#demand to be treated kindly and with respect | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ak-vintage · 3 months ago

Text

Work of Art

Pairing: General Marcus Acacius x f!reader

Prompt: Marcus Acacius & Nose

Summary: Your pregnancy brings out a vulnerability in Marcus you never would have expected. When he reluctantly shares his insecurities with you, you are more than happy to reaffirm your affection for each and every part of him.

Tags/Warnings: 18+ MDNI! Second-person POV, no use of Y/N, established relationship, arranged marriage, POSSIBLE DUBCON (sex in an arranged marriage with a patriarchal power structure), hefty age gap, pregnant reader, inexperienced reader, insecurity, body worship, nose worship, face-sitting, oral (f! receiving), discovering that you’re in love with your spouse, SO MUCH FLUFF, high likelihood of historical inaccuracy (aiming for vibes, not perfection)

Written for @joelmillerisapunk PPCU Body Worship Writing Challenge

Dividers by @saradika-graphics <3

Read on AO3

It is barely sunrise when the messenger arrives at your door.

Coated in a layer of dust from the road, mounted on the back of a well-lathered horse, and bearing the colors of the empire, the young man demands your staff wake you to receive him – that he is under orders to accept no intermediary, that his message is intended for the lady of the house and no one else. The news of his arrival sends ice into your veins the moment you open your eyes; even as the wife of a general, you do not often receive messages from the front lines, and you could not resist fearing the worst. Curls loose and mussed with sleep, tunica tied almost haphazardly in your haste, you rush to the atrium as quickly as propriety will allow and take the messenger’s sealed scroll with trembling hands.

My dearest wife, it reads. The skirmish on the southern border has been quelled for the time being. In recognition of our efforts, and out of respect for our recent union, I have been granted leave to return to Rome for a period of respite. If the sea is calm and the road is easy, you can look to the horizon for my return in one month’s time. Prepare the household for my arrival. Faithfully yours, Marcus Acacius

The relief you feel at those words is so powerful that you sink into the nearest chair, weak-kneed. Thankfully, your staff are more than competent enough to manage offering food, a bath, and a fresh horse to the harried messenger without your guidance, for you have not the capacity to play hostess. It had been your greatest fear, you realize as you sit there reading and re-reading the general’s letter until your eyes begin to burn with fatigue. You had had such little time as husband and wife before Marcus had been shipped out to the border, and you dread nothing more than the prospect of joining the ranks of the widows of Rome before you even have the opportunity to fully know the man you had married. It would have been such a waste, you think, like a flower cut from the vine when it was barely a bud, cursed never to bloom for the rest of time.

The truth is that although yours had been an arranged marriage, one of convenience, you feel (perhaps naively) that it held great promise. The general had never married, choosing to prioritize his military ambitions over his personal life. However, now that he was getting older, he had determined that it would be wise to seek a wife who might give him an heir to the prestigious station he had earned for himself over the years. Your father, a wealthy, prominent senator, had brokered the match, and a mere fortnight after you had been introduced for the first time, you had been wed.

Marcus had proven to be a gentle husband, a great contrast to what you had believed based on the tales of his ferocity in battle. He had spoken kindly to you and listened patiently, giving weight to your words, treating you like a partner right from the start. He had given you free reign over the household and encouraged you to mold his domus and his staff to suit your tastes. You had had very little time in each other’s presence, but he nevertheless struck you as a man of honor, a man of principle. As a woman in your position, there was little else you could ask for in a match, and the thought had comforted you as you stood side-by-side with this near-stranger and signed your marriage contract.

On your wedding night, he had been as tender with you as he could. You had been able to tell that he was holding himself back, restraining himself from taking you as savagely as he might have wished, but for that, you thought him compassionate. Of course, there had been some pain to start; this you had anticipated. However, toward the end of your coupling, as the general had begun to growl muffled curses into the soft skin of your neck and thrust himself so deeply inside you, you swore you could feel his manhood in your belly, you thought perhaps that it might have begun to feel…good?

He had spilled his seed within you shortly thereafter, bringing your union to a sudden and dramatic end and leaving your tentative, blooming pleasure to fizzle and die in your veins.

You glance down at the swell of your belly at the recollection, feeling heat rise in your cheeks. The fruits of your union that night – and the nights that followed for the brief month he had been permitted to remain by your side – had made themselves apparent shortly after his departure. That had been five months ago now, and it had been an incredible relief to know that you had managed to fulfill your duty to the general so quickly. You had fully expected to give birth on your own, to share the joyous news with him via special messenger like so many other soldier’s wives. Now, to know that he is set to return so soon, that relief is compounded. Barring any emergencies on the front, he likely would be home long enough to be present for the birth.

Birthing was a woman’s business, of course. You knew there was little Marcus could truly do to aid you in your labors. But a part of you, perhaps a very foolish, girlish part of you, could not help but feel safer when he was near. You would sleep better at night knowing he was once again within the walls of your domus.

Easing yourself back onto your feet, you get the attention of the nearest member of your staff.

“Once our guest has been seen to, gather the others in the courtyard,” you command. “We have much to prepare. The general is coming home.”

General Marcus Acacius rides into Rome on a sunny afternoon astride a handsome black stallion. Escorted only by a small retinue of guards and vassals, he travels light, with the economy and efficiency of a man who has spent the majority of his adult life in an army camp. The servant boy you have stationed at the city walls every day for the last week eagerly tells you that he looks well, that he has been asked to report first to the emperors’ palace but that he expects to be home by nightfall.

The news of your husband’s imminent arrival has a riot of butterflies rising in your chest, and you feel the child you carry respond almost instantly, fluttering and twitching against the walls of your womb at your excitement. A smile pulls at your lips, and you smooth your palms over the rounded surface of your belly as if to say, “I understand. I feel it, too.”

You send a message to the kitchen staff with orders to ensure that the general’s favorite meal is prepared for this evening, as well as for his preferred wine to be brought up from the cellar. Perhaps it is a bit silly – this is his home even moreso than it is yours – but you have an odd desire to make him feel welcomed. You want him to know that you have given thought to his needs and his preferences, that you have managed and looked after his home with proficiency in his absence, that you have anticipated his return.

You want to make the general happy, you realize with a flush. Not only for him to be happy, but you wish to be the cause of that happiness. Does that make you proud, you wonder? Or selfish? Perhaps. All you know for certain is that in the brief time spent by his side, all those months ago, you had begun to associate Marcus Acacius with feelings of comfort, of safety, of acceptance. Even perhaps…affection. You like him. Was it so wrong to wish for him to like you, too?

You are in the ostium waiting for him when the general arrives. The sun sets behind him as he approaches on horseback, still in full armor from his travels, and your first thought is that he is even larger than you remember. Blotting out the golden light with the incredible breadth of his shoulders, you think he looks almost otherworldly, like some mythical hero of old returned from a harrowing quest. You can feel your heart speed up behind your ribs, galloping like the hooves of his horse on the cobblestones, and you are thankful no one can hear it but you. You are a woman grown, wedded and bedded and carrying a child, the head of your own household, the wife of a prominent, respected officer of the grand army of Rome. The idea that you should become so flighty, so unmoored at the sight of your own husband is absurd.

When his gaze falls on you, your trembling hands find your stomach, a gesture that has become more and more instinctual as the bump has become more and more visible, and before he can even greet you, his eyes drop to where they rest.

Marcus pulls his horse up short, the soft expression in his dark irises sharpening, intensifying. You watch as his prominent brow draws up, something between shock and awe and hope washing over his face, and then he is swinging his leg up and over his mount, dropping to the ground, closing the distance between you in a handful of long, powerful strides. His eyes do not leave your stomach until he is a mere handful of inches from your body, and you catch sight of his broad, thick-fingered hands clenching at his sides as though resisting the urge to reach out and touch you.

“Dearest wife,” he rasps, his throat dry as he finally, finally flicks his eyes back up to meet yours. “Have you something to tell me?”

You swallow thickly, suddenly overcome with the intensity, the intimacy of his attention. “Welcome home…husband.” Your voice sounds tremulous to your own ears, but you do not allow yourself to dwell on it. Instead, you wrap both of your hands around one of his and bring his dry, scarred knuckles to your lips. Dropping a kiss onto the center ridge, you add, “It is a blessing from the gods to see you well after so many months apart.”

Your name is a sigh on his lips. “It is a blessing to be permitted to return home after so short a time,” he counters. “Now, if my eyes deceive me, I will beg your forgiveness and claim fatigue from the long journey as my excuse. But are you…”

He trails off, as though hesitant to speak the words aloud, and you could swear that someone had reached into your chest and taken hold of your heart for how tight it squeezes at the thread of hope woven into his words. Unable to bear it anymore, you finish his incomplete thought on your own.

“Yes…General Acacius – ”

“Marcus,” he interjects immediately, and you feel yourself flush at the familiarity.

“Marcus,” you echo. “I-I am with child. You are to be a father.”

The breath he releases is long and slow, his dark eyes shining in the setting sun, and if you did not know better, you might think that your revelation had rendered him speechless. However, it takes him only a moment to collect himself, and then he is reaching for your belly with both hands, palms outstretched almost pleadingly. “May I – ?”

You nod readily, feeling a grin split your face, and then his hands are on you, cupping your swelling bump with his sword-calloused touch. His skin catches on the fine material of your tunica, but you are unbothered. He is warm and vital against you, his touch more than welcome after so many months on your own, and as though the precious thing had been waiting for their cue, the child in your womb kicks against their father’s hands.

The general’s brows shoot up at that, his forehead crinkling beneath his dark, gray-streaked curls, and he lets out a rough, strained laugh. “By the gods. It’s true.” Keeping one hand on your bump, he brings the other to the side of your face, wrapping his fingers around the back of your neck, stroking your jaw with his thumb. It’s the most tender, intimate gesture he has ever shown you, and the heat of his palm has your knees weakening beneath you.

“You honor me, amica. Thank you,” he says, husky voice thick with emotion. He presses a brief, dry kiss to your forehead, and you cannot help but wish it had been to your lips instead.

Dinner passes in a blur of sumptuous foods and peppered questions, both from you about his time at the border and from him about how you are settling into your new home, your new role. This is one thing about your relationship that has been easy from the moment you met – it is clear to you that Marcus cares deeply about your perspective on the world. He never rushes you, never cuts in when you are speaking, never attempts to correct you in some demonstration of superiority. It’s a unique experience for you coming from a man, particularly one of his age and rank, and it makes you feel cherished in a way you never would have expected in a marriage like yours. You are under no illusions that yours was a love match, after all, but something about the intent way that Marcus holds your gaze, the way he nods along as you speak, the way he asks such thoughtful questions – it has you all but convinced that he cares for you as you are coming to care for him.

The two of you linger over dinner long past nightfall, but eventually, he stands from his chair at the head of the table, offers his hand to you, and leads you to the privacy of your shared chambers. He beds you that night, as you had expected he would after so long without the touch of a woman, and you go to him willingly. His touch burns with barely-restrained fervor, the expression on his handsome face twisted almost as if in pain, and just as you had on that first night, you feel something building within you as he takes you.

You have no name for it, and yet it feels altering in its magnitude. You feel like lightning, like lava, like some elemental thing ablaze with fire and light, and just when you are certain that the feeling is about to consume you, just as you know in your bones that you cannot take any more or you will surely die –

Marcus spills himself inside you, withdraws, and collapses onto the bed next to you.

The feeling recedes. You catch your breath. Your husband plants a kiss on your hairline, and under his lips, he finds the sweat of your exertion, of your truncated pleasure. He whispers “good night, amica” against your curls, and then he rolls away.

Moments later, soft snores fill the room. The general is fast asleep, but you…

You are going mad.

It is many days later before this madness finally comes to a head.

Every night since his return, Marcus has sought his pleasure in your body. He never forces himself upon you or hurts you in any way; he asks before touching you, always. But as you approach a full week of night after night of thwarted pleasure, you cannot help but begin to find ways to…delay the inevitable question. You have taken to engaging him in conversation as you lay in bed, asking him about the many visitors he has received over the last several days, or about his journey home from the border, or about his favorite horse, Tempestas. He takes this in stride, seemingly happy to indulge you, and the two of you spend long minutes talking softly by candlelight, warm and close under soft, shared sheets.

This night, you decide to ask him about the baby and how he feels knowing that you carry his heir, that his legacy is secured.

You anticipate the smile he gives you, the fond look in his eyes as he reaches out to feel the curve of your belly, as he has done now hundreds of times over the last week. What you do not expect is the earnestness of his words as he tells you, “I have never been a father before. At my age, I did not expect that I would ever have the privilege. Now that you have made it possible, I find that I care much less for legacy or inheritance than I do for…safety. Stability. Peace.”

You soften at that, and on instinct, your hand goes to his hair, brushing his graying curls back from his forehead with gentle, soothing strokes. You have found that this is something he likes, and he leans into your touch like a barn cat in a sunbeam. He seems pensive, and you allow the silence between you to linger while he gathers his thoughts.

“I mourn that this child should have a general for a father,” he admits after a moment. “I will be absent for much of his life. I will disappear for stretches of time that could number in years, and when I return, I will be like a stranger to him. Were it in my control, I would be more present. I wish to know my child. And for him to know me.”

“Him?” you echo, a bit impishly, and Marcus smirks.

“Or her, of course. I cannot claim to know whom you carry in your womb. I shall leave that mystery for the gods.”

You grin back him, enjoying the good humor sparkling in his dark eyes. “I am sure that however much time you are permitted to spend with our child – be it months or weeks or days – it will be enough.”

Lifting himself up on one elbow, the general fixes you with a skeptical frown. “How can you be so certain?” he asks.

“Because it does not take long to see who you are, Marcus,” you reply earnestly. “To see your nobility, your strength, your power. Your kindness. These are all things I learned about you in the mere fortnight before we were wed. Your child shall know these things about you, as well.”

Tucking your hands beneath your cheek, you stare up at him from your pillow. The warmth of the candlelight casts shadows across his golden skin, highlighting the soft crinkles around his eyes, the bridge of his nose, the plush fullness of his lower lip. “Besides, even when you are away, I shall be around to teach them,” you add with a shrug.

“Amica…” He seems a bit overcome at your sincerity, and his low voice rasps like a sword on a whetstone in the darkness. “You are very generous.”

That riot of butterflies returns to your belly as the intimacy of the moment stretches on. Gods, but he is so beautiful like this. No one has ever looked at you the way he does – not with base lust for your body, not with envy for your wealth, not with dismissal for your sex. Marcus looks at you like something precious, like something to be valued. That look makes you foolish, makes your cheeks hot and your tongue loose.

When you speak again, it is without thought.

“When I think about our child…I hope that they look like you, so that even when we are apart, I might have some comfort in seeing your face every day.”

At that, the general lets out a full-bodied laugh and rolls his eyes. Flipping over onto his back, he shakes his head fondly at you like one might a mischievous child. “Now I know for certain that you are flattering me, wife.”

Your brows nearly reach your hairline as a flush of embarrassment races up the back of your neck, darkening your cheeks in an instant. “Wh – No, sir, I would never!” you insist. “I am being entirely earnest.”

“My face? My face upon an innocent babe?” He says this with a scoffing laugh, sounding amused, but when you catch sight of the tightness in his jaw, the wrinkle between his brows, you think that there might be something…authentic beneath his jesting words. “No, my dear wife. It would be far better if the child were to share your visage. Then they might truly be comely to look upon.”

Is it possible…have you stumbled upon a true insecurity, you wonder? It seems unlikely. This is General Marcus Acacius, commander of the emperors’ armies, a man two decades your senior who fought wars on behalf of Rome before you could even walk on two feet. He exudes power and strength and intelligence, and he carries himself with the kind of confidence and self-assurance that comes along with experience. He is a skilled strategist, an indomitable warrior.

Does he truly not see…

Scooting closer to him on the bed, you allow yourself to cup his bearded jaw, to turn his face toward yours. “There would be no greater gift than a child with your eyes, Marcus,” you say softly. “Or perhaps your smile.”

“But not this nose, surely,” he replies, tapping the end of his prominent, hooked nose with one calloused finger. He shakes his head with a wry smile, as though the idea is too preposterous to consider. “I would not willingly inflict such an eyesore upon a child.”

By the gods. He means it, you realize. He has truly surprised you. To your knowledge, the general is not a vain or self-conscious man. You have never known him to care overmuch about how he looks; it was quite a contrast to the pampered upper-class boys you grew up alongside, something you had found refreshing when you had first met. Had you misunderstood? Misinterpreted his lack of self-regard as a lack of care?

