#billy x steve x tommy? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sycamorelibrary754 · 3 months ago

Text

Guardian Angel

Chapter 12: They are Memories and Moments

Summary: The team moves forward with plans to infiltrate Onyx Petroleum, but you and Wanda are still reeling from your confession the night before.

Warnings: Angst memories?

Word Count: 3.7k

A/N: I’ve missed writing.

Guardian Angel Masterlist

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee roused you from your restless sleep on Wanda's couch. You were wrapped in a blanket, struggling to shake off the previous night's memories.

"Morning,” a familiar voice said.

Lifting your head from the pillow, you found Bucky perched at the kitchen island.

"What are you doing here?" Your voice was still groggy from sleep.

"I just wanted to make sure you're alright," he said.

You exhaled slowly. "I’m guessing you know what happened last night?"

Your back cracked as you rose from the couch to join Bucky, where he handed you a steaming cup of coffee.

Bucky nodded. "Wanda filled us in after we dropped off Billy and Tommy."

"Is she—" you began, wondering if Wanda was still around.

"She already left to take the boys to school," he replied.

Taking a sip of the hot, comforting beverage, you let out a deep sigh.

"Oh, Buck." Leaning your head on the cold, smooth surface of the granite countertop. "I thought I was doing the right thing."

I know," he said, soothingly rubbing your back with his metal hand.

“I don't know what to do,” you muttered.

“Maria is working on some back channels, and Tony is bringing in reinforcements who may be able to give us some more insights into your parents’ plans,” Bucky reassured you. “We’ll figure this out.”

A few minutes later, you heard the front door swing open and close with a gentle click, announcing Wanda's arrival home.

“I’ll let you two talk. Hang in there, Y/N.” Bucky said before slipping out of the back door.

Wanda walked into the kitchen, a solemn expression etched on her face. Her steps faltered at the sight of you sitting at the counter.

"Hey," you said, gazing into your coffee cup.

"Hey," Wanda replied, setting down her keys and purse.

The awkward silence that followed seemed to hang in the air forever.

"About last night—" you started.

"I’m not ready to talk about this, Y/N," she interrupted, a pained expression still lingering in her eyes as she walked past you.

“I think we need to,” you pushed, trailing after her into the bedroom.

Wanda slammed the door shut with a wave of chaos magic. "There is nothing you can say right now to fix this," you heard her say from behind the door.

"Please try to understand," you pleaded as you opened the door. "I thought I was doing what was best."

Wanda spun around, her fiery red hair almost slapping you in the face. "We've always been honest with each other. Can you imagine how it feels to discover you've been keeping this from me?"

"Can you imagine the torment of carrying this guilt inside me?" you shot back, your voice unintentionally rising. "To know that my parents are causing pain to the person I love more than anyone else!"

The four-letter word tumbled out of your mouth before you realized what you had said. Wanda shook her head, "Please don't say that.”

"I mean it," you insisted, feeling a lump growing in your throat as the weight of your words sank in.

“Y/N, I have been imagining this moment for a long time, and I’ll be damned if this is how it's going to happen,” Wanda said, her voice cracking.

Before you could respond, the sudden chiming of both your phones interrupted the moment.

Tony: New information on the nominees for the world’s worst parents. We need you both here ASAP.

You put your phone back in your pocket, knowing you had to put a pin in this conversation. “I’ll drive,” you sighed.

The two of you silently traveled to the compound, the air heavy with unspoken words.

*^~^*

You rode the elevator in silence, and when the two of you walked into the conference room, it didn’t take a group of spies, soldiers, and assassins to see that something was wrong.

"Wonderful, the lovebirds have arrived. We may have found a way to—" Tony's voice trailed off.

The tension in the air was tangible as everyone observed both of you bypassing your usual seats next to each other. You settled into the chair next to Bucky as Wanda walked around to join Natasha on the other side of the table.

Alright, as I was saying," Tony pushed on, a hint of discomfort in his voice. "We've cracked the code to infiltrate Onyx Petroleum's operations. Where’s Tiny?”

In an instant, a figure materialized in a sleek, futuristic suit, almost as if he had appeared out of thin air. The protective visor of his helmet slid upwards, revealing a winded Scott Lang.

"You nearly squashed me!" he gasped.

"It's on you for using the suit here, Tic Tac," Sam quipped.

“Y/N, this is Scott Lang. The incredible shrinking felon and founder of X-Con Security Consultants in San Francisco.” Tony introduced.

“And Ant-Man,” Scott added incredulously.

"Right, Ant-Man," Tony said with a smirk. “Sorry, it’s always cracked me up that your superhero name is a bug I could squash with my shoe.”

"It’s nice to meet you, Scott," you said as he made his way around the table to shake your hand and wave to Wanda.

"Nice to meet you, too. I've heard a lot about you," Scott replied. "Say, did you happen to bring any chocolate with you? I'm famished. The airplane food was horrible."

Maria let out an exasperated sigh and stepped forward. "Scott, focus."

"Right," Scott said, shaking his head in agreement and returning to the front of the room.

"I've made sure Stuart Little is up to speed on all the details," Tony elaborated while displaying the pertinent intel on the screen.

"I live a short distance from Onyx Petroleum's Headquarters," he explained. "If you're thinking of handling this through infiltration, I can help."

"Like, on a microscopic level?" You asked curiously.

“We need to know what we're dealing with,” Bruce said.

"If they are setting the stage for underwater drilling in Sokovia, we need to be as close to those discussions as possible," Steve declared.

"That doesn't mean we won't consider more traditional approaches as well," Nat countered.

“My traditional approach involves kicking your parents in the face,” Yelena muttered.

“Thanks,” you said with a bittersweet smile.

“Backchannel intel tells us they are meeting with the Onyx Petroleum Board of Directors in three days,” Maria explained.

“Alright, file extraction while they're all occupied. In and out," Bucky proposed.

"And Lang will be a fly on the wall and keep us updated from the inside," Clint added.

"Ant!" Scott groaned.

Turning to Wanda, Tony asked, "Red, what do you think?”

"I think,” she hesitated, “you all know what is best," she said, glancing in your direction. "I'm sorry," she whispered, quickly leaving the room.

"Wanda, please wait," you called out, but it was too late. She had already vanished.

You glanced down at your hands, unable to meet anyone's gaze. Please, excuse me," you whispered as you left, trying to keep your emotions in check.

