cheeks were suddenly hot. “Forgive me for meddling.”

“Nah. You want to help your friend, I get it. But maybe leave that to him, eh?” The doctor fixed him with a pointed smile, but her eyes flashed in warning.

As Sam waited for his appointment, he made a mental note never to tell anyone anything about Bucky unprompted again, especially women.

***

“You got a date for the gala on Saturday?” Sam panted, as he tried and failed to keep up with Bucky on the treadmill.

“Why?”

“Dunno. Just askin’. I was thinking about inviting Nat as friends, but I think Steve’s got a horse in that race.”

Bucky glanced at him. “Did you just compare Natasha Romanoff to a horse? How long have you been out of the game?”

“Oop. Don’t look now, bud–I said don’t look!”

It was too late. Bucky turned to look over his shoulder and who should walk into the gym just then but the good doctor Y/n, arm-in-arm with the Black Widow. Bucky’s head seemed to be on a swivel independent of his body, because he continued to sprint at an inhuman pace, all the while taking in the sight of the two women squaring up to spar. Doc Y/n held up a hand when she realized both men had seen her come in, but when she looked at Sam, her face fell a bit.

“What was that look?” Bucky whispered.

“What look?” Sam focused on his stuttering steps, which only got worse under observation.

Bucky snorted. “She kinda dead-eyed you. What did you do?”

“What? Please. She and I are friends.”

“I’ve never seen you have a conversation with her.”

“Just ‘cause you’re not stalking me doesn’t mean I don’t have friends other than you, Barnes–”

“Jeeze, alright. Oh–what’s up, Nat?” Bucky turned off his treadmill and hopped up on the rails to catch his breath while he took a swig of water. Then, he bounded over the women, frowning at Nat as she explained whatever she had called him over for.

Sam took the opportunity to rest; as his treadmill began to calm down, he sagged against the handles (which he never used if he was training alongside Bucky or Steve), and chugged water. When he finally caught his breath, he turned…

To find Bucky kneeling on the mat, while Natasha showed Y/n how to take him down with a headlock. The minute her hands settled nervously on his shoulders, Bucky’s posture softened; he looked between her and Nat, nodding occasionally, and then patting his chest as if to say I can take it. Then, she assumed position, standing between his legs behind him, arm wrapped around his neck (as best as anyone could conceivably do to a super-soldier). She followed Nat’s instructions, straightening up as tall as she could to leverage her leg strength against his posture. Bucky pretended to be choked out, performatively sliding down to the ground, at which point Nat positioned Y/n with her sneaker-clad foot on Bucky’s neck.

Then, both women stepped back, Bucky hopped up. He nodded at Nat… dimpled at the doctor… and bowed slightly. Y/n touched his elbow and squeezed. The corner of Bucky’s mouth curled up.

Bucky returned to Sam’s side to gather up his things. “Self-defense practice,” he explained, pointing briefly at the women.

“Proud of you. Didn’t trip over your feet in front of her, or anything.”

“I’m not a total neanderthal,” Bucky grumbled. “You spotting me, or what?”

“She touched your arm.”

“I hit my elbow on the way down. She’s a doctor.”

“You are being very nonchalant about this.”

“What is going on with you?” Bucky snorted. “I had a bad morning the other day, and suddenly you’re questioning my every move.”

“Go on. Play coy. I know a crush when I see one.”

“Do you know what dumbbells look like? That’s where you’ll find me.”

Bucky slung his drawstring bag over one shoulder, squirting a stream of water into his mouth. Doc Y/n saw, and she tripped–over Nat’s foot, as she swept it along the mat. Oh, Sam thought. I see what’s going on here. This was some yearning. On both sides. Some longing. Both Bucky and the doctor were crazy about each other, and only Sam could see it.

Hmmmmm.