You decide it does not matter. All you know for certain is that your husband appears to be under the impression that his appearance leaves something to be desired, and as his wife, you feel it is your duty to demonstrate to him just how wrong he is.

The thought has your heartrate picking up again.

“Do you know…what I thought,” you begin haltingly, forcing yourself to hold his gaze, “the first day I met you, at my father’s villa?”

His dark brows knit together in a small frown, as though your words have surprised him. “Tell me.”

Swallowing against the sudden dryness in your throat, you confess, “I thought you the most striking man I had ever seen.”

“You flatter me, dear heart.” His words are soft, as is his answering smile, but you can hear the platitude in his voice. He does not believe you.

“No, no, it is not flattery.” With some effort, you push yourself up off of the bed, too emphatic to remain lying down for this discussion. You haul your pregnant body up to kneel at his side, tucking your knees into the warmth of his thick waist, and your long hair dangles over his broad chest as you look into his eyes. “I know that…the circumstances of our union were not exactly romantic, and I know that we do not yet know each other well, but I hope you will heed my words when I tell you that…I count myself extremely fortunate to have been married to so handsome a man.” Glancing down at your hands, you fiddle with one of the many thin, gold rings on your fingers in self-consciousness. “My father could have selected anyone he liked. The fact that it is you who shares my bed, you whose child I carry… It is a blessing.”

It is silent between you for a time, your words hanging in the air like a declaration, but then Marcus’s body shifts against you. Curling up to sit at your side, one of his thick, broad hands comes into your line of vision and wraps itself around both of yours, stilling your fidgeting.

You risk a look up, meeting his gaze through the length of your lashes, and you feel your breath leave your body as you take in the softest, warmest, most tender expression you have ever seen on his handsome face.

“It pleases me to hear that you are happy,” he murmurs, running one of his thumbs along the back of your hand. “And that your affection for my look is genuine. It would not do for you to say such things in an attempt to…endear yourself to me. There is no need. I am already quite fond of you.”

You are quick to shake your head. “Not at all! If I have ever given you such an impression, you have my deepest apologies.”

Now that your true feelings for your husband have been revealed, you feel as though you can no longer contain them. Under the affectionate weight of his dark eyes, more comes spilling forth, unbidden. “The truth is that even in the short time that we have known one another, I have spent many hours at my easel attempting to recall your likeness in detail so that I might recreate it. Your nose in particular, I find to be most…attractive.”

Your hand moves of its own accord then, slipping from his grip to float across the narrow space between you as though possessed by some covetous spirit. The very tip of your middle finger lands in the space between his eyebrows, and although you make no conscious decision to do so, you trace down the steep curve of the bridge of his nose with a touch so delicate it might as well have been a breeze.

Your own voice sounds breathless and far away to your ears as you whisper, “You look like a sculpture, Marcus. Like the great marble warriors along the garden path. It makes you look stately and…masculine and…commanding.” Between your thighs, you feel your most intimate muscles clench. You have grown swollen and sensitive there, a feeling you have become increasingly familiar with since your husband’s return home. It’s sweet and delicious and utterly torturous, making you want to squirm in your seat, but you resist.

At least…until Marcus traps your hand in his and brings your wandering fingers to his mouth.

Your eyes snap to his, and you watch as he presses slow, lingering kisses across each of your fingertips. The sensation of his hot, moist breath on your sensitive skin has you trembling, and gods, but his lips are so soft. Turning your palm up to the heavens, the general places a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the tender center of your palm, and you feel yourself swaying toward him as though under a spell.

The plush of his lips dances gently across the thin skin of the inside of your wrist, and your pulse thrums beneath his touch as he growls, “There is perhaps…one advantage of such a face.”

“Tell me.” Your echo of his earlier words comes out like a whine, like you are pleading with him, though what you are pleading for, you cannot say.

Marcus appears to consider your request for a moment, his eyes going sharp and calculating, and then he says, “Perhaps it might be better if I showed you. Do you trust me, dear heart?”

You are quick to nod. “Yes. I trust you.”

Inclining his head at you in acknowledgment, he releases his grip on your hand and pulls away entirely. He lays back on the bed then, scooting down so that his head is flat on the padded surface rather than on his pillow. He adjusts himself a bit, shifting back and forth, but once he is comfortable, he looks back at you and pats his chest with both hands. The sound is muffled by his soft linen sleep tunic but nonetheless audible in the silence of your bedchamber.

“Mount me,” he says without preamble, and you swear you can hear the whirring gears in your brain grind to a halt.

“W-What?”

“I want you to sit astride my face, as you would a horse.” No matter how intensely your face burns at the wicked suggestion, you cannot seem to look away. His deep brown eyes are bottomless in the dark, the depths of them reflecting the candlelight like water at the bottom of a well. You can feel yourself falling into them, can feel something at the very core of you tugging toward him, answering his call. If you were to glance down at the rest of his body, you would see the evidence of the general’s own arousal tenting his tunic, but your gaze is trapped, held fast by the magnetism of him.

“Come, amica,” he says after a moment of your silent, scandalized staring. “You may rest your ass upon my chest, but I would have that sweet cunt on my mouth.”

You swallow audibly, still making no move to obey. Wetness begins to pool between your thighs, slicking your skin and staining the fabric of your sleep clothes, and you lose the battle against your urge to squirm. Your thighs clench together, and you shift upon your calves in search of friction, but you find none. You need his touch…but what he is suggesting is –

“M-Marcus, I couldn’t possibly – I shall smother you, how will you – ”

He cuts off your protests with a growl of your name, and in that moment, you see not your noble husband staring up at you. Instead, you see the Roman General Acacius – sharp jaw clenched, nostrils flared, dark eyes blazing.

“I shall not ask again, wife. No harm will come to you or to me. Now do as you’re told and sit on my face.”

You hesitate for another beat, then two, and then you shuffle forward on wobbly knees to obey. Your husband’s eyes burn a path across your body as you approach him, tracing from your parted, panting lips, to your heaving breasts, to your swollen, pregnant belly. You feel the look like a physical touch, and the sensation has your skin flushing, has sweat breaking out at the small of your back and the nape of your neck. With shaking, uncertain hands, you reach out and brace your palms against the gold-filigreed headboard for stability.

“That’s it, nearly there now,” Marcus sighs as you clumsily, awkwardly swing one of your legs over his body. Your knee lands on the other side of his shoulder, and you feel the heat of his touch on your naked thighs almost immediately. With slow, deliberate motions, he pushes the hem of your sleep tunic up to your hips, revealing your bare ass and cunt to the cool air of the bedroom.

You draw your lower lip between your teeth to stifle a whine, and gooseflesh breaks out across your skin. You’ve started to shake, though whether in fear or arousal, you couldn’t say. Gods, you’re so exposed now. The wetness between your thighs is fully on display, mere inches from your husband’s face. It’s mortifying; if you could melt into the bed and disappear forever, you know you would.

Marcus, however, clearly has no such compunctions. His thick fingers knead the soft, lush flesh of your hips and thighs, using his grip to draw your forward, to draw you down. The groan that oozes from his lips into the hot slip of atmosphere between you sounds exactly like the one he makes when he first slides inside you, and you feel yourself clench involuntarily at the tremor of it now sounding between your legs. He must catch sight of this, your body’s own betrayal happening right under that stately nose that started this whole ordeal, for one moment he appears to be watching you settle in with rapt attention, and the next, he is releasing a dark, sinister chuckle and yanking you closer.

You give a thought for resistance then, consider pulling yourself from his hold, but –

Oh, you can feel his breath on your cunt, can feel your dripping curls shift beneath the current of air as he laughs.

You shift a bit on your knees, settling so that your weight rests just above each of his shoulders with his hands gripping your hips from behind you. The lower curve of your ass brushes the fine fabric of his tunic, and you are certain that if you could see his face, you would find his chin mere inches from the part of you that pulses and throbs for his attention. As it is, the roundness of your bump nearly eclipses his head, leaving only wisps of the thick, graying curls on the top of his head to peak out around the edges.

“Marcus?” Your voice trembles with nerves around his name, and beneath you, he sighs.

“Well done, amica, you are right where I want you,” he assures you with a groan. You feel the well-trimmed stubble of his silvered beard brush your lower lips; the feeling startles a gasp out of you, and on instinct, one of your hands flies from the headboard to the top of his head. “Mmm, yes, that’s it – sink your fingers into my hair. Hold yourself steady on me.”

You hardly recognize the sound of your own voice as you whimper, “Marcus – Marcus, please.”

“I know what you need.” His touch on your hips is warm, gentle, soothing. “Don’t be afraid. Now rest your weight on me and let me taste you.”

The joints in your limbs feel like water at the general’s words, at the hot wash of his breath across your swollen center. The embarrassment at your precarious position above his face still fizzes in your veins, making you lightheaded, but molten desire has begun to drown it out. Your mind doesn’t fully understand what is about to happen or what he is asking of you, but it seems that on some level, your body does, because it is absolutely thrumming for it.

There is nothing for it anymore. You cannot refuse him. You do not want to refuse him. Whatever he is about to do to you, your body needs it, craves it in the same way it does air or water or food. When you sink your cunt down onto your husband’s waiting mouth, it feels both like a surrender and like a victory.

“Oh – gods, Marcus – ”

Marcus groans deep in his chest the moment you touch his tongue, and then he is bracketing his arms around your thighs and forcibly seating you even more firmly against him. Dragging the slick, pink muscle of his tongue through your folds in one long, languorous stroke, it doesn’t take long before your thighs begin to tremble around his ears. He is focused, meticulous, thorough in his exploration of your most intimate flesh – sucking delicately at your lips, dipping the gentle tip of his tongue into your soft, quivering hole, using the flat of it to dance around that swollen nub at your apex that pulses with the thunderous beat of your heart. The thick arms locked around your thighs angle you this way and that, and through the sound of your own gasps and whines, you can hear the way your wetness drips at his touch.

Every lick, every suck, every swirl of his tongue serves to drive you higher, and you find yourself mindlessly running your hands over your body to ground yourself – stroking your belly, gripping your hips, cupping your breasts. The latter has you accidentally brushing your hardened nipples with your thumbs, and even muted as it is through your tunic, the sensation has you crying out into the dark room.

And that tongue never stops. Marcus is relentless – inexorable and yet unhurried. You can feel all of the tension in your hips and thighs melting away under the heat of his touch, and yet deep within you, something has begun to twist, to pulse, to squeeze. It feels like it does when Marcus beds you – pleasure stirring, burning, building within you as he grows more and more intent, more and more hungry, oh, gods…

It is miraculous. It is unbearable. It is tantamount to torture.

“Marcus,” you gasp helplessly, your fingers knotting in his hair, gripping the headboard. “I – I need – ”

The general pulls away from your cunt with a growl like an animal, and the sound rumbles through your body as he rasps, “That’s it, beautiful girl. Ride my face. Grind those hips into me and ride my face.”

You understand each of his words individually, but they do not coalesce in your mind. How does one “ride” a face? For a moment, you feel self-consciousness and shame begin to creep in at the edges of your thoughts. There are others who would understand the general’s instructions, surely. Others who would know what he wanted and would do it for him in an instant. For the first time, you allow yourself to consider the women that follow the army camps, the women whose services you were certain your husband had partaken of throughout his extensive career. They would know, certainly. Was there truly anything you could offer him that they could not?

Just as you begin to lose that delicious curl of pleasure in your core, as the fog of desire begins to clear from your brain, Marcus flexes those thick, strong arms around your legs and encourages your hips to thrust, dragging your tender flesh across the stubble of his beard, the plush of his lips, the slick of his tongue. That tongue, suddenly firm and pointed, thrusts into your sex, lapping at your wetness, filling the place that clenches for his cock. With the hitch of your hips, that swollen bundle of nerves just at the top glances across the bridge of your husband’s nose.

“Ah! Marcus!”

Beneath your cunt on his face, beneath your hand in his hair, you feel him nod emphatically, and understanding crashes over you like a wave. “Riding” his face. “Mounting” him, like a horse. This is what he wants. He wants you to thrust your hips against his face, as if in the saddle of a warhorse. To rub yourself against his nose and his tongue.

He wants you to find your pleasure with his body.

As though all your joints and muscles had been waiting on this realization, your hips begin to move of their own accord almost immediately, thrusting against that relentless, ever-present tongue, driving it deeper into the hot clutch of your cunt, and fuck…that nose, that big, strong, curved, perfect nose, glancing off of that most sensitive spot with every thrust. Head thrown back, hands on your breasts, fingers twisting and pulling your tender nipples through your tunic, you experiment with different speeds, different pressures, different depths, but if you are honest with yourself, you are so far gone that it has all begun to feel equally intense, equally delicious.

And so you move with abandon – leaning heavily on the headboard for balance, gripping his hair, you grind your swollen, dripping cunt across your husband’s handsome face, fucking his tongue deep into your body, riding the hard curve of his perfect Roman nose. You feel yourself pulse and twitch and tremble with every thrust, feel him lap and slurp and suck at you with new fervor, feel his thick fingers dig into your hips so deeply you know you will bear his bruises in the morning. You had not known pleasure like this existed, had not known it was possible for you to achieve it. You feel drunk with it, the way it seeps into your veins like one too many glasses of wine, and Marcus drinks you down like the finest vintage.

Your clitoris drags across his nose once again, and you cannot smother your moan at the feeling. “Gods, Marcus, your nose – ”

Against your wetness, the general’s face vibrates with something like a chuckle. “I know, dear heart, I know – I told you, this face has one advantage.”

You shake your head fervently, feeling your long curls brush your back as you grind. “It’s perfect. Perfect, Marcus, I – oh, gods, I feel – ”

Another animalistic growl ripples through your husband’s chest, and you feel him nod beneath you. “Jus’ let it happen, amica. Take your pleasure,” he slurs, mouth full of you.

And you do. You take and take and take, clit grinding, hips thrusting, thighs shaking, lungs gasping, and with every pass, that bright, hot, vicious spiral in your abdomen winds tighter, tighter, tighter. Gods, it feels as though it is going to consume you – to swallow you whole and drag you under, to drown you in your own dripping sweetness, your own savage pleasure.

And then it plateaus, the sensations holding, holding, staying at precisely the same level, dangling you over the edge, and in a far away voice, you hear yourself whimper, “Marcus, please!”

Releasing his grip on one of your hips, the man beneath you lands a single, sharp smack to the meat of your ass, and over the edge you fall.

It’s everything you thought it could be – lightning in your veins, lava in your lungs, something primal and elemental and raw that rips through your body like a tidal wave that leaves you hiccuping whines and shaking like a leaf atop the general’s face. You spill your pleasure down his chin, into his mouth, along his jaw. It slips down his neck and dampens the embroidered collar of his tunic, and the way he groans into your twitching cunt, you would think that it had caused him pain. But no – he feels your ecstasy as though it is his own. You have left your body to soar among the clouds, and he joins you, overcome with the particular joy of being responsible for making his wife – the mother of his child – reach such heights.

When you come back to yourself, you are utterly spent – limp and boneless and sweating as though you had just run at top speed from here to the city gates. You start to collapse, and Marcus’s strong hands are there to catch you, to slide you down from his face to his lap. Gathering you into his arms, he brings you back down onto the mattress and tucks you into his side. His broad shoulder cushions your flushed cheek, and his fingers brush your disheveled hair back from your face as you catch your breath. Through bleary eyes, you catch the way his face shines in the candlelight. He’s covered in your slick.

For a few moments, you simply gaze at each other as the silence stretches between you. It is only punctuated by the sound of your labored breaths as each of you settle, but somehow it isn’t awkward, and you find yourself smiling in spite of yourself. He’s so perfect like this, your Marcus. Hair mussed, face pink, everything from his chin to his nose glowing with your pleasure.

There’s a softness around his eyes you’ve never seen before, an earnest warmth that burrows its way into your chest and makes a nest there dangerously close to your heart. It’s an emotion you have a name for, if you are brave enough to say it, and the thought has you gripping tight to his tunic.

You are in awe of him.

You…you love him.

“And what is your verdict, my wife?” he asks after a beat. His voice is a low rumble that travels through his chest and into your body, warming you inside. “Does this Roman nose still please you?”

A tired grin tugs at the corners of your lips, pulling you out of the seriousness of your thoughts, and you nod as enthusiastically as you can manage. “Indeed, I am not certain I have ever been quite so…pleased before, husband.”