After a long silence, Kate broke the tension. “That was awkward.”

“FRIDAY, where are they headed?” Natasha asked.

“Ms. Y/L/N is heading toward her room, and Ms. Maximoff appears to be making her way to the dock,” FRIDAY replied.

"I got the redhead," Clint sighed as he and Natasha got up from the table.

*^~^*

“Wanda, are you alright?” Clint asked, his voice laced with concern as he stepped closer, gauging her reaction.

“I’m fine,” she replied, her voice devoid of energy.

Clint sat down beside her on the bench. “You know you're a terrible liar, right?”

Listen, I'm not Cap, so I'll be straight with you," Clint said, joining her on the bench. "What the hell was that back there?"

"I don't know," Wanda sighed, burying her head in her hands. "This whole situation is such a mess."

"Maybe," Clint mused, skipping a pebble across the lake. "Or maybe you can't see the forest for the trees.”

“Y/N lied to me," the redhead started.

"No, she didn't," Clint argued, raising his hand. "She kept the truth to herself until the right moment. Y/N has been struggling with this for weeks. If it were up to her, she would've told you as soon as she found out. We advised her to wait."

"That's why she's been so distant lately," Wanda realized.

"Plus, I don't think it's Y/N that you're angry at," Clint continued. “Not really.”

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"I think you're angry with yourself because you feel powerless," he said gently.

"That's absurd," she protested.

"Is it?" Clint asked. "Think about it. Stark's missile destroyed your life in Sokovia. We lost Pietro to Ultron, and now two oil tycoons are exploiting what's left of your homeland. Any one of those things would make anyone furious.”

She reached down, grabbed a pebble, and tossed it into the water, the ripples mirroring the turmoil in her mind.

"So, what if I am?" she challenged, her voice tinged with defiance.

"So," Clint began, his tone gentle yet firm. "You understand better than anyone the weight of a difficult past. Imagine what it was like for Y/N, growing up with those two schmucks, only to have them resurface when she finally has her life together and threatens the person she cares about most. That's a heavy burden to bear."

Wanda heaved a deep sigh as Clint’s words sunk in, finally letting go of all the pain that had been weighing her down since last night. She turned to Clint and asked, "When did you get so smart?"

His smirk widened as he wrapped his arms around the redhead, confessing, "Kate made me binge-watch This Is Us with her.”

*^~^*

A soft tap on the door preceded its slow opening.

“Hey, are you okay?” Natasha asked.

You were on the bed, propped up against the headboard, with your chin on your knees.

“I've had better days,” you responded.

“I'm guessing your first night living together didn't quite go as planned,” Nat remarked, settling into a similar position on the bed.

“No, it didn't,” you sighed. “Wanda didn't take the news about my parents well.”

“Well, that I could've guessed,” Nat replied.

“I thought I was doing what was best for her, but maybe I was just doing what was best for me,” you admitted.

Natasha could see the guilt swirling around inside you. Warranted or not, there was only one way she could think of to make you see things from Wanda’s perspective.

Did Wanda tell you where we all were during the Westview anomaly?" Natasha asked, her expression already conveying that she knew the answer.

After briefly pausing, you responded, "No, she didn't."

Nat stated firmly, “What I'm about to share with you is classified and stays within these walls."

"Great, more secrets," you grumbled.

"Just hear me out," Natasha urged, lightly swatting your arm. "Hayward thought that he had the lid sealed tight on the situation inside the Hex, but the team received a tip-off from a whistleblower within SWORD. At that time, we were spread across different continents, working with the Global Repatriation Council to manage the displacement of refugees. By the time we could intervene, Wanda's mental state was so fragile that they believed sending us in could have made the situation worse or put the citizens of Westview in more danger. After arguing with Haywood for two days, we tried to break through the barrier using Cap's Shield and Thor's Hammer, but nothing made a dent. The situation got heated, and we were forcibly removed after Tony called Hayward a “Government Douche.”

You smirked at the mental image of Tony going off on Hayward.

“SWORD covered it up, claiming it was just a training exercise, and Fury strictly prohibited us from looking for Wanda once the Hex was down. "I'll never forget how lost she was when she finally returned, Y/N," Nat said, her voice filled with the weight of the memory. “I made her spar with me the first day, even when she resisted, to help her reconnect with herself.”

The thought of Wanda in distress made your chest tighten. "Why are you telling me this?"

“We didn't just tell her we were there for her; we showed her. We opened our minds to her, and finally, she saw that we had been by her side all along," Natasha recounted. "Her grief made it hard for her to see what was right in front of her. You did what was best for Wanda, but her pain can distort the truth, even when you have her best interests at heart. So, no matter what you're telling her," she paused, her voice filled with empathy. "You may need to show her.”

*^~^*

Natasha left you to ponder her advice. You lay at the foot of the bed, your legs propped up against the wall, lost in thought. A gentle knock on the door interrupted your contemplation.

"Whoever it is, I'm not in the mood," you called out.

"Are you sure?" Wanda's voice came through the door as she opened it.

When you saw her, you quickly sat up. "Hi," you greeted her.

"Hi," she replied. "May I?" Wanda gestured towards the bed.

"Sure," you said nervously, making room for her beside you.

Wanda released a long, tired exhale and settled herself on the very edge of the bed.

"I have never been able to bring myself to visit the Sokovia Memorial," Wanda whispered, her voice barely audible as she gazed down at the floor. A tiny crimson wisp of magic flickered and swirled between her fingertips. "The neighboring nations had already divided the land before Damage Control even cleared the rubble. It's as if they had wiped it off the map."

You held your breath, hoping and praying she would keep talking.

“It was devastating," Wanda paused, her eyes struggling to find the right words. "But in a strange way, it was a relief. There was nothing more the world could take from Sokovia," she said, her voice trembling. "But now... they have found another way to desecrate the memory of all those who perished. Always more to take.”

You wrapped your arms around the redhead, whispering, "They won't take this," as Wanda finally let her guard down, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"I'm sorry, Wanda," you murmured, gently kissing her head. "I should have told you about my parents right away. I thought that if we had a plan in place first, I could spare you some unnecessary pain."

"I'm sorry, too," she said, wiping her tears. "I know you were just trying to protect me. I can't imagine what it was like for you the last couple of weeks."

