it only took a snap of fingers for your life to change forever - costing not only everything that you built with your wife, Wanda Maximoff, but your marriage itself. now, ten years later, there's a chance for a fresh start between you and Wanda; but how do you fix what's been broken for so long?
Btw I think you got shadowban, which is why your posts don't appears anymore in the wanda x reader tag and I don't have any notifications from you, even when you answer me. I never had that but iirc, you have to send a ticket to the support (here : https://www.tumblr.com/support) so they can help you, it shouldn't take a long time. :)
yeah, i'm trying to solve this and i hope it works because seriously, apparently this app hates me
thanks for the help tho! you certainly were an angel in this situation!
yeah, apparently i got shadowbanned or some shit like that for some reason... i'm trying to fix it out though, and i hope it all works out because man this is pretty stressful
summary: memories take over you when you start to realize about how much you missed the family dynamics with Wanda and the twins, and how much they missed you being around too.
warnings: smut, fingering (Wanda reciving), mentions of strap-on sex, a bit of dirty talking, canon typical violence, kinda angst but not really, fluffines and cuteness in general.
pairing: Wanda x fem!reader
word count: 11k
A/N: okay, I’ll admit, this chapter was just so cute to write. things are just working out and that’s cool! I mean, for now they’re working out at least, eh… for now 👀
well, enjoy!
(YES I'M POSTING THIS AGAIN BECAUSE TUMBLR JUST HATES ME)
“Y/N!” a clenched jaw, a bitten lip, “Oh- oh God!”
You know you should have dropped the twins off at their other mother’s house and left about eight hours ago. That’s what you do when you’re a divorced parent, at least.
But then Wanda so courteously invited you to stay for dinner, and you, so weak to her spell, just couldn’t deny her request, because you always fancied her food and she looked at you like she did when she was seventeen and asked you so earnestly to do something for her.
If then you were never able to deny her anything, much less now you couldn’t either.
Just like you couldn’t deny her when she curled her fingers into the belt of your jeans and pulled you into an auspiciously soft kiss after you helped her wash and dry the dinner dishes.
Like when it happened also at the beginning of that same week, and at the end of the other week before that (and she was absolutely feral when you came inside her with your strap again), and on some weekend in between when you went down on her in the pantry room while the boys were enraptured by one of their electronic games in the living room.
You’re still not quite sure what a Minecraft is, but you’re kind of grateful that it exists.
Your body would never be able to deny her, your addiction trickling from the tip of your tongue, and you just know it wouldn’t be worth even trying to do otherwise. And if you weren’t going to deny her, it wouldn’t be Wanda who would deny you either.
So, in an act of pure passion (immoderate, nasty, wanton and, at first, disconcerting passion), her snowy fingers imbibed each other between the strands of hair on your head; but nevertheless, the sharpened ridges of her fingernails were stuck to the top of your scalp between her legs, crescent-shaped marks on the skin from your head, all sharpened by Wanda’s hands pressing against your hair.
Panting and lustful, she’s lying on the blandness of her bed, on the pale sheets smeared with saliva, sweat, tears (of pleasure this time), and cum.
Her head bowed back and her lips half-opened, as if she were about to whisper through this crack of pleasure a lewd secret. A mutual ardor, a need for pleasure that makes you find your morning breakfast between your ex-wife’s thighs. And between her dizzying, impatient legs, then, a little below Wanda’s level, you revel in her constricted moans.
The tip of your nose touches her in the thin dark fuzz blooming beneath her mound of Venus, and Wanda spills down the length of your tongue, Wanda spreads to your teeth, and Wanda drips from between the lustrous skin of your chin glistening with her cunt’s hot fluids.
Her eyebrows are shriveled up by her flushed face, but on her features a utopian, impudent expression is born, followed by exhausted and costly movements performed with her head of brown hair. Her mouth twitches, throbbing, while you suck her savagely by her core, voracious on your lips, but just as passionate about the touches given by her body.
Your flashing pair of hands grip the inner face of her pale thighs to keep them away from each other, and you, huddled there as if there you always belonged, have your eyes closed as you trace Wanda’s clit with the tip of your pearly tongue.
Your tongue that travels between her folds and then opens through her pink slit, receiving, in response, a loud growl, Wanda’s stomach muscles tightening as she does – she just feels like she’s trapped in a parallel reality with your tongue tucked inside her.
“Y/N, don’t stop-!” her bare knees squeeze your head in an adjacent grip toward her nib, demanding, clamoring for more, more of you, more of your hot tongue inside her.
She unfolds, your ex-wife, like a work of art brushed by your mouth.
“Prodolzhay, pozhaluysta, prodolzhay, moya lyubovʹ–” is her newest mantra, deferred in the Sokovian dialect that, after so long, is already kind of familiar to you.
You just know she begs you not to stop. So you don’t stop. And she moans loudly in immediate response to this choice of action.
Your right fingers migrate from Wanda’s thigh to toss a handful of your hair that pierces your vision, before thus returning to the center of your beloved woman like a traveler returning home, hungry for her liquid as a life necessity – as if this essence is your vice, and no other in the world could compare.
When a pair of your fingers penetrate her wet hole, and you lick her needy cunt just to lift up and then bite a beam of sweaty skin from her collarbones, something vile writhes inside Wanda.
Pale hands, hungry for something to hold on to, run the length of your back into the band shirt you’re wearing—your right elbow working, pumping impassively toward your ex-wife’s dripping center. The moan she lets out is loud inside your eardrum.
“I know it’s hard for you” your breath is warm against her jawbone, “To keep quiet while I fuck you with my fingers, but still, Wanda. Quiet. I bet you don’t want the boys to know that their mother has such a needy pussy”
Your voice, your delicious, husky voice, right next to Wanda’s ear seems capable of driving her insane – of making her bewitched by her own spell and losing her sanity. Then you place a kiss under her ear. A bite. Her brows furrowed and her eyes narrowed, a sliver of vivid crimson escaping between her pressed lashes.
“Shit, you really want to moan, don’t you?”
“Y-yes, yes! Please dorogaya—”
Your fingers curls inside her tight walls, forcing a pained response from Wanda that came into the world in the form of a needy groan. She nods fervently in consent, squeezing the muscles in your back.
“You’re close?”
Again she nods her head – the greedy gaze cast at you from behind lashes adorned in the scarlet glow of her irises is nothing more than pleading.
“Hah” you chuckles darkly, “So come then, pretty girl. Give me a show”
A cavernous yelp escapes Wanda’s throat as her brows twitch and her eyes compress into two lines across her panting face, a pleasant simulation of pain, a tissue ball being woven beneath her navel, beginning to press against her bladder.
You, who know her as well as she does, tries to follow the formulation of her orgasm with the movements of your nimble fingers inside her pussy; backing it up, you press your lips around her neck as you slide down its length, only to return to the tip of her sharp jaw and then intensify the avid sucking, until you take your ex-wife to the height of her own pleasure, plunged into an infamous mist of libido and red color.