“Hmm. Good.” Marcus tucks the arm around your body into your waist, pulling you even deeper into his embrace. “Then perhaps the thing may serve a purpose after all.”

You reach up and cup his cheek in your palm, feeling the stickiness of your spend in his beard on your skin. “The purpose it serves is that it is my husband’s nose, and as such, is a part of the dearest face in the world to me.” His dark eyes soften at that, and he turns to place a warm kiss on the heel of your hand.

“Though…should you find yourself forgetting,” you add with an impish grin, “I would not object to a…repeat demonstration of its value. If it would be of any help to you, of course.”

This startles a laugh from his chest, his dark eyes crinkling with mirth, and you cannot help but join in. Gods, he is gorgeous, you think to yourself as you chuckle together in the dark. Both in his soul and in his body, your husband is gorgeous.

A hand drops to the place where your child rests, safe and protected inside your womb, and you feel a little flutter against your palm.

You decide then that you care not whether your child bears your face or Marcus’s. Either way, they will be beautiful, for how could they not be, when they have come from this?

Latin Translation:

amica - darling, sweetheart

#marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius x you #marcus acacius x f!reader #general marcus acacius #gladiator 2 #gladiator 2 fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfiction

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repulsiveliquidation · 9 months ago

Text

Alone || Leah Williamson

warnings : mentions of bullying, death, loneliness, rude namecalling. smut is at the end but i promise there is a happy ending. words in bold are from a poem above, but i can't remember who wrote it!

I like being alone was something that you always convinced yourself of growing up. Dad was always high on some binge drinking spree with his equally deadbeat friends and Mum tried her best to be a parent but with a useless father and barely any money coming in, you quickly learned how to keep yourself occupied and take care of yourself.

One day, the police showed up at your door and knocked. Mum stopped folding the laundry and you poked your head in just in time to hear the officers tell your mother that your father had tried to rob the local liquor store and was shot by the police who arrived on the scene. Having been ostracized from the community long ago due to your father’s behavior, the news of his death only increased the cold shoulder you and your mother got from the town.

Parents in your hometown seemed to teach their children bad manners from a young age; all the kids in school knew to stay away from you. No one sat with you at lunch, no one ever wanted you on their team for PE. God forbid you were paired up together for a group project, no one ever wanted your company.

Secondary school was rinse and repeat. No one sat with you at lunch, no one ever wanted you on their team for the science fair. Once, you were assigned the popular girl for the English project which was 25 percent of the class grade.

“You’re doing the whole thing yourself and you better not screw with my portion of the project, you got that you freak?” Megan warned, having cornered you in the girls’ changing room after class.

“I’d watch that tone if I were you, Meg,” came a voice from the end of the showers where you were cowering.

“Stay out of it Williamson or I’ll sock you!”

“I think you’re the only one about to leave here with a black eye Meg so I’d watch your tone.”

“You’re not defending the freak are you?”

“I’m doing what’s right, I’ve had it to here with your snarky attitude,” Leah challenged, grabbing the bully’s arm and pulling her away from you. “Leave her alone.”

“Fuck you, Williamson! Everyone will know you like the freak!”

“Call her that one more time and I’ll tattoo it across your forehead!”

Megan leaves the changing room with a loud huff and you hide yourself more in the shower cubicle. You’d never interacted with Leah Williamson before. You knew to stay far away from the popular girls and the captain of the girls’ football team was one of them.

Leah smiles kindly and reaches a hand out for you. You don’t take it immediately, half expecting her to make fun of you and demand you do her homework for her. Leah realizes this and shakes her head a little, sitting on the floor with you. You’re about to ask her to leave when she opens her mouth first.

“I’m sorry about her and all of them. You don’t deserve to be treated like that.”

“I’m used to it,” you mumble, pulling your legs to your chest and hugging them.

“I’m Leah.”

“I know who you are,” you answer quickly, pushing yourself up to your feet. “You don’t have to pretend to be nice to me,” you say just as the tears threaten to fall. You do not need Leah to see them, it’ll give her one more thing to tell everyone about.

You grab your torn backpack and rush out of the changing room before she can answer you.

Leah stands there a little hurt, her efforts of extending an olive branch failing only motivate her more. She knew about the whole scandal or whatever it was that happened all those years ago but learned at a very young age that Amanda hated it all.

“You treat that family with the same respect you give everyone else, Leah you understand? No one deserves such unkind neighbors.”

You do not know what compelled you to sit in the stands of Leah’s football game against a rival school. There was a ticket in your locker with a note hoping to see you there. Thinking it was a prank, you wanted to throw it away but decided against it, which meant that the cloudy England sky and shitty concession food was your plan for the afternoon.

“Hi, you got my ticket!”

You had your eyes glued to your phone, your hat pulled down over your eyes to block out the stares you normally got. But that familiar thick local accented voice rang loud in front of you, you looked up to see Leah grinning at you with her mother Amanda right behind her.

“You put the ticket in my locker?” you asked sheepishly, watching as Amanda sat next to you.

“Yes darling, her father couldn’t make it and she didn’t waste it so she wanted to give it to you.”

You look up at Leah and her grin is almost brighter than it was before. She was all dressed and ready for the game, hand reaching out to pat your head before running back onto the pitch.

“I’m so glad you’re here, I hope you stay the whole game!” she yelled out, jogging towards the rest of her teammates.

“She didn’t have to give me the ticket,” you mumble under your breath. More people are staring now, you could feel it. Amanda reached around your shoulders and rubbed your back, smiling down at you.

“No, but she insisted.”

Leah was relentless in her pursuit of you. There were more notes in your locker that were not malicious. They were written in the same writing as the first letter that had a football ticket in it, always signed LW.

Soon the letters became more personalized and directly from Leah. People talked a lot in this town and word got out fast that Leah was making friends with the freak. She didn’t seem fazed, the teasing she could endure; the bullying you normally received almost doubled overnight.

Ever since Leah started giving you the letters in person, all the people who had crushes on her had increased their hatred of you.

You were walking home after one of Leah’s games, headphones in and head down like always. You didn’t see them coming for you and didn’t hear them either. Megan and her girls had followed you the whole way until you turned into a dark alley; it was a shortcut to your house and you’ve never seen anyone else use it before.

Carla pulled your hair first. You turned and before you could defend yourself, Megan slapped you across the face. Alice tripped you as you tried to run away, slipping face-first into a muddy puddle left by the rain that morning. Rebecca, the ring leader, grabs your shoulder and turns you around, eyes seething with anger.

“I have wanted Leah Williamson for a very long time, you pathetic little bitch. What the fuck did you do to her in that bathroom that day when Megan was beating sense into your stupid brain huh?”

“Being a bully isn’t a quality I look for in a girl, Becca.”

Leah stands there with her kit still on and her hair sticking to her forehead. Her hands on her hips and chest heaving suggest she ran all the way here. She looks down at you before stepping towards you and reaching a hand out to you. You take it this time and she pulls you up and into a hug.

“Are you okay?” she asks, brushing your hair out of your face. You nod and she cups your cheek, thumb rubbing over your cheekbone that was slightly red from Megan’s slap earlier.

“What did I say about testing my patience, Rebecca?”

“Leah, she’s the town freak! What could you possibly see in her?”

“Everything I don’t see in you, Becca. What would your mother say if I let it slip over tea next week that her precious girl is a sly little liar? She doesn’t need to know about your little stunt with the principal I walked in on last week now does she?”

“Don’t you dare!”

“Then you leave her alone,” Leah sternly warns, eyes shooting daggers at the fleeing girls.

“Come on, I’ll take you home. I saw them coming for you after the game and I followed them. I’m glad I found you in time!”

“Why are you being nice to me?”

“I think you know I like you a lot more than you’re letting yourself believe.”

“Why me, Leah?”

She takes your hand and walks towards the main road with you. You see Amanda in the car waiting, shaking her head at the two of you.

“Are you okay, love?” she asks you as you climb into the backseat with Leah. She hasn’t let go of your hand the whole time, rubbing the back of your palm with her thumb gently. You like the feeling of her hot skin on yours, it’s such a simple comfort and you can’t even remember the last time you felt it.

“Yes, Mrs. Williamson. Leah got me in time.”

“Please dear, I’ve told you to call me Amanda.”

“Mum, can she stay over tonight?” Leah chirps, holding your hand tighter. You blush a little, looking at her with a single thought in your head; you deserve to allow yourself a little bit of love.

“My mum is okay with it, I can stay.”

“Great! I’ve put a set of clean clothes in the bathroom for you too so…”

“Thank you, Leah,” you say quietly, eyes avoiding her piercing blue ones.

“Of course.”

The whole night goes by perfectly. Amanda cooks a delicious meal that you shamelessly have three servings of. Since it was a Friday night, Leah insisted on movie night. There were throw blankets and pillows all over the floor but you were hesitant to cuddle close to Leah. Having not made a single friend in years, you were scared that one wrong move could ruin the little bit of joy Leah had given you in such a short period.

Leah however, could not hold herself back anymore and was honestly quite annoyed at you. She had been showing her affection towards you for weeks and you were still hesitant to reciprocate them.

“You don’t like me back, do you? You’re just doing this to be nice.”

You look at Leah in horror. No, no, no! This was not how it was supposed to go.

“Leah,” you start, sitting up. “No one has ever wanted to be my friend my entire life. I have my useless dead father to thank for that. When you started giving me those letters, I genuinely thought you were planning some long term practical joke but tonight you’ve shown me that you truly want to be my friend, maybe more.” Leah sits up too and you continue.

“I’m scared, I haven’t done this in a long time. I don’t want to make a wrong move and scare you away. I want you so bad, if everything you’ve left in your letters is true then I want this, I want us. When you scored that goal last week when you rarely do, you looked at me. You did a hand heart towards me and I genuinely thought you were showing it to someone else in the crowd but you pointed at me.”

Leah had tears in her eyes, the tough captain of the school girls’ football team seemed moved by your words. She leaned in and you let her, pressing your lips to hers. You were sure you felt fireworks and that she did too. Her lips were soft and she loved that you smelled like her body wash.

You pulled away and blinked fast, hoping that she wasn’t a figment of your imagination. By the time you’d blinked about fifty times, she was still there, her stupid smug smile on her face.

“I really like you,” you tell her, head leaning on her shoulder as you turn your attention back to the TV.

“I really like you too,” she whispers, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead as she pulls you into her side.

In the days that come, Leah warned all those who regularly mess with you that they now mess with her too. She also warned that if she caught wind of people calling you names, especially freak, they would go home with it etched across their faces.

You’re sat at the dinner table with Leah in your home years later. Grace is sitting on her playmat, totally engrossed in her building blocks. The sunset pours into the living room and you’ve never been happier in your life.

There’s nothing in your life you’d want to change. You thank your lucky stars that the Lioness sitting in front of you took a chance on you that year in secondary school. Life had only gone up since getting together at 17. You went to college and Leah played for Arsenal. It was hard when you moved for a year to Spain to study but Leah fought hard to make sure the connection was there, flying every other weekend to see you.

The moment you graduated, Leah proposed in front of all your friends. Yes, you made friends! The Spain host family you lived with was more than welcoming and gave you a sense of belonging that you had never felt before. The little community you built for yourself gave you a chance to heal and forgive all those people who wronged young you.

She looked up at you with a face of pure admiration. The ring glimmered in the sun, the diamond was the perfect carat for her perfect girl.

“I have never been surer of anything in my life, will you marry me?”

“Yes!”

You’re both standing at the altar, hands held in front of all your friends and family. The Arsenal and Lioness girls are rowdy in the front, cheering their captain on. She had just shared her vows and it was now your turn.

“When I was little, I convinced myself that I liked being alone. I was always the last to be picked, last to be called, sometimes the teachers forgot about me. By the time I was in secondary school, I had accepted that I was going to be alone all my life. Until I met you,” you look up at Leah and see that she’s already got tears in her eyes. You continue, feeling a little emotional yourself.

“I was sure that you were playing a prank on me, wanting nothing more than to humiliate me in front of everyone like they always did. I waited and waited and nothing happened. You saved me from those girls that day and in the car ride home I knew you were different. For the first time ever, I wanted your company more than my own.”

“Don’t stop, please don’t stop…”

“Never, babygirl,” Leah coos, hands gripping your hips from behind as she fucks into your pussy hard. You whine into the mattress and grip the sheets, pushing your ass back into her hips. She angled her hips just right, hitting your sweet spot just enough to send you right off the edge.

“Leah!” you cried, reaching back to hold her strong thigh. She was relentless, pounding you through your orgasm. She flipped you over a minute later, her strap pushed back into your sensitive hole just milliseconds after pulling out. You’re about to squeal about being sensitive when she wraps her hand around your neck so lightly. It’s barely there but her skin on yours sends electric shocks through your system.

You buck up into her and bite your lip, forcing her cock straight into your pussy. She gives you that smug smirk that boils your blood and gets to work, rutting into you with purpose. Her hands knead your breasts religiously, face buried between them in an instant. You cradle her head that rests on you, legs widening for her subconsciously.

Your body submits to her willingly and you can barely think when the hand around your neck gently tightens. Your eyes roll into your head and you grin deliriously, oxygen leaving your head as quickly as it gets there.

Her hips, although practically laying on you, do not relent, pounding into your pussy obediently. Her harness rubs your clit just right and you can barely make a sound to warn her before you gush all over her cock and your thighs. She squeezes your neck just a little harder than usual and it sends you straight into another orgasm right after the other.

She only slows down when you’re shaking like a leaf and turning a little pale, kissing you gently. You grin and reach out for her, she pulls her harness off and settles between your legs. You pat her head and kiss her forehead, fingers running through her blond hair. She presses kisses all over your neck and you sigh, grateful for the chance at a proper life the woman in your arms had given you.

“I love you, Leah,” you mumble into her hair and you feel the captain mumble her answer into your neck. You giggle and settle into the warm bed with the love of your life, excited to see what life has in store for the two of you.

#leah williamson #leah williamson x reader #leah williamson imagine #arsenal wfc #leah williamson smut #woso imagines #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso fanfics #england wnt #lionesses #woso #woso smut

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oizysian · 10 months ago

Text

My Wanda | Wanda Maximoff

Pairing: Dark!Mafia Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader Warnings: brief mention of murder, anal play, tears, cold Wanda Word Count: 2k Genre: smut Summary: Y/N just wants Wanda’s love again.

AN: I’m not very good writing dark characters so she’s not very dark, I’m sorry! I tried my best.

• Kinktober Masterlist •

I knew the Maximoff twins long before Wanda was in any sort of position of power. I knew them back when they were working for whoever would give them a chance. He was a thief and she was a conman - and they were both exceptional at what they did.

When they started their own mini empire, working for themselves and making their own connections, another budding family in New York caught wind and tried to put an end to them and their ambitious new family.

Pietro, Wanda’s twin brother was killed one night while he was out on a job - a job that Wanda later found out was a hit and Pietro had been set up. I comforted her the night she found out about her brother, her only living blood in this world. That’s when she became serious about the business. She changed that night, her eyes not holding the same spark as they used to, her smile never really reaching her eyes anymore.

She took solace in me, and slowly I fell in love with her. We became lovers, but nothing more on Wanda’s end, as she felt it was too dangerous to get close to anyone ever again.

She quickly found respect once she found out who killed her brother, and took her time killing them in return, torturing them and giving them the pain she had felt tenfold.

She came home that night covered in blood and that was the first time I had seen her cry since Pietro’s death. I washed her as she sobbed, mourning her brother and her innocence.

She had two men that would do anything for her, that would lay down and die for her if she so asked them to. Their names were Dimitri and Leo, two boys she had known in the orphanage back in Sokovia and took under her wing when she and Pietro started their own family. They helped her murder the man that killed her brother and they stayed by her side, no matter what.

Dimitri and Leo were loyal, like guard dogs, and she made sure they were also loyal to me. I felt uncomfortable having one, or both of them, following me as I went shopping or if I just went out for a walk, but Wanda demanded it. She wouldn’t allow someone else to be taken from her.

Even though she wouldn’t commit to me, she would never look at another person the way she looked at me. I knew she loved me, but she was afraid, and I loved her enough to know that and be patient with her.

But the more power she gained, the more hardened she became. I had to remind myself constantly that she loved me, even when she fucked me. She became rough with me, almost callous, using my body simply for her own pleasure.