Nat's words echoed in your mind. "Let me show you," you said.

"What?" Wanda inquired.

"Take a look inside," you said, tapping the side of your head.

"No, Y/N," Wanda insisted. "It's okay. I don't need to see—"

"I want you to see," your voice filled with determination.

She searched your face for any hesitation, but she saw none. “Okay, lay down on the bed.”

At her suggestion, you hurried back along the bed until you could lay stretched out.

“Are you sure about this, Y/N?” Wanda asked one more time.

“Yes,” you consented. “I trust you.”

“Okay, relax and close your eyes,” she instructed.

You did as she told you as Wanda sat cross-legged beside you. Threads of scarlet magic appeared, illuminating her face and lapping at her knuckles. She gently placed her fingertips to your temple. Warmth pervaded your heavy limbs and eased each one until you felt yourself lifted outside your body. Your thoughts immediately shifted from Wanda to the gentle comfort her magic provided as flashes of memories slid through Wanda’s mind like water in a stream.

“Those con artists from Onyx Petroleum are your parents.”

“She has a right to know! It was her home.”

"We need to tell Wanda about my parents' drilling in Sokovia. I can't take the guilt anymore.”

As she slowly delved deeper into your mind, a new memory emerged. Wanda saw a younger version of yourself sitting at the end of a grand dining table, absentmindedly swirling a spoon through a bowl of soup without taking a single bite.

“Y/N,” a gruff voice from the other end of the table called, grabbing your attention away from your now-cold bowl of soup.

"How did the shadowing of Derrick Evans go today? Did you have the chance to sit in on the Kaplan meeting?" inquired a distinguished man, impeccably dressed in a three-piece suit, with his salt-and-pepper hair neatly slicked back and gold-rimmed glasses resting on the bridge of his nose.

“What? Oh yeah, it was fine, Dad,” you answered.

He bristled at your lack of enthusiasm. “It wouldn't hurt to show a bit more initiative and graciousness. You will be running Onyx Petroleum someday.”

"Over my dead body," you muttered under your breath.

"What was that?" Your father asked.

"Nothing," you said.

"Your father is right, Y/N," chimed in a tall, elegant woman with blonde hair styled in a chic updo. "When you walk into our offices, your demeanor reflects on all of us."

Your mother wore designer jewelry and high heels as everyday attire, even at the dinner table. Internally rolling your eyes, you absentmindedly pushed your food around your plate.

"Y/N, what are all these charges for Green Peace and," he paused to adjust his glasses, looking incredulously at his phone, "The Environmental Defense Fund?" your Dad inquired.

“Organizations I made donations to,” you stated matter-of-factly

“Why would you do that, darling?” your mother asked surprised.

“Do you know how this will look if the media gets wind of this?” your Dad asked rhetorically.

“Like Onyx Petroleum cares about giving back to the environment that they're actively polluting,” you replied.

Your Dad looked exasperated. "Oh, don't start this again."

"Oil and gas companies are responsible for a large majority of climate-damaging emissions since the late eighties. Not to mention the pollutants can increase the risk of death from heart disease, stroke, lung cancer, and respiratory illness,” you stressed.

"Trust me, we know," your dad said. "The Federal Energy Regulatory Commission never fails to bring it up."

"But you just don't give a damn?" you yelled.

"Don't speak to your father that way," your mother interjected firmly, her voice tinged with authority.

"The last thing we need is for you to cast a shadow over everything we've worked so hard to build. This company puts a roof over your head and clothes on your back!" Your father shouted.

You looked at your parents, your eyes filled with anger and sadness that Wanda had never witnessed. With a shake of your head, you pushed your dinner away, rose from the table, and left without uttering another word.

The memory faded out as Wanda's magic slowly retreated from your mind. Your eyes slowly opened. It took you a moment to process everything you had just seen, everything Wanda had just seen.

"Take it slow," Wanda said, gently assisting you to sit up.

Wanda paused, her voice catching in her throat. "I... I had no idea," she said softly.

"Yeah, well," you mumbled, unable to meet Wanda's eyes.

“I'm so sorry, Y/N. I should have given you a chance to explain," Wanda said solemnly.

"Yes, you definitely should have," you smirked, trying to lighten the mood, which made the redhead smile. "But I value our honest relationship more than anything, and I should have been more forthcoming with you about everything much earlier.”

Wanda enveloped you in her warm embrace. The feeling was familiar, like a cozy blanket on a cold day. You love it. You loved her.

Finally, as you released each other, you summoned all your courage. "About this morning. I know that wasn't the right moment, but,” you paused to take a deep breath. “I love you, Wanda."

"I love you too," the redhead whispered as she gently caressed your cheek.

Her words felt like a swarm of a million butterflies had suddenly burst into flight in your stomach. Wanda drew closer and pressed her lips against yours with an overwhelming tenderness and love you had never experienced.

“Let’s go home,” you declared.

As you swung open your bedroom door, Tony, Natasha, Bucky, Clint, Yelena, and Kate stumbled into the room, landing in a tangled heap on the floor.

"Were you all eavesdropping?" Wanda inquired, arching an eyebrow.

"Absolutely not! No way that is absurd. Of course not," they all protested in unison.

*^~^*

After reviewing the mission plan again, you bid farewell to the team. On your way home, you picked up Billy and Tommy from school. Despite Wanda's objections, you made an unexpected detour to The Candy Bar, where the boys were treated to free ice cream. The evening passed with homework and dinner; before you realized it, the boys had drifted off to sleep. You and Wanda spent the rest of the evening watching a movie in bed together.

Who's that guy? I thought he was with them," you whispered to Wanda, leaning in closer.

"No, he's not with them. Remember the scene at the lake?" Wanda tried to explain.

"What lake?" you asked, feeling lost.

"Oh, right. That's when you went on about why Peanut Butter M&M’s are better than Peanut M&M’s," Wanda chuckled.

"Hey, I'm just trying to give you a solid compare and contrast for your next trip to the grocery store," you said with a grin.

Wanda giggled as she playfully smacked you with her pillow. "You're such a goofball," she teased.

"Ouch!" you exclaimed, retaliating by smacking her back with your pillow.

"Okay, truce," Wanda called out, using her magic to lift the pillow out of your hand effortlessly.

"What's this? The great Scarlett Witch taken down by a simple pillow," you playfully taunted. "Oh, how the mighty have fallen."