“Shit, shit, shit, shit- ah! Y/N!”
Wanda leans forward, eyes narrowed and mouth tight, so that both of her boiling hands dig into your shoulder blades, your body holding her in place on the bed as she spills between your digits, the velvety walls squeezing your fingers, the fiery cum running all the way down to your knuckles.
At her peak, Wanda collapses back to the length of the mattress, a warm dark lock, soaked in sweat, plastered to her forehead.
Around the edges of the bed, a haze of scarlet wind slithers through the sheets. Her chest rises heavy and drops back into her rib cage. There are only gasps of hot air to be heard in front of the four walls of Wanda’s room.
“Hey,” you whisper in an affable tone adopted just after your nerves cool, bringing your face close to a strip of sweaty skin above her dark brow, “Are you okay? This… this was a strong one”
“Yeah… fuck, yeah” it’s her breathy answer, “I’m fine, I’m just… I think I needed that”
A beam of golden luminescence penetrates the room of your accommodation through the cracks in the heavy curtain, interspersed rays of sun that franchise the brief layer of spectral red fog inserted in its interior, projected in three specific points through the serene countenance pierced by the ecstatic extension of the Wanda’s pale face, still in her post-orgasm hangover.
With a certain innocence deposited by her closed heavy eyelashes, spattered by drowsy droplets of pleasure, your ex-wife pulls your body towards her, laying her forehead on the extension of your right collarbone.
For a second she’s silent, and you know it’s so she can hear the contraction of your heartbeat inside your chest; after all, she used to do the same when you were still young lovers and she never quite explained why exactly she did it, but you always knew it was to let her know you were there, alive and well in her caress.
“You’re here…” she whispers in a tiny, soft voice against the fabric of your shirt, “You’re real…”
“Yeah,” you whispers in her hair, “I’m here now. I’m here”
Wanda’s body relaxes against yours after a while. A bird is humming outside.
Her pendulous breathing is dictated by the conductor’s rhythm of a post-orgasm ecstasy – chest rises, chest falls, stops; chest goes up, chest goes down, stops – but her head turns intermediately to the side, in a half-sleeping movement, her chin down, a lock of brown peaks crossing her serene face.
“Wanda…?”
But she snores in lulls against your chest.
The action made you have to blink once, as your gaze went from her well-shaped eyebrows to the narrow bridge of her nose and the neat cheekbones of her strong bone structure, gazing towards the beautiful outcome that is her peach lips parted, flaring through her front teeth – exposed, in that small pulpy crevice, like the inside of a coveted fruit – a homogeneous strip of hot air.
Something reverberates inside you, like a spark that rekindles a fire that has long since waned and died. Wanda is asleep and warm against your chest after a long night of love and pleasure, just two lovers tasting each other’s bodies, getting familiar with the already known taste.
And then you smell wild strawberries in her hair. And a threat of crying curls into a ball inside your throat.
But it is a euphoric cry, a happy cry. Like the cry of someone who reaches their goal and, after so much effort, is finally praised with the cheers of victory. As if your icy heart was pumping red hot blood back into your veins. Like her arms make you human again.
Maybe, you think, maybe things will be like this again sometime. Maybe it doesn’t need to be more than that. And you smile tenderly, as you kiss the top of her dark-haired head and Wanda hums something contentedly in her sleep, moving even closer to you in the middle of the double bed. This time, the voice in your head tells you to stay.
And so, you stay with her.
The metal faucet clogged some time later, when you turned it clockwise a couple of times, stopping the pouring water from the shower held palms above your head.
Leaving the shower and drying off, you slowly brush your teeth before guiding your right fingers towards the aluminum doorknob, a breath of steam coming with you as you walk serenely into Wanda’s room to the clean, folded clothes placed on the edge of her bed – a towel clumsy to your strands of hair, dulled by the particles of water that soak them, does the job of extracting the excess water that fogs up the strands stuck to your slender face.
There’s a picture frame on the left side of the bed, and you’ve noticed it every time you’ve been there, in your ex-wife’s bedroom, but the picture was still comforting to look at in a way – just Wanda with her right arm wrapped around the small shoulders of Billy, who wears a red blouse, while her left did the same with Tommy dressed in greenish-blue, guarding them like a mother in a nest, the small family of three, the mother and two children, exhaling a trio of sunny smiles towards the camera.
Maybe you could update that photograph at some point, you dare to allow yourself to dream big about it. Therapy is going well, and you are closer to your family than ever before. You feel a little hasty in thinking about changing the picture, it’s true, but well, it doesn’t hurt to dream.
Just one step at a time.
You then dress in a plain knit shirt and cozy sweatpants as you pull the towel from around your neck, over your shoulders (Wanda’s clothes are soft and smell like her and you feel snug in your heart with it invading your senses), and you feel at peace as you make your way to the kitchen on the lower floor of the house, where your nose is met by the alluring aroma of freshly prepared food that makes your stomach growl like an animal inside your abdomen.
The vision employed before your eyes, however, stagnates your quiet strides in a sigh constricted into your throat; as Wanda’s flashy figure sees herself with her back turned to you, somewhat bent over, poking her nose into the fridge. You let yourself gasp, lifting and lowering with a heavy chest.
Her long brown hair flows down from her porcelain shoulders to the middle of her back like a wave of black coffee, although what exudes from those warm locks is an appetizing scent of soft strawberry, with pungent hues, to which you had become addicted and delighted to fit your nose and inhale this exquisite and eclectic aroma just hours before.
Even within the constrictions of her fine cotton shirt, her shoulder blades are partially protruded, luscious to the touch of your soft digits – you gazed at her as if Wanda were a figurine in an exhibition, unveiled before your passionate gaze, that of her understands so much of the cunning nature.
The velvety curve along the spine, the swelling of the firm buttocks covered by the pajama shorts, the long valley of the alabaster thighs – and then, a glistening piece of skin that makes itself present between the hem of the blouse and the waistband of the shorts, making explicit, as timidly as a cornered animal, a red band of lacy panties.
The blood in your veins quickens like an electric current and euphoria, for you remember having, just a few hours before, torn open, with your bare hands, an intimate piece of Wanda’s very similar to that one, opening your way to the wet aim through your ex-wife’s legs.
“You do realize that I can hear your thoughts, right?”
Wanda says in a rather jocular tone as she turns to you as soon as she closes the fridge door, holding the neck of a pale milk bottle in her left hand.
“Yeah, I think I’ve been reminded of that at one time or another, yes,” you say, a little teasingly.
You smile in realization when you realize that the shirt she is wearing is the very shirt you were wearing just the night before.
“But what do they say, huh, Miss Maximoff?”
You reciprocate in the same light, half-smiling voice as you cross the kitchen to approach her and give her hips a gentle squeeze, inferring, on Wanda’s part, a silly giggle that makes her nose scrunch like a little adorable puppy.