***

Sam leaned against the bar and took in the sights of the gala; the ballroom was filled with agents and Avengers alike, all dressed to the nines. Bucky Barnes himself was the picture of class, and Sam had to admit that he’d underestimated his friend–his suit was dark blue with a very faint black stripe and velvet lapels, and then everything else was black-on-black from his shirt to his tie, and on down. He spied Sam across the room, and made his way through the crowd until he finally reached the bar.

“What a lady killer,” Sam whistled. “Dapper as hell, man.”

“Ain’t so bad yourself. What do they call that color?”

“Rust.”

“It’s good on you.” Bucky shook the proffered hand, and Sam gestured for the bartender to replicate his whiskey for his friend. The friends clinked glasses, and Bucky turned so they could both survey the room.

“Oh shit.” Sam nodded to the entrance doors on the far end of the room, where several people were filtering in, almost an hour late. One of those people was a woman in silver, something slinky and sleek which swirled around her feet like she was floating. She had a comb on one side of her hair which sparkled in the ambient lighting, and she seemed to be searching for someone.

The doctor had arrived.

“Listen,” Sam said quietly, leaning towards Bucky. “Can I ask you a question, no motivation besides honest curiosity?”

Bucky sighed. “Sure.”

“Are you sweet on Doc Y/n?”

The super-soldier took a swig of whiskey. “Yes.”

“Yeah. Kinda got that impression, bud. Are you considering doing anything about it?”

Bucky finished off his drink and the bartender refilled it before he could even set it down again. He pushed off the bar and fixed Sam with a hard look. “Sam… you’ve done a lot for me, but… I don’t need you meddling in my personal life. I’m a big boy.”

Sam winced and patted his shoulder. “I’m sure you are. I’m just saying, you should tell her. I think it’s mutual, and she’ll never know if you don’t make a move.” He pointed to the middle of the room, where the doctor stood, waiting. She was watching them.

Bucky shrugged. “She knows.”

He stepped back from the bar, reached inside his coat pocket, and handed the bartender a bill for the tip. Bucky saluted Sam. He turned smoothly on his heel and took even, measured, confident steps towards the woman in silver.

He reached her side and–

“What!?”

Sam spilled whiskey down the front of his nice white sweater, beneath the rust colored jacket, as Bucky Barnes kissed Y/n like… sensually. Not a first-time kinda kiss. A there’s more where that came from kiss. He smirked down at her, and passed off the whiskey. She thumbed some lipstick off the corner of his mouth, and wrinkled her nose at him.

“Oh, that?”

Sam whirled around, accepting a handful of napkins from a smug Natasha, looking like dynamite herself in gold. He dabbed at his sweater, with little success.

“Aren’t they cute?” Nat suggested. “It’s like a doberman and bulldog got together. Depends on the day which is which.”

“I–when the hell–”

“I guess it’s been a few months, now? Yeah… after he had some issues with his implant.”

“But.” Sam couldn’t decide whether to try to look at Nat, or at Bucky (who had one arm around the waist of the doctor in silver, as she swayed and sipped). “A week ago he literally dumped creamer on her!”

“She snuck up on him in the caf so they could have breakfast together, he dropped it in surprise.” Nat received a heaping helping of red wine from the bartender, at least a double glass. She took a measured sip. “He bought her new shoes as an apology, but she wore the stilettos for him, tonight.”

“He makes an idiot of himself in front of her constantly–”

“He’s so into her, it’s insane. Try being alone with them in a room together. You’ll feel like chopped liver.”

“How did you know, and none of the rest of us did?”

“She wanted to keep some heat off of him until she could be sure it wouldn’t be an HR issue, which I helped her iron out. She keeps it professional. And Bucky is Bucky, I mean–I think she’s the only person who’s ever made him smile like that, and he was private to begin with.”

Sure enough… Bucky was laughing at something that Y/n had just said, head thrown back like he didn’t have a single care in the entire world. Sam suddenly felt very stupid, like several different intersecting definitions of the word. He tossed the napkins down on the bar and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“That woman looked me in the face and told me that I had no proof that Bucky liked her.”