"You're just fortunate that I happen to love you," she retorted.

Out of nowhere, your cell phone started ringing on the nightstand next to you. Glancing at the clock, you couldn't fathom who would call at such a late hour. The unfamiliar number on the screen gave you pause. Despite your hesitation, you answered, thinking that anything could be happening – the shop could be on fire for all you knew.

You slide your finger across the screen, bringing the phone to your ear. "Hello?"

In an instant, Wanda saw the color drain from your face. "Y/N? What's wrong? Who is it?"

“Hi, Mom.”

Taglist: @xxxtwilightaxelxxx @bibliophilicbi @darkstar225

52 notes · View notes

sadhours · 2 months ago

Text

idk some harringrove

Steve talks. He talks and talks. Never has a solid point but that’s fine because his plump, pink lips smack together in a real pretty way that has Billy following. Maybe not the words but the shapes they make of his lips as they leave his mouth.

Dude’s blitzed but this is the funnest Harrington gets. Getting coke is hard in this porta-potty town but Billy’s scored some. And it’s questionable stuff. Ain’t the way it feels back home but hell, does it make Harrington run his mouth. Wiggles his jaw around like he’s bouncing around something in there, and he is— it’s just his words. Billy knows he’s got this fucking dumbass, lovey look on his face. Knows it because when he catches Hagan’s eyes, the fucker bounces his eyebrows. Billy’s been caught. And with the subpar blow and the fiery whiskey, he don’t care too much.

Guards down, maybe because he gets the same type of vibe from these fucks. The vibe his dad gets from him. Spell it out, Billy. F-A-G-G-O-T. Word he says to himself in the mirror to “knock it off” like his good ‘ol dad tells him to. But then you get Harrington in a room with him and it’s all out the window. Wants that word smeared proudly across his fucking forehead so Harrington’ll get the picture. The way Hagan gets it.

Unfortunately, those Bambi eyes might be as empty as they appear. Harrington don’t get it. Even when Billy thinks he’s making it obvious as can be. Harrington will laugh it off, like Billy’s just being guys the way guys are. And that his squeezing of Steve’s face in hands isn’t a gesture of fucking attraction. And well, maybe that’s why Billy does it in the first place.

But he gets that feeling from Steve. Maybe it’s wishful thinking. Cognitive dissonance maybe? Billy doesn’t exactly know what that means. Just knows he wants to plant a fat kiss on Harrington’s pretty, flapping lips and knows the dumbass would laugh it off if he did in the first place.

“God, you’re sure are stupid,” Billy tells the brunette.

Steve pauses, tilts his head as his eyes bounce from side to side. No doubt reciting whatever the fuck he’d said back in his head. Trying to figure out whatever the dumb thing he said was. And there wasn’t— or, there probably was but Billy’s too goddamn in love to even recognize what it was. Staring at those pretty lips like there’s no tomorrow.

Hagan giggles. Billy knows his biggest wish is to be in the middle of a Billy-Steve sandwich. And maybe he’d live his dream if Steve was a little less dense. But as far as that goes, Harrington is the most clueless fucker Billy’s met.

And god damn isn’t that the cutest thing about him.

“What did I say?” Harrington asks, Bambi eyes blinking quick and dumb, pouty lips parted. Billy wants his tongue on them.

“Fuck if I know, I haven’t been listening to a damn thing,” Billy cackles, kicks his foot against Harrington’s ankle for good measure.

“Then how was it stupid?” He’s confused, it’s written all over his pretty face.

Billy shrugs, laughs with Hagan. Knows Steve doesn’t get it and they’re both in love with the idiot. Oblivious to the whole bit.

“I said you’re stupid,” Billy smirks.

“Yeah, no I heard you,” Harrington replies, head still tilted in the mess of confusion.

Hagan makes it weird, “You’re cute, Harrington.”

Billy’s a mess of giggles then, on his back as it rips through him.

Harrington looks at the pair of them like they’re insane. And maybe they are. But Billy agrees, Harrington is cute.

#harringrove #stommy #steve harrington #billy x steve #billy hargrove #tommy hagan #steve harrington x billy hargrove #keg boys #idk what this is

41 notes · View notes

frankenstein-ate-my-left-shoe · 5 months ago

Text

@steddieangstyaugust Day 19 - Music Monday: Careless Whisper – George Michael

i’m challenging myself to keep all these at either 127 or 1,270 words each, see day one for more of an explanation!

“‘S.H's SEX MEX’?” Steve’s head whips around, staring wide-eyed at the tape in Eddie’s hand. “What’s this, Harrington?”

“None of your business, that’s what.” Steve stalks back to Eddie’s desk, moving to snatch the tape from him.

Eddie pulls it out of reach. “Lemme guess, George Michael’s saxophone-y stylings are heavily featured.”

It's weird, he thinks, that a song about cheating is already starting to find it's way onto these exact types of tapes but, to each their own.

Plus: Steve goes pink. Bingo.

“No. Shut up.” He swipes for it again.

“Nah uh uh–OOF!” Eddie’s teasing is cut short when Steve fully tackles him to the ground.

He stares dumbly up at him, every bit of his body that’s pinned under Steve feels like it’s on fire.

Steve snatches the tape from his hand and sits up, straddling Eddie’s legs in triumph.

“HA! Take that, Muns—”

“OooOHhhh! The fallen King falls lower! Caught in the lap of the town freak!” Tommy Hagan’s dumb freckled face sneers from the doorway.

Steve twists around at the sound of Tommy’s voice (a move that doesn't help Eddie’s ‘cute boy in his lap’ problem in the slightest), turns back to give Eddie another panicked look, then bolts up and out the door, face red as a stoplight.

“Think you’re real cool for gettin’ Stevie in your freak flock, Munson?”

“Didn’t think you still cared about Stevie, Hagan.” Eddie says, standing and brushing himself off, “Looked to me like you dropped him the second you had a new piece of ass to follow around.” He’s been getting some vibes from both Hagan and Hargrove ever since the latter arrived in Hawkins.

Pink Dalmatian is… well, Eddie wouldn’t say it’s a good look for Tommy, but it’s... different. “Shut the fuck up, Munson!”

“Oh yeah? Or what, you’ll sick your beefy boyfriend on me?” Eddie shrugs, nonchalant, “Gotta warn you though, I might like it.” he grins.