“My beautiful malyshka,” she purred as she thrusted her strap deeper into my mouth. “You take my cock so well.”

I held back tears, bobbing my head up and down her long, thick shaft. She had my hair wrapped in her fist as she pulled me down into her length. I nearly gagged as I took it to the hilt, doing anything and everything to please her.

I knew she got off on the power she had over me, and to be honest, I also got off on the immense amount of power she had. To an extent, I enjoyed being used by her, but afterwards I just wanted to be treated sweetly, kindly, and with love.

She pulled me off of her cock, my spit trailing from my tongue to the tip, my eyes glistening with unshed tears as she tilted my head up to look at her.

She was completely naked in front of me, save for the strap secured tightly around her hips, and I was mesmerized by the sight of her.

Her brown locks fell past her shoulders, barely brushing along the top of her perfect breasts, her thick lips parted ever so slightly, her green eyes, deep and dark, stared down at me, and her hands, adorned with silver rings, gripped at me as she helped me up from my kneeling position.

“Detka,” she whispered as she ran her hands along my hips, my skin forming goosebumps at her touch. “You know how hard work has been lately.” I nodded, knowing she had stayed up late nights trying to solve problems or help people instead of sleeping. “I need to just … use you. Okay? Just for tonight.”

My eyes were round like saucers as she turned me around, my back pressed against her front, her cock pushing into my ass and her lips on my neck. I almost gave in immediately at the feel of her against me, holding me against her and her teeth gently digging into my sensitive flesh.

I let out a moan as she pushed us towards the bed, my hands going out to catch myself as we landed on the soft mattress, her weight pressing me down.

Her hips moved against my own and I gripped at the sheets below me, my body trembling with need. She raised herself up off of me and spread my cheeks, letting the silicone dick slip between them as she rutted against me.

“W-Wanda,” I whimpered softly, turning my head to look at her. “What -”

“Shh, malyshka, shh.” I trusted her, but sometimes she was unpredictable and that made me nervous. “I’m gonna take good care of you.”

My heart fluttered in my chest at her words as she thrust herself against me, her fingers digging into my hips. She pulled me up to meet her thrusts and I pushed myself up on my elbows so I could grind my hips into hers.

“Oh, malyshka,” she cooed, “You’re being such a good girl for me.”

I bit my lip as she slid the cock down between my legs, letting the tip hit my clit.

I let out a whimpering cry as she slid into me, my cunt milking her desperately as she began fucking me. I could feel her eyes burning into me, watching me as I took every inch of her.

“You’re perfect - fuck - look at that pussy.”

“Wanda …” I moaned, blushing furiously when I realized she was admiring me so intimately.

The squelching sound of my pussy taking her strap was loud in the quiet room, the only other sound was the squeaking of the bed as she pounded into me.

She slapped my ass roughly and I pressed my face into the bed sheets, stifling my cries as she continued to spank me.

“I want to hear you,” she said, her accent thick. “I want to hear you crying for me.”

She smacked me again and I jerked, my hands balled up into fists to try and control my emotions.

“Did you hear me?” Her hand came down on my ass hard and I cried out, my pussy throbbing and my body aching.

“Yes, ma’am!” I cried, my tears falling onto the sheets below me.

“Again.” She demanded with another slap.

“Yes, ma’am!”

She admired my reddened cheeks, smiling as she heard me crying softly beneath her. She knew I loved it; I loved being treated like this.

She pulled out of me, leaving me wanting as she flipped me over onto my back. I hissed as my ass met the cool bed sheets and she hummed at the sound. She took hold of the cock and slapped it against my aching cunt, my whole body jerking towards her at the feel.

“So sensitive. Are you close, detka?”

I nodded and she smiled down at me, reaching up to pinch one of my nipples between her talented fingers.

I cried out softly, my hands on either side of my head, knowing very well that she loved when I showed my submission to her like that. I wouldn’t touch her or myself unless I had her permission to.

She tugged and twisted my nipple until it was red with abuse, then brought her head down and sucked the other one into her mouth, her teeth scraping along my hardened bud roughly.

I could feel myself getting closer and closer to release with everything she did to me. If only she would touch my pussy …

She bit down into my nipple and I cried out, my body pressing up into hers. She lifted her head up, a string of saliva hanging from her lips, and smiled at me.

“We need to get these beautiful nipples pierced.” She brought her hand up to my wet breast and slapped it. “Imagine how sensitive you’ll be then.”

I shuddered, my mind beginning to get fuzzy at her words. I’d let her do whatever she wanted to me. She dressed me, she fed me, she fucked me, I was hers to do with as she pleased.

She licked her lips and propped herself up, gripping the cock between her legs and rubbing it along my puffy slit, my wetness spreading all along my thighs.

“What a mess you made.” She hummed softly. “I’ll have to clean you up when I’m done with you.”

I could feel my legs trembling as she slid the cock towards my hole, slight panic setting in when I realized she intended to fuck my ass.

“Relax,” she said as she inched it in, my whole body tensing as she forced herself into my ass. “Relax.”

“W-Wanda,” I whimpered. “I can’t …”

“You will.” She grunted as she continued to slide her slippery cock inside of me.

It felt like fire as she slid, at least half of it, in and out of my ass. I grabbed at the sheets, my jaw falling slack as it started to feel somewhat good. It still hurt, but Wanda managed to make anything feel pleasurable after a while.

She reached her free hand down to play with my clit and my eyes fell shut at the feel, my climax approaching rapidly.

“I’m gonna cum inside your ass.” She groaned, her hips jerking as her hand moved to the base of the cock, ready to squeeze the balls to squirt her cum into me.

I came at her words, at her touch, at the feel of her inside me, and suddenly she let the cock spurt its cum into me, heightening my high. I cried out softly, my hips rising to meet her thrusts as she fucked the cum into my ass.

She leaned down towards me, wrapping her free hand around my throat and looked into my eyes as she continued to fuck me. She squeezed slightly and I couldn’t help but moan at the feeling of my airway being constricted. If she killed me now, I wouldn’t mind. I would still love her more than words could ever say.

Her hand slid from the cock to my clit and I tensed underneath her, my whole body humming with arousal.

“Give me one more, malyshka, just one more.”

I felt myself cumming again, white hot pleasure washing over me as I clenched around nothing.

“God, I wish I had a cock so I could feel this tight pussy squeeze the cum right out of me.”

I whimpered softly as two of her fingers slid into me, feeling my walls clench around her.

“Yes, just like that,” she mused softly, thrusting her fingers into me gently. “So fucking tight.”

“Wanda,” I whispered. “Kiss me.”

She looked into my eyes and for a brief moment I could see her love for me in them, but then they darkened and she pulled away from me.

“Get cleaned up and get dressed.” She said as she stood from the bed, unhooking the strap from around her hips. “I’ve got a meeting in an hour and I need you to stay out of sight.”

I sighed, rubbing my face with my hands as I held back tears. She could fuck me like she hated me, but she couldn’t even show me that she loved me in private.

“Do you understand?” She asked and I nodded.

“Yes.” I whispered sadly.

She loved me, but she couldn’t be in love with me. She could be sweet and gentle with me sometimes, but showing any affection was off limits. Was this how it truly had to be?

I missed the days when she used to kiss me, when she used to be loving and tender with me. I miss my Wanda.

•

@natashaswife4125 @poison-blackheart @aemilia19 @claxre-bear @dorabledewdroop

#oizysian’s kinktober #wanda maximoff fanfiction #mommy wanda #wanda maximoff x y/n #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x female reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff smut #kinktober

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intimidating-fettuccine · 6 months ago

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Rambles because I’m just thinking about introducing some of them to your family.

It started with Jason. Because look, this guy in my canon is RICH. He’s your boyfriend but he’s also your sugar daddy and it becomes obvious when you start wearing much nicer clothing and bringing home expensive gifts and eventually you’ll show up to your parent's house wearing a custom made outfit and they’re gonna have questions. So, you pull up with Jason one day when it’s time to introduce him, and he’s wearing what is obviously luxury clothing. He tried to tone it down, but it’s still obviously very luxurious, and his long ass hair is exquisitely done and he probably looks like he could be royalty, and your family is probably expecting him to be snooty and a bit arrogant, but he’s SO NICE?? Jason tries SOOO desperately hard to get your family to like him, so he is on his 100% best behavior possible. He helps set the table, he helps clean up after dinner, he takes an interest in everything your family says, and he’s sociable and sweet (not that he’s not normally like that around you) but it’s a bit of a shock. Needless to say, he makes a fantastic impression.

But then there’s someone like Jeff. He asks you if he should try and hide his scars, but you tell him not to. You’ve explained to your family that he was in a horrible accident and his body has suffered some bad scarring, but they don’t necessarily expect him to show up with a smile cut up on his face and burn scars across his whole body, along with other scars obtained from the job. He’s obviously a nervous wreck, he even tried to dress up, but his speech is pretty rugged and he’s obviously kind of rowdy and anxious, but that comes off as very down to earth. While your family was a bit nervous at first with his size and clumsiness and the concern about his scars, it’s very clear that he cherishes you so much, especially considering he goes out of his way to make sure you’re comfortable all night. He helps clean up, he even offers to grab everyone drinks throughout the night even though it’s not his house every time he gets one for himself, and once he settles down he starts cracking jokes and making everyone laugh. Despite starting off rough, another successful pass.

And then you have a guy like Tim. Well put together, nicely groomed, and well dressed, AND he shows up with a freshly baked pie. He’s sweet to your family, he offers to help with dinner, and he makes great conversation. Tim is an absolute gentleman and incredibly homey, and he gives off a very charming impression. God forbid you have a relative that loves fishing because my Tim is obsessed with fishing and he will sit there talking about different fish and rods and tackle and fishing spots for literal hours, and he’ll pull out his phone and show off all his photos of fish he’s caught. His fresh baked pie is absolutely loved and he even gives out the recipe and offers to leave them with other recipes as well. He’s well spoken and respectful, and Tim would literally pass any situation with flying colors when you’re introducing him to anyone. He promises that when next he visits he'll bring some fresh caught fish and make a fish fry for everyone to enjoy so they don't have to cook anything, and perhaps another freshly baked dessert.

Then we have dear sweet Toby. He’s an absolute nervous wreck. He’s worried about his Tourette’s bothering someone, he’s worried about saying something stupid, he’s worried that everyone will hate him and that they’ll demand you break up with him, and despite you reassuring him that would not happen, he’s anxious. He puts on his nicest shirt and some new pants, he brings flowers, and he hopes to God that everything will go well. Luckily, it does. The flowers are well received, and with how sweet and respectful he’s clearly trying to be, he’s welcomed in kindly. None of his tics or stuttering bothers anyone, and everyone treats him well, so he starts to relax. His more boyish side comes out, and his excitement is very endearing, and with him constantly asking if he can help out in any way, it’s obvious he cares about making a good impression and being there for you and your family. Yeah, he might have accidentally knocked a few things over and dropped some stuff on accident, but he's quick to clean stuff up and he always apologizes and makes well, and nobody really minds. He’s got a smile on his face pretty much the whole night, and before he knows it they’re already inviting him back again, and Toby didn’t know it could possibly feel this good to be accepted by your family.

Finally, I’m pulling in Slender. Obviously, he goes in his human form, and he goes by a human name, but the guy is classy. He’s very refined, wearing a freshly ironed and well put together business casual outfit. He brings gifts and is gentlemanly right off the bat. Slender is refined and graceful, and he commands the room in a very subtle way, making sure to be kind and not intrude on anything, but also making it quite obvious he’d like to get to know everyone. He makes intelligent conversation and offers assistance, complimenting your family on their home and any food he’s provided. It’s hard not to be charmed by him, with how knowledgeable and alluring he is, and the entire night goes off without a hitch. He asks your family what kinds of things they like, and promises to bring more gifts the next time he visits. He probably discusses things like books, maybe even shows or movies, and says he’ll look into anything recommended to him, and he does, and he also promises to send you home with anything he’s recommended to them as well. He comes off very well, his hundreds of years of age making him appear as what we’d call an old soul, and your family will probably ask you how you found someone like him in the first place.

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sugarprincessbitch · 10 months ago

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Hi! I saw that you are open for solicitations, so…. How about yandere! Tyrion who is in love with Reader? She is just so sweet and kind, she doesn't understand much about politics, but she makes her effort. She is (unfortunately) engaged against her will to a nasty lord, what would Tyrion do? Headcannons, please

WARNING: Mentions of Yandere aspects, manipulation, death and killing

It was another boring day at court on the Red Keep, Tyrion had taken the place deceased Ned Stark had taken as the hand of the King...this king being his stupid nephew Joffrey. He was with the other advisors hearing Cersie ranting demands like always and dear Joffrey making additions to his mother's no senses.

Tyrion was like always, drowning in his cup of wine, trying to zone out his sister's annoying high pitch voice. He decided to observe the people in the room, he saw the same long and boring faces of the lords, but when he put his piercing gaze on Cersie direction...he saw a young maiden standing uncomfortable behind the Queen, he had never seen her before or never cared too much to notice. She peaked his attention...he had seen young noble maidens flocking around his sister, but the difference is how she didn't recoil while looking at his horrible face or his odd short limbs.

...

It is a matter well known that Tyrion is terrible at anything that matters the problems of the heart...we know from the books and the series, mostly the books, that he had troublesome relationships with women in his life. He tends to be naturally possessive and protective of the woman he holds affection for, so if he was a Yandere...he will be a dangerous one.

He can seem calm and collected on the exterior, but he is an animal waiting to snap, for something he is the son of Tywin Lannister. Tyrion will appeal to be passive aggressive to a possible threat for his darling affection, or even recurring to send men to kill them, but only if this person is a minor lord or a commoner.

Tyrion doesn't have to his advantage beauty or natural charm to attract his darling, but he has his cunning mind...that will help manipulating her. I think he will guilt trip her, using his disability at favour.

If his darling was not a noble lady, he will try to use his power and financial position to charm her, if the first doesn't work then he will threaten her with it. He may be a mockery in his family, but he still has the Lannister blood running from his veins and their money in his pockets.

But we will suppose that the darling is a noble lady of a not such an important house, then he will have complications at the time of having her in his grasp fully. Because there are norms on how a lady has to handle themselves and also a social expectation of courting and marriage, he will not only have to gain his darling affection but also the favour of her father.

It will be more troublesome if her darling is engaged with another Lord, this will send him to a furious pit and he will start to plan the downfall of the poor bastard that decided to get on his way.

Tyrion will probably try to coerce his darling father to change his mind and choose him as a possible bachelor, maybe he is a dwarf, but he comes from an important house and also he is currently in a very prestigious position, the hand of the king.

If this doesn't work (that I think it will probably go this way) he will convince his darling that he is better than an old hag, he will treat her kindly and with the utmost respect. Also, he will start courting his darling and showering her in costly jewelry and refined dresses.

When he finally has her on his grasp, convinced that he is the better suitor for her and not his future husband, he will fall upon his "enemy" with everything he has. Clearly, sending his men to kill silently that Old lord his darling was engaged with, claiming that it died from his frail and old age, natural causes.

The sudden death of his darling suitor and the pressure he will put not only financially but also using his position on the court so your lord father has no other option than to marry you to him.

Now, he finally has you for himself... And you know what they say, the preserverants win at the end.

#asioaf books #asioaf #fanfic #game of thrones #ice and fire books #house lannister #tyrion lannister #tyrion lannister x reader #thanks for the ask!#yandere game of thrones #yandere x reader #game of thrones universe

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nyoomerr · 1 year ago

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Another silly prompt if you’d like:

Shen Qingqiu starts exhibiting ‘symptoms’ of being some fraction Heavenly Demon thanks to every heavenly demon he’d met previously feeding him their blood.

(Maybe he and Binghe came across some artifact meant to ‘awaken one’s bloodline’ and/or Airplane had some cut plot-line about an artificial heavenly demon for Binghe to fight).

ok i said no more prompts for now but i've been thinking about a really stupid idea for this one and i couldn't stop thinking about it so dfkjh here it is!!

---

There’s no reason to suspect anything is out of the ordinary, at first. The visiting dignitary and his troupe are exceedingly deferential to both Luo Binghe and Shen Qingqiu in equal measure; not unusual, considering the amount of importance Luo Binghe places on having Shen Qingqiu treated well.