“They say you’ll be a sweetheart and take the boys for a ride this afternoon so mama can stay at home and rest from her long night, Miss Y/L/N”
You lick your tongue iridescent through the pulps of your thirsty lips, tensing the folds of your fingers on Wanda’s exposed skin as she crosses her wrists behind the back of your damp neck, bestowing, there, a caress with her fingertips.
“But what’s mommy going to get if she does that, huh?”
“Well,” she pretends to think, a small smile lifted to her lips so dangerously close to yours, “That’s something mommy will have to figure out later”
“Yeah?”
“Oh yeah” and Wanda makes her approach to place a kiss on your mouth, “Yes it is”
You don’t even end up feeling the brief ghost of hot lips against yours, a delicious tingle coursing through the commission of your desire-flavored mouth, because when does, quick footsteps on the nearby stairs stagnate you, and, with scorching cheeks and ears, flushed like the fruit of a ripe peach, you and Wanda pull away from your touch abruptly, lips parted as if clamoring for more, your pupils expanded as are hers (two buds linked by a green filament), the two of you panting with laborious chests.
You didn’t share a kiss for little more than centimeters and seconds, almost like two mischievous teenagers caught by adults in the middle of an intimate act – even if who surprised you, making you and Wanda look at each other laughing and blushing, so young at heart, has been your ten-year-old children.
“We’re hungry, ma!” Tommy cries out as he pulls up a chair on the right side of the table and sits down with his hands splayed across the wooden surface, “We want pancakes!”
“No, we want bacon and eggs!” Billy contradicts his brother by sitting in the chair opposite the one Tommy occupies.
“What do you guys think about starting to ask for things only after you say good morning to mom and me like the two polite little boys I raised you to be, huh?”
Wanda looks over her shoulder and, somewhat contradictingly, the two boys grunt a “good morning” in unison.
You, on the other hand, set a couple of thick glass cups on the table, handing them out to each of the boys, watching carefully with a slight smile on your lips as a trifling rift unfolds between the two twin brothers.
“But we want pancakes!”
“No, we want bacon and eggs!”
“Pancakes!”
“Bacon and eggs!”
“How about some toast, huh?”
The two boys turn their gazes towards you, who then sets four plates on the table.
Tommy frowns, but it’s Billy who gives you a look that’s a little too diligent for what his age restrictions should allow (he has an adult look that you really think is something mystical), tilting his chin to the left as he glances from you to Wanda standing on the edge of the stove, and then to your clothes and to what she wears herself.
“Mama, why are you wearing mommy’s shirt?”
You press your lips together in a hesitant line.
“Well baby, you see, I… I…”
In your peripheral vision, you see Wanda’s figure stiffen at the little boy’s words, increasing the grip of her fingers held by the skillet handle.
“Wait, did you sleep here, mom?” is Tommy’s question towards you when, in a non-syllabic connection worthy of a pair of twins, the two boys exchange a meaningful look.
“I- I, uh… you know, bud, it got a bit late yesterday after you guys went to bed and, well, uh, I, I stayed for a while to help mama do the dishes and… and…”
Wanda, in turn, takes a plate with a stack of pancakes towards the table, placing it right in its center.
Covertly, however, she gives an indicative squeeze with her left hand before the length of your right forearm, before she then departs towards the table, where she places a languid, warm, courteous kiss on the top of the head of each of the kids that you have – Tommy sort of complains about being too old to be pampered (but doesn’t really do anything to stop it), while Billy willingly accepts his mother’s cuddles.
“Pancakes it is,” Wanda sits down in her usual chair, unceremoniously, right after such affectionate actions towards her children.
Tommy seems content with the lack of direct response when he slyly is the first to capture two golden pancakes for his plate – closely followed by Wanda, who has grabbed two more, just as you do yourself.
Billy, on the other hand, looks a little hesitant as he looks at you and Wanda; but when Tommy calls him to talk about something related to some school activity, the boy takes his pancakes and engages in a lively conversation with his brother.
“Blueberry pancakes…?”
You aim at the luscious dough served on your plate, and your stomach, in response, reverberates in a hungry grunt. But you know Wanda has always been more of a pancake-and-strawberry kind of type.
“Yeah, I already told them that it tastes better with strawberries, but it’s no use… it’s just your bad influence on your children, I think” says your ex-wife, taking a generous forkful towards her mouth.
You, in turn, smile, because you know you are among family, in the place where you should always be. You look at Billy and Tommy talking with their mouths full, and at Wanda when she asks them to “please chew with their mouths closed” in a very motherly tone of voice.
And as you chew (with your mouth properly closed, of course), you think that your pancakes have never tasted this good before.
ᗢ
It had started out as a triviality, something frugal that can be recklessly sneered at, like summer rains or autumn winds—something that by conjecture will be postponed, ignored and forgotten when a somewhat more significant or inescapable situation comes under the spotlight and momentarily divert your attention to another subject.
One night, perhaps counting two or three months after reciting your well-rehearsed vows in front of Wanda and exchanging a pair of golden rings between the two of you, transmuting your status from girlfriend to becoming then a wife, when both of you were lying on the bed, well covered to deal with the stinging European cold, Wanda had complained that her breasts were definitely more sensitive to the touch than usual.
“I swear,” she said, both to you and her reflection in the mirror, “They’re swollen"
All right, you thought to yourself in your head, sometimes this annoying soreness can happen when you have breasts, nothing saving the ordinary. It was a moderately common event, in fact. Nothing that you hadn’t already seen yourself as a victim of physiological pain at least once a month, of course.
Nothing that couldn’t pass after a proper night’s sleep. Sleep heals people, as you mother used to say to you as a young infant.
But a night easily takes over a day, as do seasonal changes in the weather. As cold and heat come and go.
And one day turned into a week rather easily – Wanda tossing uncomfortably on the bed sheets before falling asleep, your attempts to engage in a somewhat needy sensual act dying off as the pangs of pain surfaced when you intended to stir up some stimulation through your wife’s sore nipples.
Constant grunts of pain, incessant complaints on her part—the crimson suit too tight for her to put on and keep herself comfortable during the long hours of increasingly exhausting missions across the globe.
But living on the hustle as you were, never establishing any lasting bond anywhere but the caressing of each other’s arms, it didn’t seem conducive for both you and your wife to see such relevance in the brushstrokes of gradual pain that adorned Wanda’s days and nights.
Perhaps, who knows, if you two had made a (somewhat evident) connection between Wanda’s bodily changes and the pestering morning sickness that seemed uninterrupted, as intense as the speed at which they came to harass her in waves of abnormal nausea, the final news would not have taken you so much by surprise – the outcome should be unavoidable to understand, it is true.
The consequence of a compilation of specific acts that would clearly only be possible to explain with a single answer which, in this case, was in fact quite strange to understand as being the reality of what was materializing inside Wanda’s body – an amalgamation resulting from your genetics and her effervescent magical energy.