Tommy goes pinker, then leaves too, steam streaming out his ears.

Eddie’s decided he hates this fuckin’ mall.

Jameson’s record shop down on Main is already pricing down their stock to compete with the Sam Goody that’s opened up a couple doors down from here, and they’ve been sellin' music since Wayne was a kid 100 years ago!

Stupid fuckin’ mall.

In the middle of vowing to never set foot in this brightly-lit hellscape after he’s finished with his sundae, who should walk in but Steve Harrington.

Steve Harrington. In a sailor suit. Just walked into Scoops Ahoy. Blue shorts, tall socks, matching fuckin shoes. Jesus H. Christ.

And what’s worse? The moment Eddie had looked up, the moment Steve set foot across the threshold, what should start playing over the speakers but the cheesy saxophone intro to Careless Fuckin’ Whisper.

Steve walks behind the counter, waves goodbye to whoever it was that he’s taking over for, and grabs a bucket.

Eddie, the only person in here at 2:15pm on a Wednesday, watches as he starts methodically wiping down all the tables.

He glances up at some point and gives Eddie a tight-lipped smile before getting back to it.

It knocks Eddie out of his reverie and he goes back to his now-soupy sundae.

He hears Steve shuffle away at some point, but he’s not about to be caught staring again.

The thought of what Steve’s ass looks like in those shorts almost breaks him but he stays strong, swirling his spoon around in his melted cup of goo.

He’s about to cut his losses and try to sneak a peek when a voice pipes up from in front of him.

“Thought you might need some of these.” Steve says, holding out a short stack of napkins.

“Uh.. thanks?” Eddie says, taking them.

“No problem.” Then he’s gone.

Why would he think Eddie needed—- oh Jesus fucking Christ.

Eddie’s got a glob of vanilla ice cream melting down the front of his shirt.

“God fuckin’---” he scrubs at the spot futilely, the flimsy napkins disintegrating against the fabric.

The sundae’s in the trash not long after, along with his pride.

After spring break from hell, after the bats, the hospital, the NDAs, managing to come out the other side with not one but, what, 11? more friends, he and Steve are teetering on the edge of something.

Chrissy and Robin had gotten very close in the immediate aftermath of the former’s ill-fated trip to the Munson abode, bonding at first over Blondie, then over movies, then milkshakes, and kisses and– you get the idea.

He and Steve had somehow ended up on a weird duplicate of the same path. There was bonding over Dio of all things, over Star Wars, then over the ‘Ring Lord’ books as Steve liked to call them; now all that’s left to do is the date stuff if they’re gonna follow in their platonic soulmates’ footsteps.

And no matter what he’s seen happen in this stupid fuckin’ town, that’s not something he can even fathom happening.

Until.

“Hey Eds, what’re you doing on Friday night?”

Eddie shrugs, still half-focused on the miniature he’s painting for Will. “You’re lookin’ at it, Steve-o.” another touch of purple there… “Why?”

“Wanna come over? We can pick up take out from Enzo’s and watch a movie..?”

Why’s he sound so weird? Sounds like any one of their other hangouts, except the Enzo’s, that’s new. He looks up at Steve, a weird angle since he’s on the floor in front of the coffee table and Steve’s still on the couch. “Sure, sounds fun, but why Enzo’s?”

Steve’s cheeks look brighter, “I dunno, I’ve been craving fettuccine, we can get pizza if you want…?”

“Nah man, just get me some garlic bread and I’m good.” Eddie grins, going back to his work. Steve seems to relax further into the couch.

Until.

Eddie knocks on Steve’s door at 6pm on Friday evening. He scratches a spot on his arm under his jacket sleeve, wonders again why Wayne insisted Eddie not wear his favorite holey jeans and cut-off Black Sabbath tee.

Steve opens the door, “Hey! Eddie..”

“Hey Steve, you look nice.” he’s wearing a button-down shirt, odd. “What’s with the shirt?”

He looks down at himself, “Oh, just what I had left in my closet. C’mon in man..”

They’re halfway through their pasta when it hits him.

Like snapping out of a daydream, Eddie looks around.

Candles, nice shirt, pasta, wine that Steve apologized for because he “Ran out of beer, sorry.”...

“Oh my god.”

“What?”

“Oh my god!”

“What?!”

Eddie looks up from his plate to Steve’s face. There’s a bit of sauce on his lip. “This is a date.” he breathes.

Steve’s expression shifts from confusion to embarrassment. He puts his fork down. “Um.. Yeah. It is, that okay?”

He jerks up out of his seat and all but runs around the end of the table to pull Steve out of his.

“Look, I’m sor—” he’s cut off by Eddie’s lips on his.

“You.” another kiss. “You took me on a date.” another. “What the fuck, Steve.”

Steve’s grinning brightly now, “Yeah, I did.”

Eddie kisses him again. “I can’t believe my uncle knew before me.”

After, when they’re lying sticky and satisfied in Steve’s bed, Eddie remembers something. “I can’t believe you sexed me up without your ‘SEX MEX’.” he laughs.

Steve does too, reaching over Eddie to push a button on his stereo.

Those damn saxophones are at it again, crooning at them both.

“I didn’t want to accidentally ruin the mood,” Steve admits.

Eddie laughs, “Consider the mood reignited, big boy.”

uhhh this one turned out more fun/fluffy than angsty... i'm pretty sure the only angst in it is the teasing at the beginning...... but i think i needed it after all the other angst i've been writing/reading this month.. so consider this some levity!!

see the collection on ao3!

#steddieangstyaugust #not actually angst lmao whoops #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #robin buckley #chrissy cunningham #steveddie #eddeve #steve harrington x eddie munson #buckingham mention #tommy hagan #billy hargrove mention #music monday #noelle writes

63 notes · View notes

shieldofiron · 8 months ago

Text

Broke: Robin and Heather getting Harringrove together

Woke: Tommy and Carol getting Harringrove together.

#billy hargrove #mine #steve harrington #walking osha violation billy hargrove #billy x steve #shieldofiron #harringrove #Harringrove #Billy Hargrove #Steve Harrington #Billy x Steve #Steve x Billy #Harringrove memes #Walking OSHA Violation Billy Hargrove #Honestly Walking HR Violation Steve Harrington #tommy hagan #kind of

174 notes · View notes

plistommy · 9 months ago

Note

How about a s2 AU where Billy catches Steve and Tommy hate fucking and is all 'oh?👀 Let me in on the fun' and it turns into everyone competing to hold out as long as possible that leaves everyone fucked out and making out while covered in come😌💕

Billy was about to lose his fucking shit.

