Just saw your post and I felt for you or more like understood your perspective Your a great author I can't say I've been on here much but I like your work and it must be tiring to constantly being asked about your writings and everythin' just like it is in irl relationships when you give all of you to someone that does minimun efforts
I ain't well placed or can relate since I don't write or anythin' but I wish this situation would change for you
💟 Sendin' luv 💟
Thank you for the kind words, nony🤍
What I really ask for is for people to appreciate what we have and what we're doing for now. Hearing that you hope for more is completely okay and very welcome—I actually love knowing that people are excited about what's coming next. But sometimes, I feel like we immediately move on to looking for something else, as if what we've written and shared right now isn't enough or isn't worth appreciating anymore. I just hope readers can take a moment to enjoy and appreciate or say something about what's already here before asking for what comes next. There's always going to be another story, another chapter, or another idea, but I also want to feel like the things we're creating right now are being enjoyed for what they are.
Hi everyone! Just a reminder that if I accidentally blocked you and you believe it was a mistake, feel free to send me a DM.
I only block for four reasons: if you're a minor, if your age isn't stated in your bio, if you're a man, or if I know you're connected to someone I knew before. Otherwise, please understand that the block is intentional and I won't be making exceptions. Thank you for understanding.
I tried to subscribe to your Patreon, but it doesn’t work :( Can you update the link?
Hi nony, I appreciate your support. But I suggest you not subscribing for now since I don't think I am going to post or update anything especially in there, and after the last update for My Mother, My Dearest I will take some break.
your writing deserves not just a single compliment so here i am, once again hehe. you write so well! really! every single word fits with one another. ur indeed the best, denden🥹
also i hope u don't mind me calling u denden huhu
⚰️
Thank you🥺 and yes, I don't mind babe I got a silly nn🤍
imagine wanda coming home drunk and stepmom!r tries helping wanda get to bed but wanda pulls stepmom!r into the bed with her and.. yeah.. angry drunk sex
Hi, not trying to come off as rude but genuine question. For paying patreon members, don’t you think they should know if they get any work that you create for the month. At the end of the day they are subscribing customers that pay monthly to your account. Or is it more of a like when you get a chance to drop something on there?
Hi, I understand your concern. I do acknowledge that I had some lapses on my end and wasn't able to properly inform the subscribers on Patreon and I apologize. However, at the beginning of August, I already unpublished my account and paused everything. The last time I checked, I also no longer had any active subscribers as of July 31 which was also the last time I updated and posted for stepdaughter Wanda that I am not sure everyone saw on Google docs bc again, Patreon showed me there are no more subscribers.
I haven't been able to keep up with Patreon lately because I have a lot going on right now, but I really hope I was still able to make your subscription worth it during the time I was active. I genuinely appreciate everyone who supported me there🤍
The last thing I'll be posting, which everyone who was subscribed to Patreon will have access to, is The Drips That Never Reached My Tongue part two. I'll be posting it next week, and I'll give you a heads-up here once it's up on docs so you'll know when it's available.
Summary: After watching you leave with her father in a blue dress, Wanda's jealousy spirals out of control. A drunken night ends with you caring for her, but buried grief, resentment, and forbidden longing erupt into another painful encounter. By morning, a fresh mark on your neck hints at a truth only you can remember.
Pairing: Stepdaughter Wanda Maximoff x Stepmom Reader
Word Count: 3.4k
Tags/Warnings: 18+ fauxcest/stepcest, smut, hate fuck to angst fuck, dubcon, jealousy, Wanda has a cock <3 blackmailing, alcohol intox, she thought you were a dream, she finally said her first word—mama
Author's Note: Cyberlism x smoking rabbit xD what a dream tattoo. Please don't judge, I did my very best!! TT
Navigation | Masterlist | Tip jar | Patreon
ᱬ
It was well past sunset by the time Wanda finally made it home. Saturday had slipped away without her noticing. She had left before dawn, carrying handpicked flowers to her mother's grave, and stayed there from sunrise until the evening sky turned orange, then faded into blue. By the time she unlocked the front door, exhaustion clung to every step.