Who knows what it would be like if you had picked up the obvious signs in first hand? But it’s not like that possibility was even considered by you and much less by Wanda, at that time.
Not without the knowledge of having experienced it for the first time, of course. The first time is what opens the whole thing up, what prepares you for more of the same stuff.
When you saw yourself as old enough to understand, later on, looking back on that tempestuous time (but certainly not as turbulent as the times to come subsequent to these) you realized that still as young then as you were, so raw to the world and to life, so impervious to the limitations of reality around you, there was no way of knowing that the outcome of your love was no longer just a marriage union – not only a few papers signed and an exchange of fervent kisses and wedding rings, no.
The love between you two had grown, expanded and branched out like the blossoming flowers of springtime – and the fruit of that union would undoubtedly not be what you would call normal by any means. After all, you were indeed such an unusual couple.
But then Wanda passed out on a mission in Spain, after exceeding her own limits by holding back a battalion of at least eighty men using only the will of her mind waves. And on another mission in Argentina, about a few days after the last one. And on yet another mission in Kyoto, the week after that one.
And her fragile stomach could no longer be imperiled to quinjet travels without expelling from her salivating mouth all the contents that filled it, even if what filled it was the purest nothing.
You held her long red hair as she regurgitated all the breakfast you’d just had into a repulsing paste inside a plastic bag, her thick tears trickling down the material of your black and white suit as you did.
And then you realized that something was quite wrong with the integrity of your wife’s physical health – but perhaps the absence of menstruation in the last few months should have been a suggestive flag for the main fact that, until then, had not yet been your consideration or even hers.
You find out, however, after a long-awaited team meeting on the outskirts of Consthum, location of one of Luxembourg’s former communes (just around Western Europe), when Natasha promptly enforced so much on taking a very sick Wanda to see a private doctor in the region, the physician who was an old remote contact of her and Clint – Vision was far across the ocean and could not take care of Wanda’s health at that time.
It was cold around the commune in season – each day a little bitterer than its predecessor had been before.
The winter chills took possession of the area in such a way that the leaves of the trees began to assume endogenous shades of white and silver, and the sky, in turn, became more gray and opaque, dense, instigating mornings encompassing through clouds as dull and thick as the down of a wild raccoon.
It had snowed during that dawn, and a dense eborean cover of flakes of ice crystals had clogged the region, whereupon the village was still asleep and welcomed to the comforts of its proper nesting beds so early in that morning.
At the inn where you and your other colleagues were currently residing (a magnanimous and long-lived house of Anglican architecture that vaguely resembled the structure of one of the last HYDRA hideouts that you had conquered, built right next to the small town, having as a neighbor more snow-brushed nature than other family homes), you were kind of stunned by the candid chill that had engulfed you during that time of year.
Wanda had been out with Natasha for quite some time now, a good handful of minutes that would easily make up the whole of an hour or two, and something tight was bothering you inside your constricted chest. After all, maybe your wife was sick. Maybe she was quite sick and slowly getting worse, and it didn’t please you at all to have such hurtful thoughts gnawing at your anxious mind.
The balcony, with its dark modular wood floor, towered over the structure of the cottage, rising from the second floor, about three or four meters from the ground and measuring two meters by four, with a comprehensive view of the expanses of the green ocean of esoteric trees to the ends that comprised the horizon line, covered by a long line of white snow, where sky and leaves metamorphosed into a single inscrutable and powerful figure.
You were able to see well through such enormities, seated on a woven fiber bank as you were.
The dawn was as phlegmatic as it could be, and when you gazed at it you vividly reminisced of watching the world through the huge thick glass windows of your room back at the compound, in a long-lost undemanding time that already seemed so far away in your deep-rooted memories.
“You should come in for a while, kid” the complacent voice had come from behind you, from the French doors open to the sky.
You turned your chin over your shoulder, and Steve was the one who was promptly carrying two cups of steaming black coffee with him. The full, dense beard that closed off his herculean square face was still a novelty that was slowly growing on you.
“It’s cold out here, and I think you’ll know when they arrive even if you don’t stay here like a guard dog all morning”
“I can’t get sick. I’m fine, man”
The stout man yielded to you that pale china mug which he held in his right hand, a beam of smoke dispersing into the morning air in a puff of murky steam – you gratified him with a placid, toothless lips-only smile, guarding the body of the recipient between a wall made up of your fingers of both your stiff hands, but still making no mention of getting up and going to the fireplace inside to take shelter from the cold.
The captain then, in his turn, sat down near your left elbow, at the opposite end of the bench, and of his own drink he usurped a copious draft.
You sighed in a concerned way, dismaying the muscles of your shoulders, and replicating the simple act carried out by the leader of your team, of your full-bodied drink you also sipped a leisurely sip, savoring the wholesome, even earthy, bitterness that settled into the facet of your tongue, between your teeth, to your taste buds.
Your sluggish eyes, at last, gazed over the obsequious figure of Steve Rogers, Captain America himself. And in such a way, you shook your head in an act of overwhelmed displeasure.
“I should have gone with her” is what you said to him after a while, blinking once at the horizon as you did, “I’m her wife, I’m the one who should be there with her”
“Y/N” Steve sighed for half a second, “You know we can’t get public attention to ourselves. And people know who you are, who both of you are, what you girls’ relationship is. Honestly, I think the two of you together in public get more attention than if Nat is the one with Wanda. It’s the safer option, you know. And she really needs to see a doctor”
Even from behind the cup of hot coffee, the war veteran ended up peering with his sapphire eyes towards you. And then, a complacent tone of voice took over Steve’s speech.
“But I know you’re worried, Y/N. It makes sense, after all, she is your wife. I know what it’s like… to worry about the woman you love, but not know exactly what to do about it. But Wanda can take care of herself pretty well, and she’s also with Nat, so I’m sure nothing bad will happen to them while they’re gone. She will be safe"
“Yeah,” you groan, “But that’s not what worries me, Steve. I know Wanda can fend for herself. That’s not… that’s not what worries me at all"
Steve solemnly nodded his head in understanding, gazing at your battered profile—the nose sparsely upturned into your septum and the obstinate chin, the jaw set in concern into a solid bone structure.
With you being bursting with tension beneath the thick wool of the sweater you wore, your gaze was moderately dubious, laced with tinges of fatigue and worry. Of course concern was consuming you; your wife was in bad health, so you weren’t sleeping well.
“Thanks, though” you say, after a while, “For the coffee I mean”
You knew the bearded man was urged to do something, anything, to soothe your disconsolate soul over the state of your ill wife. So you decided to thank him for the coffee, the safest choice to go, and he smiled behind his thick beard of dark blond hair like beer color.
“You’re welcome, kid”
Both of you toke sips of the dark coffee in a purely silent harmony. But the sound of a car engine did not take long to cross the mid-dawn chill, reverberating in the trees and the snow.