“Well. Did you?”

“Apparently I don’t know nothing about nothing. She likes him being a bumbling fool?”

“Sam,” Nat laughed. “If a man I thought was a ten out of ten was falling over himself because he liked me so much, I’d be very into that. Speaking of.”

Steve came charging through the crowd, necktie entirely undone, hair looking like he forgot that pomade existed. He spied Nat at the bar and halted for a second. Then, he took a deep breath.

“Listen, it’s been real,” Nat said to Sam with a knowing grin. “But I gotta super-soldier to fluster.”

Sam experienced the unique sensation of being absolutely wrong about his best friend by sitting on a stool and sipping on a Shirley Temple. Alcohol was no longer on the menu. The world was upside down. How did he not see it? Fuck. Sure enough, Bucky and his girl were dancing like two people who very much knew how the other person felt about them. She grabbed his ass where anybody could see it, but in reality, Sam was probably the only one who did. Bucky dipped her at the end of the song, and kissed her. She laughed so joyfully that the tone of it carried through the heavy bass. Then, she crooked her finger, and said something in Bucky’s ear. He straightened. He looked around to see who could’ve heard her, and caught Sam’s eye.

Sam saluted him with his kiddie cocktail. Bucky flipped him off, and then smiled faintly.

The Falcon had to admit the truth, there was nothing else for it:

Bucky’s got game.

***

thanks for reading!

my masterlist - my bucky barnes masterlist

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x female reader #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky x reader #bucky x female reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fanfic

[omgrachwrites]

Teacher Trapped - Sharon Carter

Pairing: Sharon Carter x Female Reader

Summary: Your high school students are sick and tired of watching you and the music teacher, Sharon Carter pine for each other so they take matters into their own hands. Teacher au

Warnings: so much fluff, swearing, probably ooc

Words: 1724

A/N: I think you guys have realised that I no longer have a proper writing schedule, they stress me out so I’m just gonna post when I feel like it, so I hope that’s okay! I got this idea for this au when I was in work and I was so excited to write it! This is my first time properly writing for a female character and I’m sorry if I’ve butchered Sharon’s character. Hope you guys enjoy and please let me know what you think, I love you all! xxx

There came a knock on the door of your classroom as you finished the English Literature display for your 10th graders. Without looking at the door, you adjusted the Lord of the Flies poster and you called out, “come on in!” you expected that it was one of your students; some of them arrived early because it was the only time that their parents could drop them off. That was why you were always here so early, it turned out to be quite handy to get some extra work done.

However, when you turned to see whoever was lingering in the doorway, your cheeks flushed when you saw who it was, “good morning, Y/N,” the beautiful blonde woman smiled, she was holding a box of donuts and an extra cup of coffee. It was Sharon Carter, the music teacher and she also happened to be the woman that you had a crush on.

“Hi, Sharon,” you smiled, finally finding your voice, “what are you doing here so early?” you were probably imagining it but you could have sworn that her cheeks deepened ever so slightly with a blush.

“I’ve um got some work to do before the kids come in and I wasn’t sure whether you’d had breakfast or not. You’re always here so early,” she grinned as she placed the steaming cup of coffee on your desk and lifted the lid off the box of donuts.

You chewed on your bottom lip; you really shouldn’t be eating so much sugar this early in the morning. However, the gorgeous smell of the deep fried treat filled your classroom and your resolve considerably weakened, “oh go on then,” you smiled shyly when Sharon laughed, her eyes crinkling at the edges as she did so, “thank you,” you grinned as you picked out the one that had cinnamon brown sugar generously sprinkled over the top.

“You’re welcome,” Sharon shot you a sweet smile.

“God, that’s amazing,” you groaned as you took a bite out of the delicious treat.