Lesser demons have been beheaded for conveniently ‘forgetting’ to greet their emperor’s human spouse with enough respect. More politically empowered demons - the ones that understand just how important it is to respect a powerful demon’s demands for his wife - have had trade agreements stalled and family honor lost for being too nice to Shen Qingqiu, crossing Luo Binghe’s hair-trigger alarm for any potential competition to his Shizun’s attention.

Taking both extremes into account, the safest bet is usually to treat Luo Binghe and Shen Qingqiu with the same level of esteem. Indeed, this visiting dignitary’s actions are very normal.

…Or they had started as such, and then Shen Qingqiu had let his guard down, and now they’re on day three of this particular political visit and things seem to have shifted ever so slightly to the left.

The little lordling is still plenty respectful to them both, of course, and he hasn’t started looking too long or too kindly at Shen Qingqiu, so it isn’t - erm, it isn’t any any sort of wife plot, trying to stir up jealousy with the stallion protagonist.

Instead, it’s both more and less alarming than that: this demon has somehow gotten it into his head that Shen Qingqiu is in charge here.

Never mind what Luo Binghe may or may not have to say about such a thing!! This is about the law of the land - the actual, real emperor between the two of them is Luo Binghe, if only because Luo Binghe knows well that Shen Qingqiu couldn’t tolerate the work of such a position. Part time empresses, part time peak lords got to have naps; Luo Binghe didn’t get those unless Shen Qingqiu thickened his face and made gestures from the bed that may or may not be construed as requests for cuddles. Shut up.

Anyway, the point is thus: Luo Binghe is emperor of the demonic lands. Shen Qingqiu is to be treated well when he decides he wants to participate in a bit of demonic politicking, but he is not supposed to be the one little visiting dignitaries look to for the final decision.

Shen Qingqiu tries to ignore it, of course. If he pretends he doesn’t notice, maybe Luo Binghe will do the same, and then there’s less of a chance of Luo Binghe being weird about it in bed later!

But as the days stretch on, the visiting dignitary seems to become more confident in his decision on which one of them is in charge, and it finally comes to a head during the feast on the final day: the little lordling seats himself to the side of Shen Qingqiu, rather than that of Luo Binghe.

Shen Qingqiu shifts uncomfortably in his seat, glancing over the top of his fan at the dignitary. Surely, he’ll realize his mistake here…?

“Lord Shen,” the demon lord says, seemingly oblivious to the tension throughout the banquet hall as everyone watches the political misstep in action. “Once more, our people can only thank you and your husband for the hospitality you’ve afforded us during this visit. The agreement between our lands will -”

Shen Qingqiu closes his fan with a snap, drawing himself up with a mental tirade of a thousand of his best curses. That really is the last straw - if he doesn’t correct this mistake now, Luo Binghe might really decide to do something petty and violent later to correct the offense!

“Lord Xia,” Shen Qingqiu says, voice perfectly level. “It appears as if you may have had one too many drinks this afternoon; your place is over there.”

Saying as such, Shen Qingqiu gestures sharply with his fan to Luo Binghe’s other side. The dignitary pauses, glancing between Luo Binghe and Shen Qingqiu.

“...No,” he says slowly, “I’m - that is, this lowly one is fairly certain his loyalty is to Lord Shen…”

Shen Qingqiu glances up to the heavens, which have surely forsaken him many years ago. Oh, why did this stupid little man have to word it like that!!

“Xia Yang had best remember what is and is not his,” Luo Binghe says lowly. “The only one allowed to pledge such loyalty to Shizun is myself.”

Xia Yang once more glances between the two of them, his expression growing more confused by the moment.

“Is Lord Shen… not the demon emperor of this realm?”

Shen Qingqiu stares at him. To his side, Luo Binghe is staring too, though with a far more shrewd expression; clearly, he’s trying to parse this response out as either an acceptable excuse for being too friendly with Shen Qingqiu or not.

“I’m afraid Lord Xia is mistaken,” Shen Qingqiu says when it becomes clear that Luo Binghe is busy being silent and brooding. “This lord is quite human.”

The visiting dignitary’s brows draw together, and then slowly he tilts his head up, scenting the air.

“...Is Lord Shen sure?” Xia Yang asks, clearly uncertain. “Of course, I had heard of the tales of Luo Binghe and his human spouse, but Lord Shen is…”

“Speak plainly, or lose your tongue,” Luo Binghe snaps.

Shen Qingqiu sighs, reaching over to rap his knee under the table sharply. This sticky disciple of his, always so snappish when it comes to what others say about Shen Qingqiu, ah! This scum villain has had to tolerate far worse things said about him than this sort of mistake, you know!

“It is only that Lord Shen’s blood is clearly of heavenly demon origin,” the little lordling says, shifting uncomfortably under the scrutiny.

Shen Qingqiu feels a bit mortified. Has he - has he really consumed that much of Luo Binghe’s blood??

“Xia Yang smells my own blood in Shizun’s veins,” Luo Binghe says, still looking a bit ruffled. “Shizun is human.”

“All due respect to Lord Luo,” Xia Yang says, “but Lord Shen’s heavenly demon blood is distinct from your own. It -”

Xia Yang cuts off, his mouth shutting so fast he seems to almost bite his own tongue right off and his cheeks coloring a scandalized pink. Shen Qingqiu feels a sense of great foreboding for what is about to be said next.

“Speak,” Luo Binghe hisses.

“Lord Shen’s bloodline is clearly the same as Lord Luo’s,” Xia Yang says in a rush. “This one isn’t sure how close, but it - ah, from the smell of his blood, this one thought Lord Shen might be Lord Luo’s father, or perhaps an uncle…”

The banquet hall is dead silent. Shen Qingqiu feels a bit faint.

“Tianlang-jun,” he says, mostly to himself.

“And that snake, too,” Luo Binghe agrees, his eyes flashing and his demonic qi writhing around him. “Shizun, you said they were dead.”

“They are!” Shen Qingqiu exclaims, still feeling a bit regretful about it. “But - well, it isn’t like I could siphon their blood out! It’s all mixed up in there!”

Luo Binghe gnashes his teeth, glaring down at the table. He looks very much like he wishes his parental family was still alive, actually, just so he could have the pleasure of serving them a beat down for putting their blood in Shen Qingqiu’s body and causing this misunderstanding in the first place.

“Lord Shen… has consumed the blood of several heavenly demons?” Xia Yang asks curiously. Shen Qingqiu almost wants to yell at him to read the room just a bit, ah!

“Indeed,” Shen Qingqiu says instead, his voice positively frosty. “So as Lord Xia can see, there has been a misunderstanding: this Lord is human.”

Xia Yang blinks, looks between Shen Qingqiu and Luo Binghe a final time, and gets up to exchange seats so he’s finally sitting in the proper location. Shen Qingqiu reaches blindly for his wine. Ah, that poor little demon, he really will end up on the shit side of things, after riling Luo Binghe up this much! And this political visit had been going so well, too -!

Shen Qingqiu glances over at Luo Binghe. He does not, in fact, look quite so furious as he had a moment prior. Instead, he’s watching Xia Yang with a look that is very, very concerning to Shen Qingqiu.

“...You said Shizun smelled like he could be my father?” Luo Binghe asks quietly, the tips of his ears pink.

Ah. Never mind. That poor little demon would see his end by Shen Qingqiu’s hand, for what he’s just done to their bedroom life!!

#OKAY BRAINWORMS FROM THE PAST FEW DAYS GONE i am so sorry sqq djkf #svsss #bingqiu #scum villain's self saving system #人渣反派自救系统 #fic drabble

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lowkeychenle · 1 year ago

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Irrevocably [ZCL] (2)

Description: His decision has been made, but sometimes even Zhong Chenle can question his choices...

A/N: Thanks to popular demand, we have part two! I'm thinking this will be a three-parter. Do let me know if you would like a new one.

Genre: Angst, smut (no real sex but like smutty enough ig)

Content Warnings: Chenle is manipulative as hell in this!!! he is not a good guy in this fic!!! Do not read if you don't like it!!!!! This has gone into infidelity territory. Chenle is a bad dude in here, but the reader becomes a lil manipulative too. it's dramatic okay?

Word Count: 4,677

Pairing: Zhong Chenle x Reader | Mark Lee x Reader

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Juliet's Masterlist | Requests

Not hearing from Chenle for a while hurt, but you expected after he left. You knew better than to assume your spot in his life anymore, and when you heard from Mark that Chenle and his girlfriend had gotten back together, it stung more than you thought it would.

You had nowhere to direct your anger. After all, you had no real reason to be angry in the first place. Chenle never promised you anything. He never once said he wanted to be with you in any other way besides what you already had.

Embarrassingly enough, you’d tried to reach out to him. None of your messages went through, not even making it to the ‘delivered’ status.

“So, he came over to see you, screwed you, and then left you in the morning after she called?” Mark raises his eyebrows, blinking in surprise. He sits on the floor between your couch and the coffee table.

“So eloquently put.” You roll your eyes. Sighing, you lean back against the cushion. “But yeah, that’s what happened. And now he has me blocked on everything.”

“I guess I’m just confused,” Mark says. “Why would he do that?”

You grab a decorative throw pillow and cover your face with it. “This is Chenle we’re talking about. I stopped asking about motives a long time ago.”

“Was he like this before?”

“No.” Your chest deflates. “Honestly, he used to be a really good friend, even when we were…you know. Are you mad that I slept with him?”

“Why would I be mad?” He frowns. “I mean, you know I like you. But I’m not gonna tell you what you can and cannot do with your body just because of that. If we were exclusive, it’d be different.”

“I almost stopped him. He’s just…familiar, if that makes sense.” Your cheeks heat up as you bite your tongue to stop yourself from continuing. The last thing you need to do is make any of this worse.

“I think we all have that person we’re weak for.” Mark gives you a half smile. “I get it.”

You cradle your pillow in your lap and rest your head in your palms. “This is probably the last thing you want to talk about.”

“I’ve had more favorable conversations,” he agrees. “And…if you don’t want something with me, that’s fine, you know? You just gotta be honest with me.”

The stark contrast between him and Chenle almost makes you question everything. Mark treats you the way you’re meant to be treated—kindly, with respect, like you matter. Chenle, on the other hand? He was nice to you when sex wasn’t involved…for the most part.

Back before he’d met his girlfriend, he was as close to perfect as he could get. He was respectful of you, he didn’t push your boundaries, he took care of you. Now it was manipulation and heartache and lies. Chenle lied to you. He said he missed you, that all he thought about when he was with her was you, and you couldn’t even try to believe that anymore. It made no sense.

Actions speak louder than words.

But if Mark is perfect, why the hell are you still thinking about Chenle?

“I can do that.” You sit there for a moment, contemplating what you’re even going to say to make any of this better. “I…I like you, but I like him, too.”

“So it wasn’t just sex.” Mark tries to understand, confusion plastered across his face.

“It was. But when he was here the other night, I kind of realized I didn’t think that way anymore. Everything he said to me…It just doesn’t feel fake, I guess.” You fidget with your fingers, unsure of why you’re giving so much detail to him.

“That changes things a little bit.” He shifts, resting one of his arms on his knee. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m still not mad. But I think you need to figure things out. I’m not okay with being a second choice, (Y/N). And I hope you know you deserve better than the bullshit he’s been putting you through.”

“I’m trying,” you tell him.

“Right.” He stands, brushing his jeans off. “Do me a favor and call me when you figure things out, okay?”

“I–”

“It’s alright. I’ll talk to you later.”

You can’t even get another word out before Mark is out of the door. Shock courses through you, and you wonder if you made a mistake by telling him about your feelings for Chenle. Yes, his actions have been questionable lately, but that’s not the Chenle you knew. The Chenle you knew is the sort of guy who falls on the floor laughing, the over competitive to a fault sort, and whoever the hell left your apartment that night was not him.

Fantastic. Now you don’t have Mark, either.

The rest of the day is spent sitting in the exact same spot. You try to find something to keep you occupied, but without hearing from Mark, your phone is drier than the Sahara desert. Not to mention nothing seems interesting to you anymore. Staring at the ceiling has become quite the hobby.

You didn’t realize how often you spoke with Chenle until he was gone from your life completely. The two of you used to text constantly, not about anything in particular. Feeling the lack of his company hurts deep in your soul, in a way that shakes you to your core.

When you head into your kitchen to throw a bag of popcorn into the microwave, you don’t even get the bag out of the plastic before you hear a knock. Frowning, you check around to see if Mark had left anything, and maybe it was him coming back for it.

You don’t find anything, but you walk over and throw the door open. Everything inside you shifts, the blood apparently draining from your body at the sight of Chenle standing in your doorframe.

You barely even have a second to think before he’s lunging forward, a hand grasping the small of your back as he leads you back into your apartment and kisses you like his life depends on it. Shock courses through you, and by the time he’s pulling away, you’re at a loss for words.

You should be mad at him. You should push him away and ask him why the fuck he’s suddenly back.

Except that’s no longer on your mind when you catch the look in his eyes. You quickly realize Mark was right—everyone has someone they’re weak for, and for you? It’s Chenle. His chest heaves from the abruptness of the kiss, his tongue darting out to wet his full lips.

“God, I need you so fucking bad right now,” he groans, pulling you flush against him.

You don’t question it. In your mind, this means his girlfriend must’ve left again. She no longer exists in your mind. Chenle would never do that to someone.

“I saw him leave,” Chenle whispers, trailing his lips down your neck to where it meets your shoulder. “Every time I see him with you, I want to kill him.”

“Chenle, I—”

“You like getting me strung up like this, huh?” He nips your skin. “I hate thinking about anyone else fucking you.”

Your world spins around you, and you’re half-convinced this is a dream, but you feed into it regardless. You’ve craved him the entirety of his absence, so if this is all in your head, you’ll thank yourself when you wake up.

“You can’t leave again,” you say, tangling your fingers in his hair.

“I won’t, baby,” he hums, resting his forehead on yours. “Can’t stay away from you.”

You tug him back to you, mouths smashing together. Every logical thought you’ve ever had has quickly exited, leaving you alone with a next to primal desire for the man before you. When you pull on his hair, he moans into your kiss, sending excited chills up and down your spine.

Remembering Mark briefly, you push Chenle away, turning toward your kitchen and aching for oxygen. You hate the way you want to forget the past two weeks. Like everything he’s done to you doesn’t matter anymore because he suddenly wants you again.

It’s not okay. You know it’s not, but somehow, it’s not enough to change your mind. You have to distance yourself from him, or every ounce of self-respect you’ve ever had gets flushed down the drain.

“(Y/N), where are you going?” Irritation tinges his voice.

“Better question,” you say, pointing an accusing finger at him. “Where the hell have you been?”

His eyebrows pinch, creasing his forehead. You swear you see a hint of guilt, but it disappears from your view when he turns his head.

“You think you can disappear for weeks and then when you show up at my door, I’ll just drop my pants for you?”

“That’s not what I said,” he replies with a scoff. “I don’t know what I was thinking, okay? I saw you and it just…I need you.”

“No.” You shake your head. “You don’t get to do that anymore.”

“What the hell is your problem?” Chenle’s voice raises. “You were never like this before.”

You freeze, a laugh of disbelief escaping your lips as you slap a hand over your mouth. “I’m the one that’s different?”

A shaky breath follows, and then you break into a psychotic laughing fit, gripping onto the counter as actual tears well in your eyes as you try to regain your composure.

“Your girlfriend broke up with you because you left pictures of me in your phone,” you remind him. “And then your first response was to come to my house and tell me how much you missed me and how much you need me, but then you went running back to her the second she was willing to talk about it.”

“That’s—”

“I’m not done,” you snap. Your fury grows, and red clouds your vision. “I warned you. I warned you she would make you choose, and you left without any hesitation. And I haven’t heard from you this whole time, so what the hell was I supposed to think?”

“Are you done now?” He narrows his eyes at you, crossing his arms over his chest.

You run your tongue over your teeth, nodding slowly. “You know what? Yeah. I am. Get out, Chenle.”

“Hey, that’s not what I meant—” He takes a step forward, and you take a matching one backward.

“Does she know you’re here?” You raise your eyebrows. “If I texted you right now, would I still be blocked?”

Chenle glances up at the ceiling. He doesn’t even need to tell you the answer—you already know.

“Oh, my God.” You stumble a little further back. “You just barged into my apartment, tried to get with me, and you’re still with her?”

“It’s not like that.”

“Oh, then please do enlighten me. How is it?”

“Why do you have to do this right now?” he asks, tugging his fingers through his hair as he turns away.