And you scrambled to your feet, without circumlocution, your heart reverberating wildly in your chest, and it wasn’t long before you made your way to the front porch, giving Steve no satisfaction when you just got up and eagerly set sail downstairs, hurrying inside the winter cottage as you did.
Quickly descending the steps of the wooden staircase, one feet after the other, the silence on your part was the return to the question asked by Sam when you passed by him and he asked you if they had already arrived.
“Okay, someone’s in a hurry…”
But there was no room for details; you just had to see her. To touch her, to feel her.
Wanda.
Wanda was the only thing going through your brain, like a red neon sign flashing her name again and again through your neurons.
You needed to see her and hold her between your affectionate embrace as much as if it were a biological necessity, as much as a hungry person needs food to nourish themself, or a thirsty person needs water to survive one more day.
But the front door swung open in a brutal hollow slam before you even reached it, even if sprinting across the pale wood floor in quick strides as agonized as you were.
And startlingly, Natasha was the one who entered the cabin’s stone walls firsthand, wearing a heavy faux leather jacket over layers of thick clothing—you even made an effort to aim behind Black Widow’s slender shoulders, but no sign of your wife coming after your friend could be singled out.
The woman with the shortcut, artificially platinum hair burst out impetuously, looking as if she had been swamped in a lapse of smoldering anger—she was fierce as a soldier, anger spurred by the moss green of her irate irises.
And you just blinked in confusion towards your teammate’s angry grimace, slowing your stride until you came to a complete stop a bit away from her.
“Nat?” you called her name, in a voice watered with concern, “Nat, what’s wrong? Where- where’s Wanda? Did something happen? Is she okay?“
Natasha’s gaze flickered in your direction, dealing with a non-syllabic response to your barrage of questions all directed at her.
And it was an unclear blend what was eclipsing her sharp face; anger transmuted into pity, indignation and unhappiness passed through each other without ever remaining in a managed expression.
Natasha opened and closed her full-lipped mouth, fidgeting inside her jacket, trying and failing to say something to you, but finally seemed to decide with herself that she really wouldn’t.
And then she surged forward, trotting towards you like an angry buffalo – but just when you thought she was going to run into you, the former assassin just walked right past you, not sustaining any eye contact for much longer than necessary.
“She’s the one who has to tell you, Y/N. Not me”
"Nat? Nat, what…?” but the name hung in the air, since the other woman was already gone for you to reach her.
You didn’t quite know what she meant (or even what happened indeed), but you left it to worry later; for you headed out of the cottage in readiness, being embraced by the cool breeze brushing your warm skin.
That’s when you found her, Wanda.
Your wife was a restless figure perched on the polished wooden bench against the wall beside the front door; between Wanda’s long, delicate fingers adorned in scintillating rings in various shapes and forms, a sealed white paper envelope was well awarded like a millenary secret.
Her state of mind was dismal and deplorable, like a corpse exposed at a wake, and you didn’t take much long to notice this fact; for her skin was faded and dying, pale, with tapered cheeks and high cheekbones in a foreboding look, as if Wanda’s face were that of a statue carved from bleached bone.
Her lips were as whitish and thin as the snow outside the house, unhealthy and sickly-looking, and the green of her eyes and even the simulated copper of her long hair were dull, faded like an unfinished sketch.
Wanda, hunched on that icy bench, was like a shadow of herself, an anemic terminally ill. The look you gave her certainly made her feel like one, at least.
“Wanda?” you called out to her, in a thread of a pitying voice, “Wanda, baby?”
Your wife, looking even a little engrossed in her own head, barely gave any indication that she would look at you at all. And then it was that you crouched on your knees, standing before her devastated eye level, intimately touching with your left hand to the back of her calf.
“Wanda, please talk to me, honey. What is it? What’s wrong?” you tried, but to no avail.
Her green gaze, so stricken and restless in its irises dimmed in insecurity, attached itself to yours as you stood there, placed before her, and winked inherently towards you, using no words as you disposed in a better posture on your knees, bringing your face even closer to hers.
You sensed in Wanda the dread in which the enchantress was unable to manifest with even a single set of words—as when she was a pubescent young girl all over again, so vulnerable of mind, despite all the power constricted within her core.
“Y/N…” she muttered your name in a weakened tone.
“I’m here, love” you assured her, giving her leg an intimate squeeze, “It’s okay, I’m here”
Wanda, however, just dropped her eyes uncertainly, aiming at her fingers placed on the envelope for a few silent seconds before finally bringing her right hand to a beam of skin on her forehead, running her palm down the length of her beautiful face until she handled it as a support at the disposal of her quivering chin – with wizened eyebrows, a wrinkled piece of skin in the gap between them.
She breathed a hard sigh through both her nostrils and turned her gaze to you, who so solemnly found yourself waiting expectantly for a clarification from your wife.
And then, a lame sniff reached your hearing.
Wanda pranced into a harrowing sob that burst out of her throat in a rip, pressing the palm of her right hand against the pulp of her nacarine lips.
She squeezed her eyes into two pained lines, shaking her head, the streaks of copious red hair rustling against the contours of her miserable, pitying face. It was like having a boulder entangled in gall at the bottom of her larynx.
“I’m sorry, Y/N, I’m so sorry” a single strand of crystal teardrops poured from her left eye to her retracted chin, “I swear I don’t know how it happened- I, I promise I didn’t do anything wrong, I don’t know how it happened, I don’t know, I—”
You stood up in readiness. And then, without even saying a single word, you just wrapped your arms around Wanda’s shoulders, clasping her to your chest as if she were, your wife, just a young and simple girl desolate in the face of a broken heart, crying over her pain and making her tears her unsyllabic escape. Just like you did so many times before.
You deposited her, at the crown of the copper-colored head smelling like a sweet strawberry simulation, a warm and tender affectionate kiss.
“It’s okay baby, I’m here now”
And Wanda hugged your waist in return, and so two lovers stagnated for so much longer than it seemed to pass, locked in each other’s arms like what you did when she missed her parents. Like what you did when she missed Pietro so much it felt like she was going to burst into embers.
You caressed her with the digits of your fingers down her back over the fabric of her thick coat, your cheek rested devotedly against her smooth hair, her sobs muffled against the top of your abdomen.
And then, after a vague silence attained for her to recover her nerves, the news that completely disarmed you flowed along with her tears and her cries.
“I’m pregnant, Y/N”
Three words. It took only three single words in a sentence for something to break down inside you.
Something at your core collapsed, like the most devastating avalanches of snow and ice. You broke the hug to look down at her. And then, you blinked just once in the most pure form of sober skepticism towards Wanda.
“…What…?”
Silence ensued – Wanda’s green eyes gleaming so clearly with expectant tears in your direction.
“I’m pregnant, around the tenth week or so” the palm of her hand gently stroked the region of her womb through the thick wool blouse, “We… we’re going to have a baby, Y/N. I… I’m sorry. I don’t know how it hapenned. I’m sorry”
The second time she said it felt like the first one, because it was only then that you comprehended what was truly happening – a wave of reality slithered through your bloodstream. There seemed to be ice dilated through your epidermis. And then you wanted to cry. And laugh like a maniac. And just fucking scream until your lungs bleed.