Sharon flushed and looked away from you, running a hand through her long hair, “I’d better get going, I’ll see you later, Y/N.”

You felt disappointment ping in your chest but you pushed it away and offered her a small smile, “bye, Sharon.”

As Sharon walked out, a group of your students walked in and took one look at your flushed face as they made their way to their seats, “good morning, Miss,” one of them smirked.

“Morning guys, have you had breakfast yet?” you asked as you grabbed cartons of orange juice and protein bars out of your cupboard, it wasn’t much but you liked to make sure that all your students ate in the morning.

“Thanks, Miss Y/L/N,” one of the boys smiled before he piped up again, “do you like Miss Carter?”

“Of course I do! She’s an excellent teacher,” you felt butterflies in your stomach and you willed yourself not to blush.

“Uh-huh,” your students sounded unconvinced as they cheekily smirked at each other.

Over the next couple of days, Sharon came to see you in the mornings and you went to visit her too. It seemed as though yours and Sharon’s students were getting sick of the constant blushy smiles and the lingering pining looks that were exchanged between you and Sharon. Unbeknownst to the both of you, your students out their heads together and concocted a plan to get you both together.

On Friday afternoon, one of your students raised her hand, “can I use the bathroom, please, Miss?”

“Of course,” you smiled at her as you grabbed a laminated hall pass out of your desk and handed it to her, “there you go.”

“Thanks Miss!” she beamed at you as she got up from her seat. You completely missed the way she grinned with the rest of the class before she walked out into the corridor.

A couple of minutes later a boy that you recognised from Sharon’s class knocked on your open door, “can I help you?” you asked with a smile.

“Uh, Miss Carter was wondering whether she could meet you in the empty English classroom down the hall after school. She wants to go over some work with you.”

You silently questioned why a music teacher would need to go over some work with an English teacher but you didn’t read too much into it, “of course, thank you for the message.”

At the end of the day, you and Sharon both arrived at the spare classroom at the same time, you smiled as her brown eyes twinkled as she grinned back at you, “what work did you want to go over with me?” you asked.

Sharon frowned at you, raising an eyebrow, “I was about to ask you the same thing,” okay, now you were confused.

“What are you talking about? You sent one of your students to tell me to meet you here.”

She shook her head, “no! That was you! What the fuck is going on?”

It was at that moment that the principal Sam Wilson – your best friend – walked out of the room, grinning like a Cheshire cat, “it’s ready for you guys.”

You and Sharon exchanged a confused glance as you walked into the classroom and you gasped at what you saw. A desk had been set up with candles, two steaming plates of pizza and two wine glasses full of red liquid. Yours and Sharon’s students were standing behind the desk, looking nervous.

“What’s going on guys?” Sharon asked, trying to sound stern.

A jock stepped forward, “we were getting so sick and tired of watching you two pine for each other. So we took matters into our own hands and pooled our allowance together to get you some food and Principal Wilson helped us set it up.”

It seemed that Sharon was as surprised as you as you both stared blankly at the students; butterflies were wreaking havoc in your stomach. What if Sharon rejected this idea? You didn’t even know if she dated women. Though, you were touched that they’d spent their own money to ensure that you would be able to have a date with one another.

“You like her don’t you?” a girl piped up.

“Of course I do!” you both said in unison before turning to look at each other when you realised the question hadn’t been directed at anyone in particular. There was a ghost of a smirk on Sharon’s face but her blush contradicted it.

“Looks like our work here is done,” someone snickered and you and Sharon both snapped out of it and turned back to look at your students.

“Thanks guys.”

“You’re welcome, have a good time,” the jock that spoke up before waved at you both as the students filed out of the room, leaving you and Sharon alone.

“Are you nervous?” Sharon laughed, raising an eyebrow.

“Nope,” you lied, smiling at her as she gestured at the table.

“Then shall we?” you nodded and you both sat down. Searching for something to do, you reached for the wine glass and looked at the suspicious liquid in the glass and tentatively raised it to your lips. You winced and coughed slightly at the sweet taste.