You don’t know him anymore. That much is clear to you—you will never be his, he will never be yours. Nothing about this situation is going to work, not that you ever truly thought it would in the first place. Could you really even be mad at him? You knew what you were getting yourself into when everything started.

“What do you feel about me?” you ask, folding your arms over your chest.

“What the hell are you talking about?” he shoots back, recoiling.

“Am I even your friend anymore?” You scoff. “Be fucking serious right now, do you see me as anything other than an easy fuck?”

“There’s nothing exactly easy about you, (Y/N).” He narrows his eyes at you. “I’m not letting you go.”

“Your girlfriend doesn’t want you here, Chenle.” You try to stay as cool as possible, letting your anger dissipate. “If you’re not going to leave her, you need to leave me. She made you pick, and now I am, too.”

“Are you serious?”

“Clearly.”

“Not really sure where this fucking ego came from, but I don’t even know you anymore.” He shakes his head, turning away from you.

“Yeah,” you agree. “You’re too busy saving face in a relationship you’re clearly not too attached to. Does she not fuck you good enough?”

His silence is all you need. You imagine the way he closes his eyes, like his emotions are becoming too much for him.

“Or, I bet she hasn’t touched you at all since you got back together. Poor Chenle, can’t stand not getting his dick wet for a fucking month. You realize you’re doing exactly what she expects you not to do?”

“Yeah, because you’re such a saint, right?” He lets out a bitter laugh. “Hanging out with Mark and leading him on when I’m clearly the one you want.”

“If you don’t leave, I’m calling your girlfriend to come get you,” you threaten him, cocking an eyebrow.

“You’re gonna regret this,” he says.

“I don’t think I will.”

He leaves you alone, and all you can do is crumble to the floor when he shuts the door behind him. You trace over your lips, guilt sinking in at the thought of kissing Chenle when his girlfriend already thinks so low of you. How could you do this to her? She never did anything wrong to you.

As much as you know it’ll hurt, you steel your resolve. You deserve better, and this is exactly what you needed to catapult you toward Mark. He’ll be good to you, and eventually, you’ll get over Chenle. Hopefully, it’s not at Mark’s expense.

Jaemin was throwing a party. He invited Mark, who obviously decided he would take you. It’d been almost a month since Chenle burst into your apartment, so you figured you would be mostly over him in case he decided to show up at the same place.

Jaemin’s place was huge—hence why he’s always the host of these parties. The three story home is like a mansion, complete with dozens of empty rooms upstairs and vast space on the downstairs level for hundreds of people.

By the time you and Mark arrive, it’s already full. There are a few separate living rooms with giant couches, and random chairs strewn about for extra seating arrangements. Jaemin’s group usually sticks together. Years ago, when Chenle originally met them, he was the one who introduced you to the group. Everyone understood the dire situation between the two of you, but no one except Mark knew the full truth.

Since Chenle’s not there when you and Mark sit down, you hope that means he’s not coming at all.

Your relationship with Mark has gone well. You agreed to make it official, and the two of you proceeded to do normal relationship things. Even though you still have yet to sleep with him, you’ve done other things, and you were enjoying the slow pace you were taking. It was a nice contrast to the way things were with Chenle.

You sit on Mark’s lap, dropping your head into his neck while you laugh at something Jaemin said from across the room. His hands are latched around you firmly.

“No, that’s not even how that happened, dude.” Mark shakes his head, excitedly pointing at Jeno. “That motherfucker is just faster than me, okay? How was I supposed to know that?”

“You can just say you suck at sports,” Jeno retorts, grinning as he sips his drink.

Jisung stands from the other end of the couch. “Chenle’s here, gonna go grab him.”

You tense, and even though Mark feels it, you hope it’s not obvious to everyone else. Your boyfriend’s grip tightens on you, and he rubs his thumb on your hip in an attempt to comfort you. This’ll be the first time you’ve seen Chenle in a while, and you have no doubt in your mind that his girlfriend will be here too. You’ve met her plenty of times, but now it was different. She won. And she knows it, too.

“Are you okay?” Mark whispers in your ear. “We can do something else if you don’t want to be around him.”

“I’ll be fine.” You run your fingers through his hair and smile at him. “Thank you, though.”

“You sure?”

“Why wouldn’t I be? You know I don’t want him anymore.” You cup his cheeks and press a quick kiss to his lips. “You’re all I need and more.”

“Let me know if you change your mind. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.” He squeezes you once, and then the two of you return to your conversation with Jaemin and Jeno.

Renjun brings drinks for everyone, and you gratefully accept yours. As you tip the cup to your lips, three figures make their way through the darkness and into their spots on the couch. Jisung, Chenle, and his girlfriend.

She sits between him and Jisung, leaving Chenle only a few feet away from you. You make brief eye contact, and the only acknowledgement he gives you is a quick raise of his brows. His gaze sweeps over how you’re positioned on Mark, and you’re almost certain you see a scowl on his face right before he sits.

He rests against the cushion, crossing his legs before he puts his arm around his girlfriend and tugs her close to him. She doesn’t even seem to notice your existence, and you feel hate bubble in your gut at the thought of them being happy together.

Mark pokes your side, making you laugh as you curl further into him.

“What are you doing?” you ask, grabbing his hand. “You know I’m ticklish.”

“I just like touching you.” He winks and takes a large sip of his drink.

“You’re pretty good at it, too.” You watch the smile on his face widen, and only when Jaemin says your name, are you shaken away from Mark.

“(Y/N), last time I had a party, didn’t you and Chenle get so drunk that you convinced him to dance on top of the pool table?” Jaemin’s voice is filled with laughter at the memory. “Guys, he wouldn’t get down. She had to go up there and try to get him down. They’re fucking crazy together. Makes a party.”

“Ah, yes, too bad you got rid of the pool table.” You set your drink down and shuffle on Mark’s lap.

Jaemin frowns. “No, I didn’t—”

“I’m sure you’ve got better stories than that trainwreck,” Chenle joins in.

You’ve been doing relatively well. Honestly, you thought you were making decent progress in getting over Chenle, but his words still sink into your gut and churn there until it turns into anger.

How can you make him hurt the same way he’s hurt you?

A plan forms in your mind, and you hide your smirk with your drink. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the way his girlfriend is staring at you. Her gaze drags over you as if she’s assessing which parts of you Chenle ever liked.

Well, it’s not like she hasn’t seen them. He only kept them saved for a year.

Time for you to put on a show. You want to piss them both off, and you know exactly how you can do just that.

You lean in to whisper in Mark’s ear. “Does this make you uncomfortable?”

“No, of course not.” He pulls away to look at your face. “You know it doesn’t.”

“Good. Then you know that I want you.”

He smirks. “Keep squirming this much, and you’ll know how much I want you, too.”

Mark gets a little more confident when he drinks, and you enjoy it. He reaches down and squeezes your ass quickly, but all that does is make you move more. The two of you laugh together, and he leans forward like he’s going to kiss you.

“Yo, if you two are gonna fuck, can you at least take it upstairs?” Jaemin throws his empty cup at the two of you, but since it’s a red solo cup, it ends up barely making it half the distance.

Mark’s lips brush your ear. “Kinda like the sound of that.”

You can’t even hide the shiver that runs down your spine. Instead of answering, you slide off his lap and hold your hand out to him. He gets up quickly and wraps his arm around your waist and tugs your back to his front before placing a kiss on your neck. The other boys whoop and holler as he guides you toward the stairs, both of you giggling the entire way.

You look over your shoulder, giggles fading when you catch the glare on Chenle’s face. If looks could kill, you’re sure both you and Mark would be eviscerated by now. He’s almost taunting you, daring you to move forward and go upstairs with Mark. Chenle’s girlfriend is scowling for a different reason, irritation plastered on her face while her arms are crossed over her chest.

After a few seconds like that, Chenle disappears from your view as Mark hand dips to squeeze your ass again. You intertwine your fingers with his and lead him all the way to the end of the hall. The door is unlocked, and the room is empty, so you close it behind you.

Mark smiles as you wrap your arms over his shoulders. You barely take time to appreciate it before you press your lips to his. He hums against your mouth. He walks you backwards, hands on your butt, until the back of your knees hit the mattress.

“You’re sure this is okay?” he mutters, gently kissing down your neck. “I’ve wanted to fuck you for so long.”

Your breath shudders, and you nod. “It’s more than okay.” You refuse to waste anymore time. Reaching beneath his shirt, you nudge it up his body.

He pulls it off in a swift motion, allowing you time to trace your fingers along his muscles. You push him onto the bed, and he backs up until he’s sitting against the headboard. Without hesitation, you join him in taking your shirt off. The lace of your bra is practically non-existent, but he gulps as you climb on top of him.

You guide his hands to your breasts, sighing when he squeezes them. Grinding down on him, you hold onto his shoulders. You feel his hardness through his shorts, and you lunge forward to kiss him. His tongue battles with yours, and you start to slowly lift yourself from his lap and sink back down as if you were riding his cock. Groaning, he kisses you harder, grasping your hips and helping you grind down on him, back and forth in rhythm with the way his mouth clashes with yours.

The straps of your bra fall down your arms and you tilt your head back at the deliciousness of the friction. Mark nips your collarbone, thrusting up to gain more friction.

“Fuck,” he moans. “Want you on my cock so bad.”

“God, me too.” You move faster, your body shaking and heat infiltrating every inch of you. It’s about time you took this step with Mark, and despite the way the glare on Chenle’s face as you went up the stairs with Mark excited you, you know Mark is everything you want.

He unbuttons your shorts, and you lift up to allow him to pull them down. Before his fingers can even latch onto the belt loops, the door slams open. Mark reacts quickly, flipping you over so he covers you with his body until he can get the throw blanket at the edge of it over you.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Mark hisses, quickly grabbing his shirt from the floor.

You clutch the blanket to your chest as you let your gaze travel to the door, and when you make eye contact with Chenle, your stomach twists.

“I…” Chenle pauses, glancing between Mark and you. “I don’t know.”

Tears well, but you refuse to let them fall in front of Chenle. You can’t lie and say you weren’t hoping this is what would happen, but now that it’s here, you have two men looking at you for answers.

“You’re a shitty person, you know that?” Mark says to Chenle. “What is she to you? A fucking toy? You think it makes you fucking cool to ditch her and then not want her to be with someone else?”

“What, and you treat her better? You were about to fuck her at a party—”

“Better than fucking her while I still have a girlfriend,” Mark snaps.

“What?” A soft voice sounds from behind Chenle, and he grimaces.

“No, that never happened, I—” Chenle frantically looks to you for support, fear in his eyes as he silently begs you to help him.

But you refuse to. It’s his own fault he’s in this situation.

Footsteps retreat, but Chenle stays put, panic rising as he tries to figure out whether or not he should stay or if he should go after his girlfriend.

“You’ll never fucking be anything to her,” Chenle spits at Mark. “You think she’ll ever think of you the way she thinks of me? She’s mine, and you’re an idiot if you think you stand a chance—”

Mark’s fist connects with Chenle’s jaw, and you scream. Launching up from the bed, you push yourself between them before Chenle can retaliate. You pant as you pull the straps of your bra back up and face Mark, putting your hand up.

“Mark, I—”

“Oh, fucking forget this.” He laughs, slapping his palm to his forehead. “He’s right, isn’t he? No matter what I do, it’ll always be him?”

You take a step forward. “It’s not like that—”

“He just insulted you, and you stood in front of him. You stood in front of him.” The anger on Mark’s face is new to you, and you feel shame prickle in your gut.

“Please, let me—”

“I wasn’t the one throwing punches,” Chenle says. “So it’s not like she had anything to protect you from—”

“Fuck this. I’m done.” Mark pushes past both of you, stopping to turn back and point. “You two are both fucked up. I don’t want to hear from either of you ever again.”

“Mark—” You start to follow him, but Chenle grabs your wrist. Glaring at him, you try to jerk away from him. “You’ve done enough, leave me alone.”

“It’s not…not like that. You’re half-naked, (Y/N), at least get dressed before you follow him.”

You curse loudly, running back into the room to grab your shirt from the floor. Tears blur your vision as you tug on the fabric back on and button your shorts. You try to ignore Chenle’s presence—considering that’s how you got here in the first place—but the emotions become too much.

You fall to your knees at the edge of the bed, Chenle’s form a blur as he moves toward you. Your fists clench into the bedding, and your body shakes as you truly realize what you’ve done.

Chenle’s embrace feels natural, easy to melt into, but you push him away with such force, he sits down on the floor next to you.

“Don’t touch me,” you hiss at him. “This is all your fault. Why can’t you just fucking leave me alone?”

“It’s okay,” he replies, nodding. “You should be mad at me. I’m so sorry. I don’t even know what just happened.”

You grip his shoulders and start shaking him. “What’s wrong with you? What happened to you? Where did Chenle go?”

For the first time in months, you see the old him. The one who actually cared for you. Guilt and shame cover his face as he takes in the state you’re in. You eventually become so weak, you crumble. He catches you, stroking the top of your head.

“I’m so sorry.” Chenle squeezes you tightly. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

#nct dream #chenle #nct imagines #nct #nct dream smut #nct scenarios #mark lee #lowkeyjaemle #nct dream angst #zhong chenle #chenle x reader #chenle angst #chenle smut #nct smut #nct angst

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alexawynters · 1 year ago

Text

Scarlet Whispers - pt 2

Gif not mine

A/N: Not sure about the formatting, copy and paste didn't quite work out as planned. Title subject to change, not sure how I feel about it. This is my first published fic here so pls be gentle. Also I'm terrible at summaries.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female!Reader

Trigger warnings (let me know if I forgot to tag anything): Mentions of past child abuse, ongoing adult child abuse, stalking, horror, dubcon, kidnapping, stockholm syndrome, gaslighting, angst, smut. There will be bits of fluff tho.

Rating: M. Minors DNI

Master list here

You miss your stop.

Not only do you miss your stop, but you end up all the way at the bus depot before the driver notices you passed out in one of the seats. The driver, a kindly older gentleman, offers to give you a lift home since it is the end of his shift anyway. He takes pity on you, perhaps due to your tired and sad appearance. Interestingly, no one seems to notice the red wisps behind his eyes.

You appreciate his kindness, but you are anxious about returning home. A quick look at your phone reveals that it is well past 6 PM and you have missed multiple calls and texts from both of your parents. This is not going to end well. In simple terms, you are fucked. Fortunately, the man doesn't seem to notice your restlessness as your leg bounces nervously as he gets closer to your home.

As you exit the vehicle, you politely thank him and offer to pay for the gas, but the man refuses. His accent changes slightly as he says, "anything to help." You shrug it off, as it is not your concern where people are from. Your focus is on more pressing matters. After closing the door, you square your shoulders and mentally prepare for the absolute shit show awaiting you as soon as you step through the front door.

It shouldn’t surprise you that your father’s booming voice is the first to be heard. “Where were you?”

You start with the truth. “Dad I’m sorry, I was on the bus after my exam, I fell asleep with my headphones-”

”I don’t want your excuses! While you live here under our roof, you will show us some respect, you will follow our rules! You had chores to do today, why didn’t you do them?”

A bead of sweat trails down the back of your neck. You hate being interrupted, and you hate being asked questions when they clearly don’t want the answers. Besides, you are in your twenties, not a child. “As I was saying, I-”

This time your mother interrupts. “Don’t speak to your father like that. He asked you a question, we expect you to answer it!.”

You grit your teeth. “I fell asleep on the bus, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“Always with the excuses this one.” Your father laments. “Do you think your future employer is going to care about any of that? No. He’s just going to want to know why you weren’t there.”

It takes every ounce of your sanity to not snap that your answer is the reason WHY you weren’t there, and not simply an excuse. Instead you hold your tongue. They aren’t here to listen, they don’t care. They just want to yell at you, and for you to be sorry.

“I tell you, with behavior like that it’s any wonder at all you’d even be able to keep a job. They would probably fire you on the spot, and then you would be right back on our doorstep, our problem once again to pick up the pieces.”

It’s all hypothetical of course - you’ve never been late to any of your classes, but you have not yet had a job, you weren’t allowed to. You are sure you wouldn’t be late to it though if you were to treat it like your classes. You know you can’t tell your parents this however. Might as well bite the bullet and get it over with.

“Yes Dad, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? Saying sorry simply doesn't cut it! Sorry doesn’t fix the problem that you caused, so tell me, how are you going to make the problem right?” he demands. A vein throbs in his forehead. Absently you think about how he knows he should watch his blood pressure, but that would require him to watch his temper. Y/D/N could never.