He was going to be late soon.

Not because of Max this time, no. The brat had gone to the arcade straight from school because Billy had extra practice for their upcoming game and she didn’t want to wait around which, great, he didn’t give a shit.

A drive by himself sounded great without her scowling on the passenger seat.

But then, he had fucked it up and forgot his fucking car keys to his locker which, who the hell even does that, and now he had to walk back to the locker rooms without a smoke because his cigarettes where inside his car.

The hallways were already empty as his heavy boots echoed with every step and he was pretty sure all the guys from the team had left since it was friday.

Some didn’t even stay to take a shower, too eager to go home from this shitty place.

Billy couldn’t agree more even though another hell was waiting for him at home.

He pushed the heavy doors open and got to the locker rooms. And like he thought, no one was around.

His locker was the furthest away, but he got there with a few long steps and opened the locker with a bang.

The keys sparkled like they were mocking at him and Billy didn’t think he had never thought about wanting to destroy a piece of steel this badly.

”Fucker.” He murmured and snatched the keys.

He turned around and started to walk away, but that’s when he heard something from the showers.

A groan.

And that sparked his interest immediately.

He walked next to the door, feeling the hot steam coming from under it. It hadn’t been that long since everyone left, but he could hear the water still running and the sounds of something smacking over and over again.

It just irked Billy more to touch the handle and…

Crack the door open.

”Ah, fuck, fuck! Harder, Tommyyy!”

”Shut your fucking mouth, bitch!” Tommy groaned.

Billy peeked his head fully inside and that’s when he saw them. And especially him.

Steve Harrington.

Steve fucking Harrington moaning with his mouth open like a whore and head thrown back as Hagan was fucking him from behind, making him arch his back as he keened.

Fucking keened.

”Shit..” Billy groaned as he felt heat pooling in his gut.

Steve was clearly trying his best to keep hold of the metal poll, almost hugging it as his legs were shaking by how rougly he was fucked. Billy could see the floor was also slippery, the water and dropped soap - which would be funny to Billy right now if it weren’t for the situation - weren’t mixing together well.

Hagan had his hands on Steve’s waist and a mouth on his neck as he spat insults at the other.

”You’re such a pathetic, slut, aren’t you, Steve?” Tommy said, half groaning as he thrusted into Steve.

Steve wasn’t answering at first, only whining with his eyes closed and it seems Tommy wasn’t going to have that as he wrapped a hand around that pale neck.

Billy had no idea the short guy had that much power in him. Power to put down the ’King Steve’ like this.

It made something deep inside him purr and he couldn’t help but to grin.

”Aren’t you?!” Hagan yelled and Steve cried.

”Y-yes yes I’m a.. a slut!”

Even if Steve was sobbing, Billy could see he enjoyed this shit. Enjoyed to be called names and thrown around, used like a toy.

Billy wanted to destroy him.

He fully opened the door, having no shame as he walked inside the showers and let out a low whistle at the two.

Tommy’s head snapped at him first, that face red and full with freckles as he took in Billy, brown eyes going a little huge. He slowed down his thrusts which made Steve whine and look up to Tommy, but catching Billy’s eyes before his.

Steve froze and the breath he let out made Billy grin even wider.

”Don’t stop on my account. I was really enjoying the show.” He murmured and the two boys looked a little panicked.

”Hargrove…” Tommy was warning him while moving his arms a little protectively around Steve. Which, Cute.

Hagan clearly still had a soft spot for Harrington.

Billy took a step forward, floor wet and warm under his feet. He hadn’t even realized he had taken off his boots.

When Tommy was about to speak up again, Billy shushed him ”Can I join?”

A beat.

”Huh- What?” That was Steve now, still looking fucked up as he was catching his breath under Tommy.

Billy turned his gaze slowly on him and couldn’t help but to see how the brunette's dick kicked in interest between his legs as Billy slowly looked him up and down.

”I wanna fuck you.” He said, directly at Steve and it made both of the boys gasp.

”Billy—”

”You heard me, Tommy. Let me in on the fun.” He smirked and Tommy bit his bottom lip, giving Steve a glance.

”Or do you not wanna share your little slut?”

Billy could see the way Steve’s body twitched at that and how he tightened around the other’s cock because it made Tommy moan.

”Ah, fuck.” Tommy cursed ”You really want this?”

”Dead serious, Hagan.”

They stared at each other for a while before Steve whined and made them both turn their gazes on him.

”Please…” Steve looked up at them, hair wet and clinging to his forehead as the water ran down his body.

That’s all it took for Tommy and soon he was thrusting into the other again, setting up a rough pace.

Billy slowly opened his belt and slid his zipper down, taking his thick and hard cock from where it had been trapped inside his jeans.

He grinned when both of them moaned at the sight of it.

”Gonna fuck him first.” Tommy got out, not taking his eyes off of Billy’s dick and it made Billy chuckle.

He liked how possessive Tommy was of Steve even if the guy swore he ’hated’ him.

”Hmm.” Billy hummed and moved closer to them.

He wrapped his hand around Steve’s dick which had been left unnoticed and gave it a couple of rough squeezes that made the boy cry out.

”Doing good, pretty boy.”

Steve looked at him and turned more redder than he was.

He gave his cock a small jerk before removing his hand, leaving Steve whining at the loss.

”Not yet.” Was all Billy said before moving behind Tommy.

He wasn’t even giving a shit at this point that his clothes were getting wet. He still had his gym clothes after all.

”Look at him, what a slut.” Billy purred and it made Tommy moan ”Can’t get enough of your dick, huh?”

”Yeah… always fucking begging for it.” Tommy surprisingly got out even with Billy’s hard chest against his back.

Billy laughed and moved his hands to Tommy hips, helping him move and fuck Steve more faster.

He couldn’t keep his eyes away from where the other two were connected. How Steve’s fat ass was sucking Tommy’s dick inside.

Billy wondered how long they had been doing this. How long Steve had been taking Tommy’s cock like this. After they ended their friendship or… before?