“It’s Grape Kool-Aid,” you coughed and Sharon burst out laughing as she took a sip of her own before she smiled over at you so sweetly that you momentarily forgot how to breath.

“So, you date women?”

You nodded as you fiddled with your fingers, “I take it that you do too?”

Sharon smiled, “yeah, and I like you.”

Happiness fizzed through your blood when you heard that your affections weren’t one sided, “you do?” you asked lamely.

“Well, of course. I don’t bring coffee and breakfast to everyone you know, and you’re completely fucking gorgeous,” she smirked, raising an eyebrow and you felt yourself relax as your cheeks felt like they were on fire.

“Good to know, I like you too.”

“Good to know,” she mimicked you before her eyes flickered down to your lips, “fuck it,” she muttered and leaned over the table to kiss you.

You gasped against her lips as you cupped her cheeks, tasting the Kool-Aid on her lips as she wrapped a hand in your hair, tugging slightly, causing pleasure to run through your body. After a couple of minutes, Sharon pulled away and grinned at you, “see no need to be nervous anymore, because I know that you were, Y/N.”

Sharon’s kiss had seemed to work wonders and the both of you talked easily as you ate your delicious pizza, “who did you go to prom with?”

You groaned as you took another sip of your drink as you relived the memory, “I was a loner in high school, and there was no way that anybody was taking me to prom. So, Sam took me.”

“Sam Wilson?” Sharon laughed as she rested her chin on her hand as she listened to you.

You rolled your eyes as you nodded, “yeah well you know he’s my best friend, his girlfriend had just broke up with him so he took me to prom as a favour and he wanted to make his ex-girl jealous, safe to say that it didn’t work,” you giggled, “who did you go with?”

“I dated a guy throughout high school, we broke up in college, he was a dickhead,” she rolled her eyes, “and then I started dating women and I’ve never been happier,” she smiled as she reached over to take your hand.

You grinned as you linked your fingers through hers, “were you Prom Queen?”

Sharon scoffed, “nope, they gave the crown to the head cheerleader, sometimes the cliché is right.”

“How dare they?!” you gasped and Sharon playfully narrowed her eyes at you.

“Yeah, I was very offended,” she laughed before looking at you with a soft smile, her brown eyes were warm and sparkling, “I really do like you, Y/N; I’m glad that we get to do this.”

“I really like you too, Sharon,” you smiled with delight, “I’m already thinking about our second date.”

“A date that hasn’t been organised by our students,” Sharon laughed but as you smiled at each other, you both knew they were amazing students and you would be forever grateful to them for giving you this moment.

--------------------------------------

@smiithys​ @elayneblack​ @amelie-black​

#sharon #sharon carter #agent 13 #sharon carter au #teacher au #sharon carter one shot #sharon carter x reader #sharon carter x reader insert #sharon carter x you #sharon carter x y/n #you x sharon carter #sharon x reader #sharon x reader insert #sharon x you #sharon x y/n #you x sharon #fluff #marvel au #au #sam wilson #emily vancamp #marvel #mcu

[spideyfanclub]

Frozen Battlegrounds, Ch. 1

Warnings: 18+, death, blood, weapons, swearing, the usual.

Pairings: Sharon Carter x Bucky Barnes.

Summary: Mainly world and character building here. NYC during TWS era.

She could tell in the way the wind whispered. Hiss-like, as if beckoning Sharon Carter to listen. When she listened at first, of course it was only the bitterly cold gusts rushing between the New York skyscrapers like the people themselves. But she swore…no, she sensed that one person stopped for a moment to tell her something urgent.

“Be cautious.”

She whipped her head around a bit too fast, her hair lashing at her already cold-bitten cheeks. It was like all those scary stories in the field, in the office or on a stake out…they were closer now. Less words that bring a shiver to your spine. More of a persistent shadow pulling itself nearer and nearer to your front door.