As she stepped inside and closed the door behind her, her eyes landed on her father sitting on the living room couch. He was dressed far too formally for a quiet Saturday night—a pressed button-down, tailored slacks, polished shoes, even a watch she rarely saw him wear anymore. The sight alone was enough to make Wanda pause, a quiet sense of unease settling in her chest.
"There's food on the table if you're hungry," her father said.
She simply nodded in acknowledgment, too drained to say anything else. Without another word, she walked past the living room and headed straight for her bedroom.
By the time you reached the bottom of the stairs, Wanda had already stepped back into the shadows, hidden from view.
Her father rose from the couch the moment he saw you. A smile spread across his face as he took your hand gently, bringing it to his lips in an old-fashioned gesture that made you laugh softly under your breath. Then he leaned in and pressed a brief kiss to your cheek before offering his arm to you.
Wanda felt her jaw tighten.
The sight shouldn't have bothered her. It was innocent enough—a husband greeting his wife before a night out. Yet something hot and unpleasant stirred beneath her ribs all the same. She looked away for a moment, only to find herself glancing back despite herself, resentment curling tighter in her chest as she watched the two of you smile at each other.
She hated it.
You're wearing that soft blue dress that hugs your curves just right, your hair done soft and loose the way he's always liked it, and you're so fucking beautiful it makes Wanda's throat go tight and hot. Every little perfect detail—all for him—all planned just to make him smile. It burns worse than any paint fumes she's ever inhaled.
She digs her nails into the meat of her palms until she feels blood bead up under the skin. She hates this, hates you, hates how much she wants to yank you away from him and drag you where only she can see you.
You catch the sharp glint of Wanda's glare cutting through the dim hallway. Your breath catches hard in your throat, and you have to clamp down on a flinch so he won't notice you almost jumped. You just smooth your dress over your hips quickly, force a soft smile back onto your face for your husband, and pretend you didn't see her.
Wanda's glare burns into your back the whole time you walk out the door with him, heavy and hot, and you can still feel it even when the front door clicks shut behind you.
The anger bubbles over too fast to hold back and she punches her fist hard into the drywall. Her knuckles split open, blood beading up along the scraped skin, but she doesn't even make a sound, just stands there breathing hard through her teeth. When your car vanishes completely down the road, she storms out the front door and yanks open the driver's side door of her beat-up old hatchback.
You've been avoiding her for weeks now, taking different routes through the house, making excuses to leave the room when she walks in. You can feel the tension thickening in the air, and you don't know how to break it.
And Wanda's getting more and more on edge, slamming doors harder, glaring more often, leaving her sketchbook open on the kitchen table just to see what you'll do. She can't stand you avoiding her, can't stand the cold silence, it's driving her fucking crazy that you won't even look at her anymore.
She even came to the extent of blackmailing you, sending you your nude photos that she had taken. Threatening you that she'll send it to her father if you still didn't talk to her.
You saw the message pop up on your screen while you were folding laundry and you didn't even pause or feel a spark of fear or panic. You just locked your phone and set it back down, your chest too hollow and numb to care about anything she could do, even that.
It all happened when you had simply worn what you found on the cabinet of the laundry room—a faded yellow floral duster that looked comfortable enough for cleaning around the house. You had no idea it had belonged to her mother.
"What the hell are you wearing?" she demanded.
You looked down at yourself, confused. "I...It's just—"
Before you could finish, she stormed toward you. Her hands grabbed at the fabric on your shoulder, yanking it away from your body so roughly that you stumbled backward.
"Wait—Wanda, I'm sorry...please."
"You just have to stick your hands into everything, don't you?" she snapped, her voice shaking with anger. "Can't you leave a single thing alone? Wasn't it enough that you came into this house? Now you have to wear her clothes too?"
"I didn't know," you pleaded, desperately trying to hold the duster closed as she continued pulling at it. "I swear, I didn't know it was hers."