They were childhood friends. That he knew. Tommy couldn’t stop talking about Steve. About how he thought he was a ’good guy’ but then left his best friend for some pussy just like that.

Seems like he hadn’t, after all.

”Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Tommy suddenly groaned and that’s when he stilled inside Steve, coming inside the other’s tight heat.

Steve let out a satisfied moan and clenched around Tommy.

”Fucking bitch.” Tommy cursed and pulled out, cock shiny with cum. He took a step back to give Billy some space.

”Go on, take your turn. The bitch loves when he’s full.”

Billy grinned at him and slowly moved behind Steve’s body ”Yeah? Fuck him a lot like this?”

He loved the way Tommy’s spent dick kicked and how the freckled boy had to calm his breathing.

”Wouldn’t you like to know.”

And, okay. Billy liked that. He hadn’t really seen this side of Tommy and he really liked it. He thought he was just a prick trying to hate on his old friend and get a new ’King’ to be by his side because he was too miserable, but no.

Billy spat on his dick, giving it a few squeezes. He moved his hands down to Steve’s ass and slowly pulled his ass cheeks apart to see that perfect hole.

”Fuck, Harrington… look at you.” Billy couldn’t help himself as he pushed two of his fingers in and felt how wet and warm his hole was.

Steve whined under him as he tried to push his ass closer.

He really was a fucking slut.

Billy removed his fingers and spread Tommy’s cum on his cock before lining up and pushing in. And holy fucking shit. Billy never thought he’d be able to know what heaven felt like. But this was it.

Steve let out a long moan under him as he was filled with cock, a thick one and couldn’t help how pre cum leaked from his untouched dick.

”Oh my god, so big, Billy, please— Please!” Steve cried out and Tommy put a hand on top of his mouth.

”Keep it down and take it like a good boy.”

Billy groaned at Tommy’s words as he was bottoming inside Steve’s tight heat, his hips flushed with the other’s round and red ass. He moved his hands to rest on Steve’s waist, giving him a little squeeze before pulling out and fucking right back in.

Tommy grinned next to them as he watched Billy start up a rough pace, similar to his which always made Steve’s ass jiggle just right.

”Keep fucking him like that.”

”Don’t tell me what to do, Hagan.” Billy growled, but they exchanged grins before Tommy was dropping to his knees and taking Steve inside his mouth.

Tommy had removed his hand from Steve’s mouth and as he sucked him in, Steve let out a loud moan which echoed inside the showers.

”Fuck, Harrington.” Billy laughed and moved his hand on the brunette’s neck. When he put pressure, Steve choked and it just made Billy smile wider.

Tommy moaned under them as he popped his head with the same pace as Billy fucked Steve and even though choked a couple of times, he didn’t take his mouth off of Steve and Billy couldn’t wait to get some head from Tommy, too.

The water was turning colder little by little, and it made Billy a little giddy to know they’ve almost used all the hot water because the school was a piece of shit, but nothing was stopping the guys as they kept going.

Skin slapping on skin was filling the foggy room. The desperate sounds coming out from Steve’s mouth, groans and moans from Billy’s as he threw his head back and the pleased humming from Tommy as he deep throated his known ’rival’.

This was a situation Billy never thought he’d be in.

But oh did it make him excited.

”I’m close! D-don’t wanna cum yet!” Steve got out and Billy couldn’t agree more as he felt himself getting on the edge.

Tommy popped his mouth off of Steve’s dick and jerked it faster ”Go on, slut. You can cum.”

”Noooo—” Steve whined like a brat as he was trying to keep himself from cumming, but the dick in his ass and the hand on his dick felt so good it was hard to ignore.

”Yes, Steve. Be a good boy and finish.” Billy joined in.

”No, no!”

Billy chuckled and picked up the pace, brutally hitting on the spot that got Steve’s pale skin full with goosebumps.

He really didn’t wanna cum either, trying to hold himself back as much as he could because he never wanted this to end. Billy could see Tommy was holding back too as he was wrapping his hand around his own dick, squeezing it tightly around it as if it helped.

Ah. A competition.

That Billy loved. And he loved winning.

”You look so good on your knees, Tommy. Wanna fuck your mouth, bet you’d look really pretty.”

He grinned when Tommy bit his bottom lip.

”Yeah? Maybe I’d make you suck mine, would reeaally love to hear you shut the fuck up.”

Billy chuckled and smacked Steve’s ass which made the older boy cry, clearly becoming overwhelmed.

”Fuck, is Harrington always this tight? I bet he takes you so well every time and that’s why you can’t get enough even if you pretend to hate him.”

Billy grinned as Tommy moaned weakly.

”B-Billy—” Steve glanced at him, eyes glossy.

”Shh, it’s alright, Steve.” He purred and squeezed his hips.

But he wasn’t stopping the teasing.

”I bet he could take both of us at the same time. Hole just sucking us in as we’d fuck him slow and deep. Make him scream our names as we’d ruin him from everyone else…”

”Fuck!” Tommy cursed, voice high-pitched as he tried not to jerk himself off while Steve whined between them.

But Billy knew he’d got them both.

Because soon Steve was cumming onto Tommy’s face, too overwhelmed with the words Billy was saying and Tommy was right behind him, cum hitting his own stomach and some even hit Steve’s legs.

Billy grinned when he saw others blissed out faces.

He picked up the pace, arms wrapping around Steve’s waist as he chased his own release.

”Gonna fuck you full.” Billy whispered right next to Steve’s ear

”Mhm, yes! Billy!”

Fuck.

He bottomed all the way inside Steve, making the other arch his back and Billy had never cummed so hard in his life.

They were all silent for a while, just a lot of loud breathing as they all tried to come down from their highs.

Someone turned off the shower, thank god and soon they were all sitting down or more like laying down against the cold wall covered with each other's spunk.

Tommy had gotten most of it, but some of it got on Steve and Billy as well when they’d made out for a little.

”Shit…” Billy groaned as his clothes were starting to stick on to him a little too uncomfortably.

But, he really didn’t give a shit. He was too fucked out.

Steve had his eyes closed as he pulled his hair back and Billy swore he had never seen anyone as beautiful as Steve Harrington.

”You good, Harrington?” He got out, trying not to stare too long at the other guy even though he literally just fucked him.

”Uh-huh… really good, man.” Steve answered with a thump up as he leaned his head against Tommy’s shoulder, giving it a small kiss which made Tommy and Billy look up at each other and Tommy looked nervous for the first time.