Inside, she cursed Nat for waiting until recently to share the story of her own little run in with the infamous “shadow.” The faint look of panic that danced in her clear green eyes for that nanosecond as she told her tale struck Sharon right in the gut.

So he was real. And making a little noise. There was no mistaking it, despite what she knew the red headed assassin was trying to hide from her.

“Soldat.”

Sharon quickly scanned the chatty Avenue. Couples, cyclists, shop owners locking things up…nothing out of the ordinary at first glance. But of course she knew better. Letting out an audible sigh, she crossed over to Wong Chi’s as the traffic light flashed red. The smell of frying vegetables fanned over her nose as she stepped inside.

“Number 3 as always please, Ms. Chi,” she smiled wide, taking a seat. The small table smelled strongly of bleach. She took it all in: at the front, the small woman was chirping Sharon’s order in Mandarin to the chefs. The clanks of pots and pans. The sizzle of oil. A golden lucky cat sat on the front counter, it’s round paw beckoning endlessly.

She counted exactly one minute and forty six seconds from sitting down before her little follower entered the restaurant.

What an idiot.

She knew he was no real threat. He was a whistleblower at best. Small, mousy and middle aged, the man shuffled towards the counter and ordered a pint of fried rice. His German accent sopped through his words. He ran his hands through his greasy brown hair nervously, the melting hair gel glistening in unpleasant droplets in the shop’s fluorescent lights. As Ms. Chi announced another order to the back, the man mad his way to a seat at the far end of the restaurant. Not once, Sharon thought. He hasn’t looked at me once since he’s come in here.

He fumbled with his thick pale fingers, knee jumping under the table. His sweat began to mix with the hair gel at his hairline and form shiny trails.

“Number 3!” stated Ms. Chi loudly as she dropped packets of soy sauce into the plastic bag. After a “thank you” and dimpled smile, Sharon made her way right over to the greasy man’s table. His head immediately snapped up from his hands.

“Excuse me,” she said sweetly. “Do you have the time? My stupid phone just died.”

“Ah—”

“Fried rice!” Ms. Chi piped up.

Slowly, the man pulled his wide eyes away from Sharon and stood. Adjusting his trench coat, he approached the counter with a mumble of thanks and flashed a sleek black card.

“Shall we eat in?” Sharon asked brightly as he turned away with his food. The man nodded once and followed her to a far corner table.

She wasted no time. “Why are you following me?” she inquired as she sat, scooping out cartons from her bag casually.

“Soldat,” he responded simply. His hands were folded, not making a move.

She flashed her chocolate eyes up at him for a second. “Not even trying to be inconspicuous in case someone’s tailing you, huh?” She squeezed out a packet of soy sauce. “You must be really scared.”

“You should all be,” he hissed abruptly, leaning forward. “They are coming. And harder than you could ever believe.”

Sharon laughed out loud. So he knew she was a S.H.I.E.L.D agent. “And what exactly about this… ‘soldat?’…should have me worried?”

The man scoffed impatiently and waved a shaky hand. “No time for games. If you in any way live up to what they say you are, you’ve heard of him and what he can do.”

“The Winter Soldier,” Sharon said softly. The rapid popping sound of cooking meat and blowing of a huge fan in the corner of the shop all but drowned her voice completely away.

“What?”

“I know of him,” she cleared her throat. “And tell me, why are you ratting out your own right now? Since this is basically what you’re doing.”

“He must be taken care of,” he stated firmly. “He is a threat to innocent people in this country. You are the only organization strong enough to st—”

“What did he do to you?” Sharon tilted her head.

The man swallowed hard, blinked rapidly. “A very crucial politician to our cause in the state of Ohio…” his voice cracked. He cleared his throat noisily. “And a man crucial to his family just the same. He was taken from this world at his hand.”