A flood of the most disparate emotions that weighed them all down your esophagus and blistered your lungs in a heterogeneous amalgamation, composed of astonishment and exasperation, expelled from both your flared nostrils in a gasping breath of cold fear, whereupon you wrinkled your eyebrows and the blood froze within your veins.
You gazed at her hand resting on her abdomen. The baby was the size of a prune in there, and growing.
Ten weeks ago you were in London and she had said something about having children in the future, maybe two or three, when the world would be a better place for you to live again, and you agreed with her without giving it much thought; after all, children would come sometime into your marriage, when you actually planned to have them.
This was only supposed to happen a few years from then, and not that same night when you lay together and moaned each other’s names. But it’s not like you two knew at the time that Wanda actually had a unique way of manifesting her inner desires.
The blistering sourness at the edge of your mouth was nothing like an association with the doses of coffee you’d been sipping with Steve just a few minutes before. And then you blinked at Wanda again, like a broken doll, because you didn’t know what else you could possibly do – a crinkle formed by a beam of skin across the strands of your eyebrows.
“Y/N, please…”
“You’re… pregnant” you hesitated at the whispered word, as if it were a bad omen to utter it aloud, “Pregnant”
She was pregnant, she said. And pregnancy meant a baby – you were going to have a baby. A baby to take care of while you were running away from the rest of the world.
And it didn’t even cross your mind for a half second that Natasha was possibly furious because she took it as a statement of an illogical infidelity on Wanda’s part, no; you just thought you guys would have a supernaturally made baby while you were merely to the firstfruits of your early twenties, being hunted like a couple of wild animals, drooling and roaring.
And you were just young.
You had just turned twenty, and she had done so even more recently than you – far too young to truly understand what that statement could truthfully meant at its core.
Your mother passed away when you were only ten – you just didn’t knew shit about even the dynamics of living with a child, more so when you yourself weren’t even a little bit more than that either, still not being able to even legally drink alcohol in some countries.
You and Wanda had merely babysitted Clint’s children a couple of times when Hawkeye took them to play in the compound or just wanted some time off for him and Laura, and each time it was a complete fiasco on your part - and they weren’t even your children in the first place.
“Please, please say something”
You looked at Wanda and she at you, her greenish eyes glistening with another round of warm tears.
Your ominous astonishment and your dread, in company with each other like a grim specter. Pregnancy meant a baby, again, the dawning of a new form of life blossoming within your wife. A child (your child) flourishing inside her affable womb, and every second a little closer to bursting into the world, in your care and hers too.
Your heartstrings even tightened in a grim girdle, bathed in a greedy gloom when you realized one crucial thing – that this would be a child lacking the power of choice, a born possessor of superhuman abilities in which someone would never ask them if they intended to contain it in the first place. Maybe you should indeed cry for your still unborn child.
Like you and Wanda, the child to come would have a burden to their shoulders to carry; they already were the heir of a legacy, even without coming into the world.
They would still be able to assimilate the great magnanimity of their powers, all of this inferred by their genetic inheritance as soon as they would take their first breath of life – you just knew they would be born into a decrepit world that would hate them merely for existing.
Wanda, for her part, leaned back against the seat and glanced in your direction, one hand pressing its palm along the length of skin on her forehead. The exhausted sigh on her nose was heavy and occluded.
And then you uttered, through a crack erupted between the pulps of your lips, a sudden and thoughtless sentence, as if in a tasteless gag, because your brain was no longer working properly anymore. You never imagined yourself to be a mother, but that’s what was happening anyway.
You and Wanda had made a baby.
“Well,” you muttered poorly after a while, half laughing, but just wanting to burst into bittersweet tears, “Let’s just hope they don’t have my sense of humor”
ᗢ
At the latest, with one bare hand pressing Tommy’s little fingers against your warm palm while with the other you do the same with Billy, the three of you walk in light strides, one foot next to the other across the concrete of the dry sidewalk in a thin layer of brightness, wide pools of sunlight that reflect in golden glows in the radiance of a warm afternoon, as a few cars pass by on the asphalt.
The day was reserved to take the boys to the ice cream parlor and the town square, and after you’d duly taught Tommy how to manage the exceptional strength contained in the muscles of both his small hands (this was right after an incident involving a mint ice cream cone boiled down to sticky crumbs and cold dough dripping through your child’s fingers, and a crisis properly avoided by then), you’ve decided within yourself that it was time to get the kids back home.
You, however, genuinely appreciate the moments you had with your two children, because you had lost so many of them, and that’s why you wanted to make up for it. These boys are your greatest love after all, like none before them.
Although so much of the boys refer to Wanda in your vision (Billy’s keen intellect and Tommy’s curious cut determination, always aiming to educate themselves about something new before their childish gaze), synchronically, your own peculiarities are attributed to them as the boys grow; maybe the high-pitched laugh of Billy, and certainly the way Tommy always creases a flash of skin between his brows when he finds himself in some messy situation.
The boys then, walking up to your hips, having draped their small torsos in polyester hoodies in a profuse shade of cobalt-blue and tomato-red, with big superhero symbols (which are so familiar to you) clinging to their busts, chat enthusiastically with each other as you maintain a healthy silence, enjoying every single small lapse of contentment that comes your way.
It’s the simple, frugal little things that you just learned to admire so much.
“Hey, you know who’s best?” Billy turns to his brother, “2003 Tigers! They’re the best!”
“No, they suck!” Tommy readily reiterates, “They suck so bad they suck egg!”
“No, they don’t,” says the other twin, “They’re the best!”
“Doofus”
“Doofus two”
“Triple infinity doofus”
You cross the street after looking from one side to the other, confirming the inexistence of any vehicle that was crossing the lane and the security for this being stated. Billy’s innocuous gaze, however, flickers in a kind of childish diligence, as the boy pours his small, upturned nose into your face – an alluring look passing through his shrewd eyes, which scrutinize the silent figure that was you walking close to his right shoulder.
“Mom, can I ask you something?”
The boy asks you in an astute and somewhat perceptive way, like a little reporter, frowning towards you who leads him by the small hand.
“Of course you can, Bill. You can ask me anything,“ and to the boy you offer a complacent smile, "What’s wrong, bud?”
“Are you and mama remarried?”
Your heart misses a beat – but, well, you actually said he could ask whatever he wanted in the first place.
Billy’s light-brown bangs point upwards, towards your sullen-looking face, as a complement to his doubt; the pale little brow creased like a statue, demanding a congruent resolution to his brooding inquiry. Looking to the side, you notice that Tommy does the same – two sets of expectant eyes awaiting some clarification for the so sudden (yet so natural) closeness of their two mother figures.
“Why… why do you think that, honey?”