You know what he is looking for, he wants you to do your chores now, but it’s after 8PM and your exam is at 8AM. If you do your chores now, that leaves you little time for last minute studying, eating, bathing, sleeping, and then catching the bus back to the university. Helplessly, you look to your mother for help.

“Don’t look at me, this is your mess you’ve created. If you had just done what you were supposed to, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. If you had just been good, you could be doing whatever it is you do with your free time right now.”

It had always annoyed you greatly that your parents were unaware of your academic achievements. While it's true that you didn't have the best grades as a child, once you entered university and chose a major, you became a straight-A student, even going so far as to make the President’s list the last three years in a row. However, in their eyes, you would always be the little underachiever they had to take care of.

Tears well up in your eyes. This situation wasn't fair. It was an accident. You had fully intended to come home and do your chores, but you couldn’t have known you would sleep through your alarm on the bus. You had been so incredibly exhausted that you experienced a vivid nightmare whilst awake. You were aware that you needed more sleep, but your degree was your only way out of this miserable place. You couldn't risk losing it all just because you missed a few hours of sleep now and then.

“Please?” You beg. You didn’t have anything else to argue in your defense. “I’ll leave my headphones in my bag this time, I’ll set multiple alarms, I won’t sleep, just please let me go study!”

Your parents look at each other, having silent communication. Seeming to come to an agreement, your mother speaks first. “Y/N we’re sorry it has to be this way, but you have already proven on multiple occasions that we can’t trust you to do the right thing. Tonight, you are going to do your chores even if it takes you all night to do it. Besides, we all know you’re not studying up there. For all we know you’re just up there masturbating in the window or something.”

Being stabbed in the chest would have been less painful. You don't understand why you're caught off guard; it's not like your mother hasn't said off the wall shit like this in the past. It's almost as if she thrives on finding the most hurtful and outrageous statements to throw in your face, as if you deserved them. As if you had ever done any of the things she accused you of. Like you were some sort of deviant, when all you wanted was simply the right to exist.

“What the actual fuck, Mom?!” you scream, having finally had enough. Both of your parents look taken aback. Rare is it for you to raise your voice at them, even more so to curse at them. “I know you’ve been pretty checked out of my life for a while now, but I’ve had a 4.0 GPA for the last three years. I don’t know where you got that… comment… from, but I can assure you that all I want to do is go to my room and study.”

“Now listen here young lady,” begins your father.

"No, YOU listen, Father," your voice dripping with sarcasm. “You were right about one thing, and that is I am a gods damned adult. I take my studies seriously, and while it may come as a surprise to you since neither of you have paid any actual attention to my life since I turned 18, though it could be argued you really stopped paying attention earlier except for when I was being an inconvenience, but I am actually a great student. This is my last semester before graduating with honors and again, a 4.0 GPA, and I will have my choice of job opportunities. I will leave this place, and you miserable old bats will have no one to be your punching bag anymore. Then maybe just maybe you can finally take a look at the flaws and fix what's wrong with your own marriage, instead of trying to break ME!”

Your chest heaved. It felt good to speak your truth, but as the silence grew, you began to realize that you might have made a mistake.

Your father has finally gotten out of his chair, looming over you. A resounding slap echoes across the room as your father backhanded you, knocking you to the floor. “You ungrateful, miserable little bitch! I don’t know what lies those ‘professors’ at the university have been filling your head with, but you have no future, and you are lucky your mother and I care enough to let you live under our roof! And so long as you do, you will obey our rules, and show us the respect we deserve!”

Fearful, you scramble back to the wall and attempt to push yourself to your feet. “If that’s the price of living here, then I will happily live in the University’s library. One week, that’s all I need!” You step forward to make your escape from this house, but this time your mother shoves you, and once again you find yourself on your knees.

You raise your hands in self-defense, but your mother sneers, "Do it, Y/N, hit me, and you'll be out on your ass faster than you can blink!" Crying, you lower your hands and prepare to allow her to strike you.

The lights went out all at once, and everyone froze. Has the power gone out? It couldn’t have, you could still hear the hum of the AC unit. So what was wrong with the lights?

The lights turn back on as suddenly as they had gone out, and all three of you look around in confusion. However, despite the lights returning, the room appears darker, creating an almost eerie atmosphere. The shadows cast a looming presence over all of you, sending a shiver up your spine. Your home, which you have lived in for around twenty ish years, suddenly feels foreboding, and you wonder if it's too late to flee. It almost resembles one of the nightmares you have been experiencing recently.

Red mist fills the room, a dreadfully sinister voice speaks. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

All three of you turn to the source of the sound - the corner of the room, as a red and black leather-clad boot, attached to black leather pants, steps through a portal and into the room. The Scarlet Witch follows, radiating her full glory. She warns, "If you wish to keep your body parts intact, you will never lay a finger on Y/N ever again."

You’re pretty sure your eyebrows have never been closer to meeting your hairline before and yet here we are. You don’t know who this unfamiliar lady is, nor how she seems to know you but God damned if that outfit doesn’t look as if it has been painted onto her. You blush at your sinful thoughts. Now is not the time, and you’re pretty sure you’re having a stroke of some sort. If nothing else, however, you are grateful for the reprieve from your beating.

Meanwhile, your parents had never taken well to being told what to do, by anyone, they certainly weren’t going to now by this costumed stranger. Your mother bristles. “Who is this Y/N? Another one of your little whores?” Completely disregarding the fact that you have never in fact had a partner in your entire life, and you don’t know whether to be pleased that she seems to think you’re capable of having a sex life or affronted that she thinks you’re some type of floozy. Your mother’s words, not yours.

“What? No, I-” You look helplessly from the floor between your parents and this woman you now recognize as the one from your visions, and the same one from your hallucination this morning. Is she here to help, or to hurt you? She has been your savior and aggressor in both; there’s no telling which she has chosen for now. Glancing between them, you are unsure how to de-escalate this situation. There is no way to convince your parents, for their own safety, that this woman is powerful and not to be trifled with. Nothing you could say, they would believe, and you were pretty sure this woman would kill your parents without a second thought if they didn’t tread carefully.

Seeming to sense your struggle, the woman speaks up in your stead. “As I’ve said, you would do well to keep your hands to yourself. I am here to take Y/N with me, and you will not stand in my way. This is your only warning, which I am giving to you out of consideration for Y/N.”

She reaches down for your hand to help you back up. Hesitantly, you take it, ignoring the shock that runs throughout your body, and begin questioning your entire reality. Take you with her? Who even is she? Where exactly is she going to be taking you? You had questions, and you would like some answers, but if you didn’t get your parents to stand down, you were pretty sure she would follow through on her threat. Sure, your parents were trash, but they were all you had. You loved them, and you were certain that, in their own warped way, they loved you, too.

She helps you up and proceeds to give you a thorough once-over, carefully inspecting your injuries. Her intense scrutiny makes you blush. Meanwhile, your parents remain silent, their thinly veiled anger evident as they observe your interaction. How dare this woman speak to them in such a manner? Thankfully, they wisely choose to keep quiet. Perhaps they also sense the dangerous aura emanating from this woman, perceiving her as a true threat. Then again, it could be due to the fact that she just stepped through a literal portal conjured out of thin air moments ago. Maybe they had been paying attention, but even you are unsure of what is real anymore.

Still holding your hand, the Scarlet Witch leads you back towards the portal she arrived through. "Come, Y/N, we have much to discuss." At this point, all you could do was helplessly trail after, hoping you weren't going from bad to worse. At least by leaving, your parents would be out of danger. As for yourself, well... It was clear that the Scarlet Witch wanted something from you. Hopefully, whatever that was would be sufficient to ensure your survival. Perhaps even enough to negotiate with.

At the last possible moment, your mother chooses, whether out of genuine love and concern for your well-being, or fear at the loss of her control over you, to reach out to take you from this bizarre woman. “Mother, no!”

Y/M/N finds herself promptly flung onto the wall behind her, and stuck there, unable to move. You aren’t sure who exactly screamed but you’re pretty sure it was every member of your family. The Scarlet Witch hadn’t even turned to look, the only indication she had even been involved is the raised hand, opposite the one holding yours, with dark, ink-stained fingertips, bent at slightly odd angles.

“Stop, please! Let her go, she won’t do it again, please! I'm sorry, please!”

Unsure of why you are begging for this woman’s life when she has spent the entirety of yours making sure you were miserable. Still, your heart lurched at the thought of anything happening to your mother. You didn’t like her, and if you never saw her again, that was probably for the best, but you certainly didn’t want anything bad to happen to her.

The Witch took a deep breath, seemingly to calm herself, before turning to face you.

In the softest voice you had ever heard she whispers “Detka, I-.” She opens and closes her mouth a few times, deciding what to say. To your absolute mortification and delight, she leans down to place a gentle kiss on your forehead, and promises “I will let them live, but I must say my piece.”

You nod, completely dumbstruck at everything happening in this moment. What. The. Fuck.

Y/M/N, still pinned to the wall, whimpers and struggles to move but is clearly unable to. The Scarlet Witch turns from you to face your parents. Another wave of her hand, and your mother slumps to the floor, alarmed, but otherwise unharmed. It is clear whatever the witch did, both she and your father are now restrained.

Footsteps approach the pair, and the lights in the house flickered ominously. Despite your mother being nearly 40 years older than her (or so you assumed, as you had no idea of this woman's age), the power emanating from her exuded confident malevolence. She showed no fear towards them, and for once, although ashamed to admit it, you were glad to see that they were afraid of someone else.

Though she was only about 5'6", the woman knelt before your parents, her voice filled with menacing intent. "I know everything you have ever done, everything you ever could do, and everything you ever will do. I know what you are guilty of. I know what you deserve, and I can assure you that it is not mercy. I will spare your lives and leave you unharmed due to the kindness of your daughter, the daughter you’ve abused for decades." As her head tilts, you can't help but feel that she becomes even more dangerous. "But if you ever try to take her from me again, I will seek retribution on her behalf, and I promise you it will be the most excruciating agony you have ever experienced. Do we understand each other?"

You squirm uncomfortably. This should not be doing things to you, but then again, no one had ever stood up for you. Ever. Gods you needed therapy. It’s fine. Little boxes, and this was for a little box for later.

The witch stood up and once again took your hand, leading you through the portal and leaving your parents behind. Perhaps for good, you weren’t entirely sure, and you suddenly realized you didn’t care. Anywhere was better than here; even if this woman was dangerous, at least for the moment, she seemed to care about you, and that was enough for you to follow her to the ends of the earth.

Again, therapy…

The pair arrive at a massive stone temple, which you would later learn is called Mount Wundagore, the Scarlet Witch's temple. It is built into a massive, rugged mountain with steep cliffs, situated above dense forests and enveloped in mist. The mountain exudes an air of mystique and possesses an eerie atmosphere. Scattered across its walls are depictions of the woman in front of you, accompanied by various runes whose significance you suppose hint at a potentially supernatural importance.

The Scarlet Witch does not make much of an effort for introductions, nor explanations, simply heads towards the entrance to her temple.

“What is this place?” you ask, hints of awe and fear in your voice

“Our home.”

Your brain stutters. “I’m sorry, what now?”

“Detka, do not pretend you did not hear me, I don’t enjoy repeating myself. This is our home.” Her accent sounds vaguely Eastern European, and becomes more pronounced the more irritated she is. You wonder when she started trying to hide it.

Your mind balks at the idea of this being your new home, it couldn’t be less foreboding. “Uhhh… this.. is a giant stone temple in BFE nowhere, with ice, snow, and-”

Movement startles you out of your reverie. Beings made entirely out of stone shift from foot to foot, as if adjusting their stance. Their eyes have the same red glow as the woman who leads you now.

“Are those rock trolls??” The stone guardians loom threatening, but make no move to engage, they await their Queen’s orders. “Right. Rock trolls. Why is this our home? WHERE is our home? And,” you spin, taking the aesthetic of the temple in, trying not to have an anxiety attack. “What do you mean -our- home? Who are you, and what do you want with me?”

You can’t tell if the faint twitch of the other woman’s lips is in amusement or annoyance at your ramblings, but in your defense, she had let you speak uninterrupted. You were known for getting entire paragraphs out if left unsupervised - it was a talent and a curse. Personally you felt she should be grateful you weren’t jumping down her throat, you didn’t know anyone else who would be taking this half as calmly as you were. Then again, you were still waiting on your Hogwarts acceptance letter at 25.

“My name is..” she hesitated. “Wanda. I am.. I was an Avenger.”

You looked on blankly, hoping she would elaborate. The fuck was an “Avenger”?

"In my universe," (you filed away the fact that she implied the existence of a multiverse for later, as it was a problem for another time) "the Avengers are superheroes. Well, that's what we called ourselves - Earth's Mightiest Heroes. A bit arrogant, if you ask me. We dealt with threats that the military and ordinary people couldn't handle. We were the last line of defense. We saved the world countless times, but at a great cost of lives. We were vain, thinking we were above it all because we believed we were acting for the greater good. But try explaining that to those who were lost as collateral damage.

I digress. We.. were considered to be heroes. There were several of us, we were a team. A family. We lived together, fought together. Died together. Until we didn’t.”

Wanda explains the dynamics of the Avengers team, including how she and her brother Pietro joined. She mentions Pietro's death in the battle against Ultron, as well as the events leading up to and the battle against Thanos. She also covers the events of the “Blip”, and what happened afterward. However, she conveniently chooses to omit the events of Westview, as she didn't want you to know about that just yet.

“That’s.. wow. Wanda, that's a lot. Honestly, if I hadn’t seen your powers myself, I wouldn’t believe you. But all of that still doesn’t explain why you’re here. You mentioned your universe as being so fantastical, why would you come here? And what do you want with me? If you’re a hero, why are you here in what totally looks like a villain’s lair and not with your other superhero buddies?” You neglect to mention the unease creeping up your spine.

This is fine. Everything is fine. Right? Right.

A look of utter despair crosses the witches face as she locks eyes with you before glancing away.

“I mentioned my team before, but I didn’t mention you.”

“…” You slow blink. This was not how you thought your day was going to go, and honestly, you were already getting a bit of a headache. Could she be less cryptic because that would be great. More details, fewer questions. Maybe another nap.

"Y/N, where I am from, you were also an Avenger. You had joined the team before Pietro and I, and were one of the few who made us feel welcome. Despite the fact that we had previously been enemies, you didn't treat us as ticking time bombs. Instead, you welcomed us with open arms. Your go-to tactics were kindness and understanding, which made it hard not to want to get to know you. When Pietro died, you were the only one who checked on me and cared. You taught me that grief is just love persevering. You became my closest friend, and over time, I couldn't help when those feelings began growing into something more.”

You swallow uncomfortably. It sounds like Wanda is telling you that in this other universe you both were an item. It’s not that you wouldn’t be honored to be with such an attractive woman, but it feels weird knowing that that was a different version of you. Someone with superpowers, someone likely more confident by the sounds of it. This feels almost as if you are intruding on something you shouldn’t, yet Wanda is the one telling you this; if it weren’t okay for you to know, she surely wouldn’t be sharing. You don’t really know what to make of this; if she has feelings for this other you, why is she here with this version of you?

“In the battle against Thanos, we learned that the source of your powers was an infinity stone embedded in your skull courtesy of H.Y.D.R.A. experiments, which altered your genetic DNA. Thanos had also learned you possessed this Mind Stone and sought to take it from you by force.”

Anguish on her features, the witch turns to you. “You were going to die, Y/N. We tried, I tried, so hard to protect you, to keep you away from him but at every turn he found you. If he had gotten the Mind Stone, he would have been able to enact his plan to rid the universe of half of all life. You told me.” She hiccups.

“Y-you told me it was okay, that you forgive me. That I needed to.. that I needed to destroy the stone to save the universe. I didn’t want to. I would have given anything else but that. But you held my hand and told me you forgave me, that you only felt me. Then Thanos came, and we were out of time. I was the only one with the power to do it because its magic was so similar to my own. I placed my hand to your head and I-.” She is unable to continue, breaking off into sobs.

Oh. So she had to sacrifice you to save the universe. Well. You agree with the alternate you, you didn’t blame her, and you would definitely forgive her. Awkwardly you try to find some way to comfort her. While obviously you were not the same person she had loved and lost, and you knew from your own experiences with loss that sometimes words just couldn’t cut it. Instead, you shuffle forward, making sure you were heard in case she wanted to refuse you, and pullher in for a hug.