As the man sniffed in hard, Sharon realized he only wanted revenge for someone important to him. Someone the soldat got rid of.

“So your own people betrayed you. Killed someone you cared about, and you still include yourself with them? How could you?”

“They are all I have,” he answered. “But I cannot allow them to get away with it.”

He smiled the saddest smile Sharon had ever seen. Without looking down, he pushed a small piece of metal over to Sharon and ran a hand through his hair again. Quickly grabbing it, she noticed the sweat and grease on his forehead had dried. She got a weird feeling in her gut.

“Agent, that is all I have to give you,” he glanced out the wide window as he stood. “I must go now.”

“Go?” Sharon quirked an eyebrow. “You haven’t given me very much help, have you sir?”

“Man muss die Dinge nehmen, wie sie kommen,” the man said lightly. Even then, his voice was brittle. “I feel you have all you need.”

As he turned to go, Sharon stood and sweetly laid a hand on his shoulder. “Not so fast,” she said gently. “Here’s what I think we’ll do. We’ll walk out of here together and make our way to someplace those bad guys out there can’t touch you. And if you help me, maybe I can help you. Sound good?”

The man’s head darted around rapidly, eyes wide. “No, agent you do not understand! That is not smart—”

“You panicking isn’t smart,” Sharon said sharply, although she calmly set her food back into the bag. “You and I both know there’s nothing out there for you but a very less than quick and painless end. At least, if you go out there alone.”

As the man stood frozen, she smiled again. “Let’s go,” she urged. “These kind people have nothing to do with any of it.”

Three minutes ago—roughly two minutes before the man noticed as he stood up—Sharon watched in her peripheral as a small black car slowly rolled up across the street, headlights off.

Sharon returned her hand to the man’s shoulder blade and led him towards the front. She could hear him gulp.

“Stay close,” she whispered as she waved to Ms. Chi’s cheery goodbye. “On my left side.” The frosty air hit them both through their coats and thick clothes. Taking a sharp left, Sharon kept tabs on the black vehicle as she led the man away.

Screeeeeeech.

An armored van slammed to a stop on the corner the pair was just about to cross. Mere feet from them, several doors swung open and Sharon could hear weapons being cocked. It all happened in a blur.

But a very long time ago, Sharon learned how to move in blurs.

She seized the man by the arm and took off down the closest alleyway, tossing her bag of food in the face of the closest man preparing to take a shot.

“Folge inhen!” spat a rough voice not far off. They were about halfway down the alley when Sharon shoved the man into a foul smelling row of garbage cans just behind a huge dumpster, which she ducked right behind. Five…no, six of them at least. Shit.

“Stay low,” Sharon barked to the man as she pulled out her two Glock 19s and took quick steadying breaths.

She gaged the positions of each man based on the echoing sounds of their steps down the alleyway. Sharon peeked out just enough to see and opened fire. In a few loud pops, two bigger set men at the front of the group went down quickly. This made Sharon uneasy. They were eager.

No time to worry. The group of men remaining let off rounds into the dumpster the two hid behind, the sounds deafening against the metal. The heat ballooned from the gunfire but Sharon had to hold her ground. Pushing her hand deep into her coat pocket, her fingers clutched a hard round object. She almost laughed. In all of the time she’s had this thing, she never suspected to have to use it. She remembered Nick Fury’s reaction to her face as he handed it to her. “Happy birthday,” he said simply. Then, harshly “it doesn’t ever leave your side, got it?”

Sharon tossed the object towards the men closing in and the alleyway exploded into smoke. Yells and swears in German ricocheted off the brick walls. The bullets stopped.

Now.