It was easy with the sex, but now that things were calming down and the reality was coming more present, Billy realized that there was something more between these two than just hate-sex.

But he didn’t think they guys really knew what it was.

”Yeah,” Tommy broke the silence first, glancing at Steve ”He’s totally out of it.”

It made Steve laugh with a hoarse voice and soon Billy and Tommy were cracking up as well.

#HELLO MY BELOVED ANON #I hope you like this! I liked writing it a lot #Kinda nice to switch it up that BILLY is the one to find these two and not Tommy!#SWEET #Posted to ao3 as well!#harringrove #stommy #kegboys #steve x billy x tommy #steve harrington #billy hargrove #tommy hagan #stranger things #prompt #fanfic #my writing #lemon

116 notes · View notes

salv12dexter · 9 months ago

Text

Tagging

Y'all need start tagging y'all fanfics correctly. I don't want to read y'all sucking dick. Y'all be doing that on purpose.

You giving head while they used to chop off yours.

It's not feminist if you're attacking women for being uncomfortable with something. Fiction or not.

318 notes · View notes

jazzstir · 3 months ago

Text

Y’all I just read Civil War and I swear all I’ve read about the Young Avengers has been angst and it’s on site with Tony 😭😭

31 notes · View notes

wmarximoff · 2 years ago

Text

𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐨 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝 | 𝐰. 𝐦𝐚𝐱𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐟𝐟

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

main masterlist| series masterlist|

༺ᱬ༻

“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 wanna 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? That… that 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 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, baby,” 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—”

“No, no, it’s okay, it’s okay baby, it’s okay, please don’t cry, I’m here.”

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.

“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 come out with my sense of humor.”

ᗢ

“I was thinking about Tommy”.

She had exclaimed some day, her back pressed against your chest, your fingertips gently massaging the round contour of your wife's exposed belly, her blouse lifted slightly below her breasts, her creamy skin emanating warmth and tenderness.

“Thomas. Nice, classic, all american way.”

“Thomas, eh?” You hummed thoughtfully, testing the name on the tip of your tongue.

It sounded right, you guessed. But something was still missing, and you couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was.

“Thomas. Thomas, Thomas, Thomas… but what about William, though?”

“William?” she raised her eyebrow.

“Yeah, William. Like William Shakespeare. Or maybe just,” you bit your lower lip in a thoughtful manner, “Just… I don’t know, Will? Willy? Billy, Billy sounds nice to me.”

“Billy,” Wanda repeated it curiously, to see how the name sounded in her tone, “But what if she’s a girl?”

“I don’t know,” you shrugged, “Even though I would love if she was a little girl who looked just like you, my maternal instincts say it’s a boy, so I’ll stick with that.”

“But what if, detka?” she leaned the back of her head against the bone of your chin, filling your nostrils with the pleasant scent of strawberry shampoo that emanated from her silky red hair.

You smiled, rubbing small circles into her baby bump. God, you loved her smell.

“Well, I guess we'll have to be prepared for that, then,” you placed a modest kiss in the back of her head, “Do you have any name in mind, baby?”

“I like Talia.”

You thought about it for just a second.

“Tali- ah!”

“Oh!”

You opened your mouth to answer her, but the words never left your throat because there was a small bump, from the inside to the outside of your wife's belly, which touched the palm of your hand and made you stop suddenly with the caresses deposited in Wanda's stomach skin.

Turning her neck quickly, she turned her bright face towards yours, the tips of your noses almost colliding in midair. Wanda's lips carved an excited smile, eyes watered with a haze imbued with the most compassionate kind of love, which was soon mirrored by your own mouth. The baby was kicking.

“Hey, hi,” you grinned, feeling the energic child kicking against your palms, “Hi there, little one. Oh, you’re so strong! You’re so strong, Billy!”

“Tommy,” she corrected your speech, causing your nose to twitch in disagreement.

“Eh, I guess.”

“Hi, my baby,” Wanda put her hands up against yours, both of you holding her belly like it was some kind of basketball, “I’m your mama, kroshka.”

“How… how does it feels?” you asked softly against your wife’s ear, a relentless smile on your face, a beautiful tenderness in your tone.

“It’s… it’s such a strange sensation- it’s kinda fluttery!” she giggled, scrunching her nose. The baby kicked again, touching your spread hands.

“Fluttery, huh,” you repeated, leaning your nose against her hair, allowing yourself to close your eyes for a moment and smile gently,“That’s nice.”

A couple of months later, you were twenty-one when you first held Thomas in your arms – his nose was the same shape as yours, as was the shape of his eyes and the arch of his small mouth. He was warm, affable, and he smelled like the sun and the grass. After another ten painful minutes to Wanda (the house lights going crazy when a mirror shattered against the bedroom floor), William might have had your mother's eyes, but his face was a miniature of your wife's pretty features.

He was yours to hold and protect, and for him, his brother (Billy smelled like the apple trees) and his mother, you just knew you would do anything. Wanda was sweaty, a strand of coppery hair glued against a delicate bundle of skin on her forehead, tearful when she gazed at you, glistening a joyful weak smile on her lips that didn't go away even when you approached and kissed her, because you didn't know any other way to express your feelings at that moment other than joining your lips together.

“I love you. God, I love you so, so much, Wands,” you whispered, your voice loaded with feelings, and she smiled against your lips.

“I love you too, malyshka. You and these boys… You are everything I will ever, ever want in my entire life.”

Billy was snuggled quietly in Wanda's arms, her maternal gaze watching over the little baby in a flash of love, studying his little rosy face with chubby cheeks, wanting to understand everything about him, everything that she could forever engrave in her memory about his little childish traits, and you were the one holding little Tommy against your chest, welcoming his small weight into your body, feeling the heat emanating from him against your own torso. And you were happy.

You were genuinely happy, like never before in your life, as if the passion of the feeling was going to explode and overflow from inside you and you just didn’t quite knew how to deal with so much happiness emanating from you. You looked at her and you thought that she never looked more beautiful before. They were your family. Your children, your wife. You and she, together, wrapped in love, had built a family.

“Thank you, my love,” you sniffed, looking deep into the greenish color of your wife’s eyes “Thank you, Wanda.”

ᗢ

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? R-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.

424 notes · View notes