Wanda tenses in your embrace, as if she can’t decide if she wants to sink into it or send you flying. “The worst part,” she continues, “was that it meant nothing.”

If you were a dog your head tilt might have been cute.

“In the end, Thanos was still able to get the Mind Stone, and you were still dead, by MY hand, and it all meant NOTHING!” Wanda wrenches herself from your grasp, looking positively unhinged. You probably should have been scared. You weren’t. Her wrath did… things… to you. Therapy…

“All because Strange saw supposedly every possible future and CHOSE to let you die to save everyone else. As if there was no other possible outcome!”

Oh, that... that makes more sense. The other you was still dead, and Wanda was definitely suffering from PTSD from her involvement in it. Her little stunt with your parents was probably her way of trying to save you or bring you back to life. But in your universe, there weren't any superheroes, magic, or Thanos to protect you from (that you were aware of at any rate). So what was Wanda doing? This wouldn't bring her version of you back to life. You may have looked and sounded alike, and you might have made similar decisions, but you simply weren't the same person. The lack of the same life experiences meant that you had different personalities, despite having a similar genetic build.

“So we saved the world, and I left to live in exile. After the funeral, Clint handed me your belongings, and in them was a letter. A deed to a plot of land you had purchased in our names where we were going to build a house. I think it was supposed to be a surprise after we defeated Thanos. We had never lost before, not since Pietro - I don’t think it occurred to us that we could. So I drove out to see and.. Y/N I was still so new to my powers. They were still mostly subconscious. I was grieving and... it would be easier if I show you. May I?”

“May you.. what?”

A subtle smile appears on the witches' face at your ignorance. You are tempted to mention how beautiful she looks with that smile. Shaking off the thought, you ponder if she can read your mind, as her smile becomes knowing and a slight blush colors her cheeks. Ink-stained fingers reach towards your temple, but she hesitates, waiting for your consent, and your heart fills with warmth. You nod once, despite not really understanding.

Her charcoal-colored fingers, cold to the touch, make contact with your temple. Just as you're about to complain about the lack of warning, you're abruptly transported into a completely different world, surpassing the immersive experience of any 3D movie you've ever seen. You not only hear and see everything in every direction, but you can also feel and smell it all. It feels as if you are truly present in that moment. It takes a few minutes for you to realize that you are witnessing someone else's memories, to be precise, Wanda's memories.

She starts her memory with the unexploded bomb created by Tony Stark, which sat in the middle of the rubble of the Maximoff residence. In that chaotic scene, there were two children, the twins, hiding in fear under a bed. However, before you could offer any comfort, the scene shifted. The twins had been taken to HYDRA, where they were subjected to brutal experiments. Witnessing their suffering broke your heart, and despite your best efforts, you were unable to interact with your surroundings, although you desperately tried. Repeatedly you threw yourself against the walls of the cells in which the twins were held, hoping to free them from their hellish situation. You observed the twins' powers first emergence: Pietro's as he attempted to reach his sister's side, and Wanda's as she tried to defend Pietro from the scientists.

Scene after scene, each one as traumatic, if not more so, than the last, depicting all the events from Ultron and beyond. And then there's you. Except, it's not really you. You've certainly never possessed the power of teleportation, nor have you ever been so self-assured. This must be Wanda's universe's version of you. With bright eyes and a warm demeanor, you appear as a beacon of light in Wanda's otherwise bleak life. You observe as the version of you in this universe warmly welcomes the twins to the team, a stark contrast as to how the rest of the team treats the newcomers ranging from suspicious to openly hostile.

It’s surreal, watching yourself from outside your own body, knowing this version isn’t really you, but still no less real of a person. Wanda’s memories begin focusing less on missions and more on interpersonal relationships. Specifically, the one developing between yourself and Wanda. It’s intimate and you feel like an intruder watching this unfold. Sadly, as you grow closer, Wanda loses the only other connection she has - Pietro is hit by stray bullets while saving children. A true hero, and there was nothing anyone on the team could do to prevent it. You watch in horror both for the loss of Pietro as a friend, as well as knowing the absolute devastation this will cause your beloved Witch.

You can tell at this point that that’s what she was to you. It hasn't been long, but that bond has clearly already been sealed; you can see the signs in both your alternate self and Wanda. You would have to be blind not to. The loss of her brother does terrible things to Wanda and it’s all your other self can do to try to keep her afloat. “What is grief but love persevering?”

The scene shifts again. Time has clearly passed, and Wanda appears to have healed to some extent. She and the team have become much more cohesive, which delights both versions of you. Your relationship has definitely progressed, if the blush currently gracing your face, extending to your ears, is any indication. You feel the remnants of the emotions from your alternate self. They are not yours, but neither are they entirely unfamiliar. It makes for a disconcerting sensation to say the least. You don’t know Wanda like that, even though this version of you does. You wish you could view these memories dispassionately, free from your alternate self’s emotions that are bleeding through, but you suspect that’s not possible. Once again you try to reassure yourself that you are not the same person, no matter the genetic makeup.

Jarring you from your reverie, next you find yourself in another battle, and this one is massive. There are more superheroes here than you have ever seen before, either in Wanda's memories or in films. This must be the fight against Thanos she had told you about. Dread settles in your stomach like a stone, and for a moment, you contemplate what it will be like to witness your own death.

Traumatizing, for sure, though not for the reasons you had expected. While you are unable to interact with your environment, you are able to freely move about. Instead of looking at the memory entirely from Wanda’s perspective, you move to stand beside yourself. Wanda stands before you, ethereal, magnificent, yet utterly devastated. She knows what she has to do and pleads with you not to make her. It is unjust for a woman so powerful to suffer such loss, and still you implore her to sacrifice your life, her happiness, for the sake of the rest of the universe. It is unfair. It is cruel. You know it, but you ask anyway.

She never could tell you “no.”

You know the moment this universe's version of you had died when you witness the sheer devastation on Wanda's face. Most people would probably look away, but you couldn't. For some unknown reason, you feel compelled to witness this moment in all its horrifying detail, if only to gain a true understanding of the witch and the immense pain she has endured. There were surely few things more intimate than allowing someone to share their own memories, and here Wanda was, granting you unrestricted access to hers. The least you could do was accept this gift she was offering, no matter how painful it might be.

The images that follow blur together, evoking your personal experiences with grief and a sense of detachment from the world. The funeral is somber, one and all everyone dressed in black and grey. Wanda is present only in body, and you can’t blame her. Clint, the archer, hands her your belongings, including the letter she had mentioned. It unnerves you how detached Wanda appears to be at this moment, despite being surrounded by friends and colleagues. You worry about what lies ahead for her. So much loss in such a short time, it didn’t take a psychiatrist to know this would surely take a toll on her. You prayed that her friends came to check on her, but you had a feeling either they didn’t, or in her grief, she refused them entry.

Colors blend into one another and fade out. You find yourself standing on a plot of land in a town called Eastview, crouching next to Wanda as she collapses to her knees. Her body is wracked with anguished sobs as she finally allows herself to grieve. You wish you could interact with this memory, to hold her and alleviate some of her pain, even if only for a moment. Instead, you sit with her, sharing in her pain as she releases it all into the world. Wanda allows herself to experience her grief in its entirety, no longer burying her feelings beneath a veneer of numbness. Colors leech from the world around her, turning it greyscale. You're pretty certain that even at their strongest, the average person's manifestation of grief isn't supposed to do that, but then again, the average person isn't the Scarlet Witch. Briefly, you wonder what consequences this will have on her world. Your head feels fuzzy, and as your vision fades to black, you suppose you are about to find out.

You regain consciousness and find yourself in a world entirely devoid of color. Disoriented, you blink as the details of your surroundings slowly come into focus. In front of you stands... well... yourself. Or rather, an alternate version of you who appears to be from the 1950s, slightly older but still alive. Seated beside 1950’s you is Wanda, also monochrome and dressed in 1950s attire. Blearily, you rub your eyes. It has been a long day, and you are extremely tired, unsure if this is just an incredibly vivid hallucination or if you have actually passed out somewhere.

Alternate you asks Wanda a question, to which you aren’t listening, and she replies with a quip - you still aren’t listening, wondering where you are and why everything is in greyscale. What catches you off-guard though, is the surround sound laugh track that‘s garnered in response. It’s galling to admit but you jump, startled, and look around. There’s no one else in the house besides yourself, the alternate version of you, and Wanda. Where did that come from?

Alternate you replies to Wanda, and again with the laugh track. This time you are not as startled, but no less unsettled. What fresh hell is this? Could this be Wanda’s doing? It doesn’t seem like you can ask her though, as you’re just a passive observer in this strange situation. The last thing you remember, Wanda was grieving in Eastview at the plot of land which alternate you had purchased to start your life together after retiring from being superheroes. Strange grey wiggly woos (as you were starting to refer to her magic) were emanating from the witch, quite different from the familiar scarlet color you had grown accustomed to.

Perhaps this was her doing, if only subconsciously. You tried to recall, didn’t Wanda mention something about her powers being new to her and mostly unintentional? This could be what she had been referring to. Apprehension made a home in your chest as you found yourself dreading whatever was about to unfold before you. Oh no, Wanda, what did you do?

It doesn’t take long after observing the hijinks and mishaps, for you to realize that Wanda's grief had manifested through her powers. She had transformed the town of Eastview into Westview, resembling a 1950s-style sitcom town. Wanda, along with an alternate version of yourself (if you were truly still alive - that part you hadn't figured out yet), and the entire town were trapped. While it may have started unintentionally, Wanda became aware of it and began actively using her powers to maintain her idyllic town, keeping it isolated from the outside world and preventing the townspeople from leaving. In her grief, Wanda was essentially playing house, holding everyone hostage. However, despite her powers growing stronger, it was clear that the people living there were suffering. If you could even consider their existence as living.

There were even two boys - twins, just like Wanda was a twin. Your heart broke, knowing this could not possibly end well. While technically not "real" and not even "yours" at that, watching these boys be born, live, and grow caused you to cultivate a love for them almost as if they were your own. Your heart thumps uncomfortably in your chest; you didn't want to see how this plays out, but you didn't have a choice.

Despite the dysfunction in your parents, you had always wanted a family of your own. An attempt to break the cycle and bring new life - happy and healthy - into this world. You wanted to raise your kids with the love and care you had never experienced yourself.

You understood the motivations of the witch, but that didn't justify her morally questionable choices. Once again, you are condemned to remain on the sidelines, unable to take any action to resolve the situation. You are forced to witness this charade unfold, hoping and praying that it would end well for everyone involved, yet knowing that it would not. How could it possibly?

Despite your bias, after witnessing everything Wanda had endured, you found yourself wishing for the best outcome for her, in particular. Among all the people you could think of, she deserved a break from the misery that had plagued her life until now.

Eventually, it all came to a head when another witch named Agatha Harkness had infiltrated the town with a book called the Darkhold, attempting to convince Wanda to join her and increase their powers. If Wanda refused, the witch planned to take Wanda's powers for herself. Something about a prophecy regarding a Scarlet Witch.

Meanwhile, the alternate version of you had become self-aware of the true nature of Westview. This version of you pleaded with Wanda to prioritize the wellbeing of others over her own happiness, once again. They urged Wanda to defeat Agatha and free the townspeople, even if it meant losing her spouse and children. It was an impossible choice, and you questioned whether you could have mustered the courage to make the same decision in Wanda’s position.

Wanda defeated Agatha, not that you ever doubted her for a moment. She said goodbye to you, again, and then to her boys, and released her spell. The town was free, but her family.. was gone. Wanda was once again on her own.

A startled gasp leaves your lips as you awaken from the memories. It feels like it’s been ages, but from what you can tell, it must only have been minutes since Wanda first began sharing her memories with you. “Oh.”

Cringe. You wish you could have said something, anything more eloquent. Unfortunately, you feel as though you've just been hit by a Mack truck and could nap for a week. It doesn’t help that you were still feeling the effects of lack of sleep for the last couple of weeks.

“I-I’m sorry, I don’t feel so good, is it okay if I lay down somewhere…?” A quick glance around the temple makes you second guess the question you were about to ask. Stone floors did not make a good bed.

With a tone much softer than she had been using, she replied. "Of course, Detka, you only need to ask."

An elegant wave of her slender fingers and gone is the stone temple, replaced by a cozy bedroom. At a cursory glance, you can tell it is a sanctuary of comfort and tranquility, featuring a plush, inviting bed. The room is adorned with personal touches, such as framed photographs of you and Wanda, and artwork that is somehow absolutely your aesthetic. Shelves display a carefully chosen selection of your favorite books, each waiting to be explored. These items add character and give the space a feeling that is unique to you, even though you have never set foot in this place before.

“Come,” A glimpse of Wanda and you are surprised to discover instead of her red and black uniform, she is now garbed in an oversized sweater and some cotton sweatpants.

“You have been holding space for others for so long, it is time you took some well-deserved rest. You work much too hard.”

“Uh s-sure.” About to make a comment that perhaps you should also change, but looking down to find that you are wearing your favorite worn Legolas shirt and some pajama shorts.

“Right. Rest.” Part of you wants to ask when you can return to your home so you can finish studying for your exams, but based on previous conversation, context clues tell you that’s the least of your concerns right now, and Wanda probably wouldn’t be too pleased with that topic of discussion right now.

Wanda takes your hand, leading you to the bed and it takes your overworked brain far longer than you care to admit to realize that she means for you both to share it. Your brain short-circuits at all the factors at play here: Knowing that you yourself are touch-starved; this absolute enchantress of a woman dated an alternate universe’s version of you, even going so far as basically playing housewife and mother of your children, and here she was asking you to share a bed. Sure, she wasn’t asking you to sleep with her, but she was still asking you to share a bed next to her and what if you accidentally spooned her in your sleep, and what if-

”You’re thinking too loudly, malysh.”

“What? You can- you’re a mind reader?!” you panic, backpedaling mentally, praying to every deity that existed that you hadn’t had any unsavory thoughts in her presence, and nearly fainting as you recalled that you in fact, had some rather explicit thoughts from the moment you first saw her.. The mortification alone was enough to put you into an early grave. You weren’t sure how you had missed that during everything she had shown you, but you reasoned you were probably more focused on the physical manifestations of her powers.

"Relax, Y/N. I don't intentionally read minds, at least not anymore. Sometimes, surface thoughts are so loud that I can't help but hear them. Like right now, you're practically yelling them at me," she said, trying to offer a reassuring smile.

Unfortunately, while you were no longer freaking out about having accidentally offended the witch, you were now spiraling down a different path. You were agonizing over the pain you had, and likely were still causing her by thinking so loudly. If you remembered any media involving mind reading, the person with the ability usually suffered greatly at the hands of others unintentionally. Naturally, the average person didn't know how to shield their thoughts, and you were afraid that you might be giving her a migraine. To the woman who had only tried to bring you to a safe place and offer you shelter.

You began to hyperventilate.

Wanda could see that you were spiraling, even without being a mind reader. It was written clearly on your face. However, being able to hear your thoughts helped her identify the source of your anxiety, and she berated herself for not considering that earlier. This version of you lacked confidence, and it was now Wanda's responsibility to help rebuild it. At least, according to her.

"Your parents really did a number on you, didn't they, detka?"

Cool hands gently held your cheeks, pulling you out of your thoughts. Suddenly, Wanda invades your personal space, and the scent of vanilla fills your nostrils, momentarily distracting you from what was happening.

"We're just going to take a nap, okay Y/N? You don't have to worry about anything. I'm not bothered by any of those thoughts you have." A leering grin unfurls across her face.

“If anything I’m quite flattered by them.” She winks.

Heat flashes across your body, and you can’t tell if you were embarrassed, aroused, or both. Unfortunately, you knew your thoughts were likely betraying you. Gods, if only the floor could just open up right now and swallow you into the abyss. Yes, that would be fantastic.

"However, there is time enough for such things later. It's been years, Y/N, and I've just got you back. Nap with me, please?" The witch's eyes gaze longingly into yours, and well, when she looks at you like that, how could you say "no"?

She leads you to the bed and, with the practiced ease of her time in Westview, pulls you into her embrace as the little spoon. Earlier, you had been worried about accidentally touching her inappropriately or having a dirty dream. Now though, with her arms wrapped so protectively around you, sleep claims you almost instantaneously.

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