"Of course you didn't," she laughed bitterly. "Because you never think. You just take whatever you want."
Her breathing was uneven, her hands still gripping the fabric as though ripping it apart would somehow ease the ache in her chest.
"Take it off," she hissed. The duster was falling off your shoulders now. "Fucking take it off!"
You could only nod through trembling breaths, tears already spilling down your cheeks as you whispered the only words you could manage.
"I'm sorry...I'm so sorry."
"You'll never be her!" she screamed, shoving you back another step. "You'll never be my mother. No matter what you wear, no matter what my dad says, no matter how hard you try—you will never be her!"
Each word landed harder than the last. Her fists were still twisted in the fabric, pulling so forcefully that the duster was nearly ripped from your body.
"So stop pretending!" Wanda spat, tears burning in her own eyes. "Stop acting like you belong in her place. Because you don't. You never will."
You could only shake your head through your tears, your hands desperately trying to keep the torn fabric closed.
"I'm not trying to replace her," you hiccuped brokenly. "I never wanted to."
But Wanda wasn't listening anymore. All she could see was her mother's duster on someone else and the sight alone felt like another piece of her being taken away.
"You keep trying to act like you belong here, like you can just step into her place and everything will be okay," she said, her voice shaking. "But you're not her. You will never be her. Because no matter how long you stay, no matter how much you try...you'll always just be the person who came after her."
She let go of the fabric, her words becoming colder.
"You're just a fucking leech. My dad only married you because you're easy, you know that? He just needed someone warm to fuck and you threw yourself at him. You'll never be the one I look at and think of as my mother."
The words spilled out before she could rein them in, sharper and crueler than she'd ever meant them to be, and even she froze, stunned by how ugly they sounded.
"Out of all people it was her who got sick. I wish it was just you who had cancer and died."
You freeze where you stand by the door, blink slowly, a tear falling down the floor. Your voice comes out thin and steady, no shake and no anger.
"I'm sorry."
Shakingly, you reach down to the part of the ripped duster to cover more of the skin that's showing as you turn and walk away.
The music pounded through the crowded bar as Wanda drowned herself in drink after drink, barely tasting the liquor anymore. She moved through the sea of strangers with reckless abandon, letting the alcohol numb every thought that tried to surface. She danced with whoever pulled her close, laughing at jokes she couldn't even hear. When someone smiled at her, Wanda leaned in immediately. She kissed one girl, then another later in the night, chasing a feeling that never came. Every impulsive decision was just another desperate attempt to silence the jealousy clawing at her chest.
But no amount of alcohol, flashing lights, or stolen kisses could erase any image of you. The moment each kiss ended, reality came rushing back. All she could see was you in that blue dress, smiling so softly at her father. Every drink, every dance, every kiss was supposed to make her forget—but instead, they only reminded her that no matter how far she ran that night, she couldn't outrun her feelings for you.
She stumbled home that night completely wasted, reeking of cheap beer and cigarette smoke, and collapsed onto the front porch before she could even get her key in the lock. She leaned over the railing and puked her guts out, shaking so hard her knees almost gave out under her.
It's past two in the morning when you slip downstairs barefoot to grab a cold bottle of water from the fridge, your body still thrumming a little from the long dinner out with Erik.
You round the corner into the kitchen and stop short when you hear the ragged, heaving retching from the porch, the streetlight leaking through the glass door to paint the shadow of someone hunched over the railing. You hurry forward, fumbling with the lock on the front door. Horror twists tight in your chest at the sight of your stepdaughter flushed, messy face and almost kissing the marble floor
"Wanda!" You say in a hushed whisper as you immediately get down to her level, hands shaking so bad you almost drop her when you guide her slowly inside.
She stumbled halfway through her room and puked all down the front of your soft cotton nightgown, warm sour vomit soaking through to your skin. You just flinched but didn't push her away, you just kept holding her up even as your stomach turned.