“Because mama likes you,” he muss, “And you like her too, don’t you?”
“Well, yeah” you don’t hesitate, because there’s no way around that fact, “Yeah, I… I like mama. I like her a lot”
“That’s why!” it’s Tommy’s turn to intervene, “Lisa said at school that when adults like each other and have kids it’s because they’re married. And me and Billy are you and mama’s children, and you and mama like each other now, so you’re remarried, aren’t you?”
There is a momentary pause for you to think, and mentally your curse. There’s no telling two ten-year-olds exactly why you’re not married to their mother anymore, not with the restraint their young age imposes on the notion to what actually is a marriage. Marriage for you is turning to ashes when the other is burning. It’s wanting to stay when you have to leave, and wanting to leave when you have to stay.
“Kids these days know a lot, huh?” the boys limp with their shoulders, and out of you comes a lame whisper, “Well, look kiddo, your mama and I… It’s a little complicated, you know?”
“Complicated why?”
You, in a breath of mild air diffused through both your fearful nostrils, stop walking and let go of the boys’ hands, crouching on your knees bent inside the material that makes up your light jeans, so that, in such a way, your height matches the 4'5 inches which the two twins comprise in their avid childlike stature.
“It’s just,” and you click the tip of your tongue against the roof of your mouth in a bad way, “Adult things are complicated, you understand?”
Billy and Tommy’s keen eyes still scrutinize you, as enraptured as a probe or even a satellite. Even with their intellectualities restricted by such a tender and young age, lacking experience and cognitions of discernment for being just a child in the bosom of their childhood, the twins are still very attentive and committed to understanding more and more of the world around them, and so much they are able to understand through their ingenious perception.
They are nothing but a pair of very smart kids.
“A marriage… a marriage is so much more than just liking one or the other, honey. A marriage is a commitment, it’s a promise made between two people who love each other very much and that after a while doesn’t involve just them anymore. Me and your mama, we made that promise. We made that commitment, but… sometimes things just don’t go as planned. Some things happen and people… people change, kids. And sometimes people make mistakes when they change. I… I’ve changed. I messed up. And I hurt your mama when I messed up. And because of that, she also changed”
There is a dismayed pause on your part.
“We were in a bad spot and so we just decided it would be better this way for both of us. It’s just that we were still quite young, you know? Too young to understand what we were doing with our lives, how it all worked and would work after… after… you know, after…”
You do not want to talk. You don’t want to bring it back. You don’t want to think about it anymore, not again. Not with them.
“Mom?” Tommy calls, winking in your direction, “Are you okay?”
You shake your head silently. There’s no reason to think about it now.
“Yes, buddy, I’m okay, don’t worry” is a murmur on your part, “It’s just… complicated. I wish I could explain this properly, but the truth is, I don’t know how to do it. But I just want you to know that yes, your mama and I really like each other. Mainly because we made you. And you two sure are the best part of both of us”
You smile at them, who remind you so much of you, but much more of Wanda. Your heart throbs an avid thud against the ribs in your torso; an affable warmth radiates through your bones and veins, inflates your lungs in a warm cordiality, giving you the sensation of having a deluge of loves filling your passionate core with appreciation and fascination.
It’s not the first time in your life that this has happened, but it’s been a while since your feelings fluttered with such amazement; since their birth, these children became your greatest source of pride.
And your affectionate smile is reflected by the boy—both brothers with eyes pressed into two tiny slits of glistening eyelashes, pearly lips curled up in a simile smile, because Billy and Tommy are your children, your epigonus and your joy, a small part of you and the spirit of your love.
Your children with your beloved Wanda, to watch over and support.
“Well,” you get to your feet then, lifting your knees, “I guess we better get home soon, right? Or your mama will start to think I lost you two in the woods”
They laugh when they readily take the hands you offer them. And then you walk home again, just one step at a time.
ᗢ
“Seriously dude, take it easy! What the hell!“ you complain, weary and fretful, gasping for short breaths of air expelled from your tired lungs.
There is a brief attempt at a punch by your virtuous arm – duly evaded, however – and then the man takes advantage of the momentary gap to strike you with a closed hand right in the esophagus, at a central point of contact, precisely striking between your ribs.
And you fall to the floor immediately, and then you take a long time to get up, sniffling painfully as you do.
Sam Wilson, the current bearer of the allegorical Captain America mantle, however, only quirks a dark brow, chipping a broken smile at the corner of his lip.
"Shit…”
With a bend of the wrist, you sweep away the oil from your sweat from your forehead, right at the ends of your hairline, from a mixture of the torrid climate with the strenuous physical activities required in a training, carried out assiduously by both of you and the Captain America for the last few hours.
He, who approaches you to provide a helping hand, which you use to leverage yourself back to your starting position, despite keeping your own hand flat on your stomach area and a disgusted look on your face, wrinkling the eyebrows in the middle of your forehead.
“I thought you were supposed to be invincible, mutant girl?”
“Man, shut the hell up” you grumble in a bad way, taking distance from the other combatant.
And then, Sam lifts his clenched hands into sturdy fists to close to his particularly flushed cheekbones, making back-and-forth motions with his fingers, demanding a new thrust on your part.
“Come on, kid, let’s do it again”
“All right”
There’s another advance attempt, thwarted by an accurate block for every single strike you deliver against Sam.
The two of you drape your agile bodies into practice suits appropriate for a series of physical exercises, soaked in a sticky sweat that attaches your shirts to your stuffy skins, engaged in an avid hand-to-hand combat that, vector of such grace and discipline in its movements, so regulated, were, in turn, leveled to a choreographed dance, with light and meticulous actions.
You articulate a new punch, your fingers pressed together to do so, but Sam, in turn, holds your wrist in a handshake and circles your shoulder joint until your fist touches the scapula in your back, putting you on hold, down on your own knees. While you are indeed quite knowledgeable when it comes to physical combat, it turns out that you are just too out of shape to deal with someone who knows as much as you do.
And Sam, a former teammate, already knows how to use your superhuman strength to his advantage.
“Okay, okay, I got it, let me go!” you whine, the tip of your nose almost touching the floorboard under your bare feet.
Without delay, Sam lets go of your arm after hearing such pleas – rather pleased to do so, in fact.
You get to your feet, albeit a little whiny, and with your left hand you begin a disconcerted massage of your right shoulder that flares in sedentary pain. The captain, however, has his hands clasped at his sides wrapped in basketball shorts, and a small, playful smile doesn’t escape his amused lips.
“Man, when you said you were out of shape I believed you, but seriously” he mutters then, looking in your direction as you pant heavily, “You really have seen better days, huh”
“Well, when you said exercise helps mental health I believed it,” you gasp, “But all I’m feeling right now is pain… and to tell you the truth I think I’m a little sadder since when I arrived, also"
He smiles jovially.