Sharon moved through the four men like lightning, calculated despite her pounding heart. She shot through another two as they stumbled around in the brief moment of shock, grabbing them brazenly and shoving the nose of the gun deep into their stomachs before pulling the trigger. By the time the second man was finished, a blow from a meaty fist came through the smoke on her right. Sharon’s head was knocked back, her cheek on fire. Did they use too much ammo on that last retaliation round? She thought quickly. No way, these guys are packing way too heavy. She grabbed the stranger and struggled a bit before a kick to his crotch sent him crumbling through the smoky plumes. She heard an animalistic yell just behind her and sidestepped just in time, sending the last man crashing into the one on the concrete. Sharon zeroed her ears in on the sounds of cursing and pulled the trigger on her first gun until the last couple of bullets in its chamber were emptied. The swearing stopped.

Even with the few seconds of reprieve Sharon knew there was no time to lose. “Sir!” She hissed into the very slowly clearing smoke. “Sir, get up, we have to—”

Cold metal tightened itself around Sharon’s neck too swiftly. She didn’t have a millisecond to think. The back of her head was slammed to the closest brick wall of the alleyway. A ringing filled her ears. She raised her second still fully loaded gun but the large figure in front of her wrestled it easily from her grip with one hand. She could tell he was a man by his extremely broad shoulders. His grip did not relent on her throat, causing her breath to weaken and vision to blur.

She struggled through the remaining wisps of smoke to see this man’s face. The face of the man who would kill her. Through tears in her eyes, she saw a steely blue pair stare right back at her. Unblinking. Still.

Sharon always expected death. Accepted it a lot earlier in life than the average person. After all, how could she do her job as a coward scared of the inevitable? But this man…huge, clad in black up to the mask that covered the lower half of his face and thick brown hair that fell around it. This man with those unending, frozen dead blue eyes…hell. He scared her shitless.

And in her last moments, she truly felt terrified.

Something hot, like a struck match, seemed to light in Sharon’s gut at this realization. “Hah—” she choked out, colliding her fist into his hard chest with the strength she had left. The man tilted his head, still watching her. She swore she heard him scoff—she swore!—as she began to fade away. Her eyes rolled to the back of her skull.

Thump.

Sharon hit the ground bottom first, and the unforgiving chilly night air of the city hit her lungs harshly. She hated the pathetic sound of her sucking in breath, gasping for life. But her annoyance at herself was all her oxygen-deprived brain was able to process until it was too late.

A scream.

Sharon swung her heavy head to the left where the sound came from. The blown away smoke crowded at the very end of the alley, and she could see the heavy boots of her would be killer standing in front of something. The wailing continued and she recognized the voice of that mousy German man.

“Please! Please, no, please!” She heard him cry. “I swear I know nothing, I said nothing. Oh God, PLEASE!” the sound of a gun cocking made the man’s sobs ring louder.

“Fuck!” Sharon spat, clutching her ragged chest and struggling to clear her spinning head. My other gun, where’s my other gun?!

“No, nooo!” the sound of a man pleading for his life sat nauseatingly in the bile or Sharon’s stomach. “Please don’t! No! Agent! AGENT!! A—”

Pop. Silence.

Sharon shot up to run but crashed painfully to her knees back on the ground, still completely discombobulated. Dizzy, she forced herself to crawl her way to the back of the alleyway, feeling the ground on her way for any weapon she could use. She dragged herself through the almost completely cleared smoke to a huddled form and felt with her hands. Dammit. She was too late.

Hot sticky liquid clung to Sharon’s palms now. “Shit, SIR!” she yelled, no longer caring if that man was still around or not. What mattered now was someone was badly hurt and not moving. “Sir!”

No response. As her head began to clear, she noticed there was no sign of the other man.

By the time she fully registered the man’s still form, blue and red lights flashed into the darkness. The colors brought the memory of those lifeless eyes back to the front of Sharon’s muddled mind. As she sat by the still man and waited for the officers to storm the alleyway, she swore she could still hear him whisper it.

“Soldat.”

TO BE CONTINUED

#sharon carter #bucky barnes #sharonbucky #buckysharon #winter13 #ca:tws #agent 13 #the winter soldier