Finally, you get her pushed back onto her messy unmade bed and hurry straight into her tiny cluttered bathroom. Her room reeks of dried paint, layered over the faint sweet scent of lavender. You wet a washcloth and grab a tub of water to clean her up.
She lays sprawled across her messy comforter, one arm flopped over her face, and groans low in her throat. The sound is rough and raw, thick with drunkenness and leftover sobbing she won't let you see, and she doesn't move when you reach for her. Well, that's because she's drunk, if she's wide awake right now she might've kicked you out of her room…or not.
You breathe in without thinking when you lean closer, and the smell hits you all at once—marlboro reds, cheap dad beer, and the sharp, distinct tang of sex clinging thick to her clothes and hair. It's unmistakeable, and your stomach twists a little, even as your hand stays still on her face as you continue to wipe her clean.
It never even crosses your mind to try dressing her in clean clothes. She's seen you naked many times before, but you've never seen her bare. If she wakes up in different clothes later, you're sure she'll kill you before you even open your eyes, so maybe you just leave her be.
Just when you turn to leave, you bump her leg with your knee and something small and foil-wrapped falls out onto the floor from the pocket of her cargo pants. You bend to pick it up, your fingers closing around the wrapper and realize immediately what it is.
An unopened condom.
Curiosity tugs at you and you slip your shaking hand into the other cargo pocket. Your fingers brush two crinkled empty packs, the condoms already gone.
You jump when she stirs under the covers and mumbles your name before shifting onto her side facing you. Your throat feels thick and swollen and you can't make yourself move, can't make yourself look away from the crumpled empty foil wrappers peeking out from under her bed.
You need to get out of her room, it suddenly feels suffocating. But before you can step back, she reaches out clumsily in her drunken sleep and yanks you down hard onto the bed. You land with a soft huff and she rolls over on top of you, her warm heavy body pressing you into the mattress, her breath fanning hot against your neck.
She blinks open her eyes, pupils blown wide and hazy with too much alcohol, and her breath comes hot and reeking of beer against your throat. She doesn't say anything at first, just stares down at you like she can't quite believe you're really there.
Your chest tightens, panic surges hot and sharp up your throat, your hands start shaking against her shoulders.
"Wanda, stop."
She presses the back of her cold, trembling hand to your burning cheek, her breath coming fast against your face.
"I can't believe it…even in my dreams it's you I see."
Does she think she's dreaming?
Then, her glassy, drunken eyes drop to your neck, and her rough, cold fingers press lightly into the dark bruise there.
"This one's not mine," she says glaring at the mark, voice thick and slurred, and she lifts her head to stare right into your face. "Did you two fuck?" The question comes out rough and sharp, jealousy bleeding through every word, even through the alcohol fog.
"Wanda…please," You just say her name, soft and shaky as you try to push her heavy body off you to the side. But she doesn't budge, just holds you tighter, her weight pinning you down to the mattress so you can't move an inch.
"Did dad fuck you?"
The question hangs thick between you, and you go quiet in panic.
Okay, yeah, something did happen, it was your monthsary with her father, what else would you expect to happen on a night like that?
Even with your silence, Wanda can read the answer all over your panicked face and silence anyway.
"So you let him fuck you." She breathes in nonchalantly like her father has no right to.
"I…I'm sorry." Your voice cracking sharp.
"You're gonna be." She smoothly opens the button of her pants like she's very used to doing it and yanks her strapping hard cock out. She spits thick into her palm, wrapping her hand around it and strokes fast and rough.
"Wait, Wanda—" You weren't nearly wet enough, her spit barely did anything, but she didn't stop and shoved forward, forcing her whole thick cock into you in one brutal, angry thrust.
Pain sparks hot up your spine, she bottoms out all the way inside you, immediately starts pounding into you hard and fast, all her rage and jealousy and drunken want driving every sharp, rough thrust into your unwilling body.