“Believe me, it’ll be worth it in the long run” and then he playfully punches you in the right bicep, “Come on, let’s take a break. You need to hydrate”
“Oh, I need to hydrate,” you grumble like a grumpy kid, “Dude, when I was seventeen I kicked your ass every time we trained together!”
“Yeah, but that’s the age thing, isn’t it?” says Sam, as he takes a thermos of water in his right hand, “You get old and then you can’t do what you used to do”
“Are you really calling me old? Really?!”
It’s your indignant question, hoisting both your eyebrows at the man, an avid shake of your head, a shaft of hair slipping out of your ponytail and flashing across your vision as you do.
“When I’m literally younger than you?!”
“Well, only one of us is way out of shape here, and it certainly isn’t me”
You roll your eyes in their sockets as you walk away, looking for water to quench your inordinate thirst that makes your tongue feel like a rough stone. There’s a comfortable silence as you press your lips around the spout of a plastic water bottle, your left hand braced on your hip, a tired little crease formed between the strands of both of your brows furrowed across your glossy forehead.
Good-natured airs were made swift in the task of cramping the entire training room of the Avengers’ compound, as you allow yourself to expel a breath of tired air from the core of your lungs, uneasy at the physical situation in which you and Sam find yourselves in.
“So,” he says after a few seconds, lips shining through a layer of water, “How’s therapy going, huh? Buck said you’ve been going for a while and haven’t given up until now"
“It’s been going well, I think,” you shrug, “I haven’t had a drink in a while and I’ve been smoking less, not to mention I’m also spending more time with the boys and Wanda, so there’s not a lot of time in my day to do these things anymore. And panic attacks are getting more manageable, too. I consider this a step forward”
You turn your face towards the man with the goatee.
“It is a step forward, in fact. And I’m happy for you, Y/N” Sam flashes a half-proud smile in your direction, “But Wanda and the boys, huh? So things are working out with the little witch? Because look, I remember the two of you couldn’t go five minutes without keeping your hands off each other when you were younger"
“Oh, shut up” you grumble, even though a silly little smile wants to hide between your lips.
“But it’s true!” The captain exclaims, “You two were a cute couple… even if you were going at it like rabbits all over the compound. I mean, it was always crazy when my room was next to yours when we were on the run. Your girl really has a great set of lungs, huh?”
“Dude,” you look at him, and he chuckles in your direction, “Just shut up”
You know the hot sting in your flushed cheeks isn’t just from the workout anymore.
would you write a fluffy fic y/n & wanda paint each others nails cuz they're bored and there's nothing else to do and it's late at night
like tooth rotting fluff xx
oh to let a pretty girl paint my nails at two in the morning
warnings: none! just pure fluff :D
words: 901
You would say you don’t know how you ended up here, cross legged on Wanda’s bed at two in the morning as she paints your nails an assortment of colours, but you really do know how.
You’re disgustingly, awfully smitten with her.
It’s obvious to everyone except Wanda, who still finds it in herself to doubt if you actually like her company and don’t just hang out with her because she’s the only person your age in the team. Somehow, she doesn’t notice that you practically trip over your own feet to do anything with or for her.
She’d been adorably when clumsily asking if you wanted to have a sleepover, and even more adorably excited when you said yes, immediately jumping into action and gathering what she deemed essential; extra blankets and pillows, a wide selection of movies, snacks. And nail polish, apparently.
Wanda’s been focused on doing your nails now for almost ten minutes, methodically planning out the colour of each nail before she even started. You’ve made it through seven fingers, your heart pumping sporadically and your skin burning where she’s holding your hand to keep it still.
She’s so focused that she hasn’t noticed your blatant staring as she works. You can’t tear your gaze away from her face; her furrowed brow and the teeth caught on her bottom lip as she concentrates on putting the nail polish on flawlessly. Her hair is pulled back messily, a few stray hairs falling in front of her face, but she doesn’t pay them any mind.
She’s almost annoyingly pretty.
And then her eyes flick up. You aren’t quick enough to pretend you haven’t been staring, and Wanda’s cheeks flush as a grin pulls at her lips. And god, it’s just not fair that she’s that pretty.
“Is there something on my face?” she asks, softly, and you blink, shaking your head.
“No,” you say quietly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to stare.”
Wanda hums, eyes darting between yours and lower, and you can feel your face warming. Her hand turns yours over, thumb smoothing over your palm, and your heart skips. She looks down briefly, to where she’s touching you, and when she looks back up at you, the air around you thickens with tension.
“Do you stare a lot?” she asks after a moment, her voice barely a whisper. You don’t have it in you to audibly respond, so instead you just nod softly, moving your thumb to find hers, brushing against it shyly.
One moment, you’re struggling to pull your eyes away from her even though she’s caught you staring at her like an idiot, and the next, she’s leaning in and your eyes are fluttering shut as her lips find yours.
The kiss is soft, shy, and if an asteroid were to hit Earth in the next second, you’d die happy.
Wanda breaks the kiss first, leaning back enough to meet your eyes. She blinks at you, with blown pupils and a shy little smile, and you swear your heart melts inside your chest. You swallow hard, fighting a smile of your own as you lift a hand to her cheek. Wordlessly, you pull her back in; she sighs against your lips when your tongue swipes at her bottom lip just to tease her, and her hands find leverage on your shoulders as she shifts onto her knees, clearly intent of moving closer.
You shift the hand on her face, brushing the backs of your fingers tenderly against her cheek, and Wanda makes a small noise before breaking away. You grunt in confusion, trying to chase her until she presses at your shoulders, forehead resting against yours.
“You wiped it on me,” she whispers, and you mumble another confused sound, leaning back to look at her. “The nail polish.”
There, on her flushed cheek, is a streak of smudged red nail polish.
“Oh,” you fumble. “Sorry.” You wipe your thumb against it in an attempt to get it off, grimacing when the action only makes the smudge worse. “Uh, that’s not comin’ off easy.”
Wanda grins, a small giggle bubbling up her throat, and you can’t help but grin stupidly, too. She bites into her lip as her laughter dies down, and slowly, you lean back in until your lips skim against hers. Wanda hums softly, bumping your nose with her own, and it’s her who closes the gap. She crawls into your lap when you nip at her bottom lip, but when you lick at her bottom lip again, she draws back.
“I need to finish your nails,” she whispers, leaning her forehead against yours. “Then you have to do mine.”
You shake your head, leaning in to press a chaste kiss to her lips. “Wanna kiss you instead,” you murmur.
Wanda breathes a small laugh, pulling back again with newly flushed cheeks. “After,” she says quietly, lifting a hand to your face, skimming her thumb across your lips.
You hum, blinking up at her. “Promise?”
Her own smile widens, and she nods gently. “I promise.” She kisses the tip of your nose, and your eyes flutter in response, prompting another smile to pull at her lips. “Just gotta clean my face quickly.”
“Fine,” you groan dramatically, hoisting her out of your lap. She giggles as she climbs to her feet and heads into the little ensuite, but not before bending over to steal another kiss.