She fucks you with all the anger she's stored up since you walked into her house, every thrust carrying years of grief and jealousy and the quiet want she's buried too deep to name. She sucked the skin on your neck that you know for sure would leave a mark on how it hurt. The bed creaks loud against the wall, and she doesn't slow down, not even for a second—pouring all her messy, conflicting feelings straight into you.
You tap into her hips, to try to shove against her to slow her rough pace down, but she just swats your hand away.
"Wanda…"
You call her name, over and over, like you're trying to wake her up out of this drunken fog. She's always been rough with you, brutal even, but this is different—this isn't the sharp, teasing cruelty you're used to.
"Wanda—baby…"
"I hate you." She spat, "I hate you, I hate you." It comes out rough and breathless with every hard thrust of her hips.
"I know…I know."
You gasp it out, your voice shaky and thick with tears. You can feel it, the truth under all the anger and hate, can feel it bleeding through every hard thrust into your body. You don't need her to say it.
"I hate you—I fucking hate you!"
But her hands are shaking so bad you can feel it all the way up your arms and her voice cracks hard on the last repetition, giving away everything she's been trying so hard to hide from you—from herself. Then all of a sudden, she starts crying, quiet hot sobs shaking her whole body as she keeps thrusting into you, slower now but just as deep. She's pressed her face to your shoulder and she still keeps repeating it, over and over.
"I hate you, I hate you..."
The words come out all muffled and broken against your skin, no bite left to them, just raw aching pain that you can almost feel beating in time with her heart against your chest.
She cries heavily now, great heaving sobs that wrack her whole body, just like a scared, hurt baby that's finally let its guard down. She clings to you like you'll disappear if she lets go, her face pressed tight into your shoulder to muffle the sound.
You cup the back of her sweaty, messy head with one hand and rest the other gentle on her trembling back. You shush her soft and quiet and you press her closer into you. Wanda clings to your body like you're the only thing that can keep her from breaking apart completely right now.
For the first time, she calls you it, clear and broken through her tears.
"I'm so sorry, mama," she cries it over and over into your shoulder. "I'm so sorry, mama. 'M sorry, 'm sorry. Please, mama. I'm sorry."
You go completely still, your breath catching hard in your throat and your own tears spill over faster onto her hair. You never thought you'd hear her say that, not after all the anger and hate she's thrown at you since the day you met. You don't actually know if she's saying it to you or if she's talking to her dead mother. The thought sits heavy and aching in your chest, and you just keep holding her, running your fingers through her hair. But it doesn't really matter, you think, not right now. She needs this, needs someone to hold her while she falls apart, and you're here. You just keep shushing her softly, pressing a gentle kiss on her forehead.
"It's okay, I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
ᱬ
The next morning, Wanda wakes up slowly, still curled on the bed, confused when she catches the familiar sweet floral scent of your J'adore Lux clinging to her pillow and sheets, wrapping around her while she's still in bed. Her bloodied fist from last night's lashout is now covered in gauze. Her head throbs like hell and she blinks hard at the sunlight leaking through the curtains, trying to piece together what happened last night.
The redhead managed to drag herself downstairs to the dining room, still sore all over, and finds you facing the stove in the kitchen cooking something. Pietro's already at the table pouring coffee. Then all of a sudden, her father pushes through and hugs Wanda quickly, greeting her a good morning before walking straight over to you. He wraps his big warm hands around your waist, hugging you tight from behind. He presses a soft kiss to your shoulder and Wanda freezes in the doorway, staring.
You turn around to face Erik and his eyes lock immediately on the dark, fresh bruise peeking out above the neckline of your shirt.
He curses low, "Shit, baby, did I do that? I am sorry."
"C'mon you two, get a room!" Pietro snorts into his coffee cup before making a gag face.
Quickly, you glance over at Wanda, your throat goes tight. She's staring right at the bruise, squinting as if she's trying to remember something.
You go stunned still, because the one your husband left last night is already fading, this one's new and clearly not his.
gamechangershow
pixelskylines
romaincrisis
turnnoffyourmind
titsay
ellievsbear
gracieabrams