#the sokovian

[comicwaren]

From Punisher Vol. 14 #001, “The Bullet That Follows”

Art by Dave Wachter and Dan Brown

Written by David Pepose

[logansgaar]

your honor I think they would be great friends

[house-of-maximoff]

[billionairebratenergy]

Faster Than Fate

Pietro Maximoff x Reader

Summary: Pietro Maximoff never believed in destiny—until the moment he saw you. Loving you wasn’t a choice; it was a force of nature, a current stronger than any speed he could outrun, and every day, he proves that no one will ever love you the way he does.

The first time Pietro Maximoff saw you, the world slowed.

It was a cruel joke, really—time had never been kind to him. It was something he outran, something he never had enough of, something he knew could be ripped away in an instant. But there you were, standing on a busy New York street, completely unaware that you had just shifted his entire existence.

For the first time in his life, he wasn’t moving too fast for the world. The world was moving too fast for him.

Pietro had never believed in fate, never believed in some cosmic force stronger than sheer will. But in that moment, as his eyes locked onto you, he knew—without hesitation, without question—that you were his. His heart, his soul, his future.

And he had to have you.

Without thinking, he was in front of you in a blink, the sudden gust of displaced air making your hair flutter.

You startled, eyes snapping up to meet his. "What the—?"

"Apologies, printessa," he said smoothly, offering you the grin that usually got him out of trouble. "I did not mean to startle you."

You blinked at him, understandably confused. "Did you—where did you come from?"

"Where do you think?" His smirk deepened. "Out of your dreams?"

You huffed a laugh, rolling your eyes. "That was terrible."

He grinned wider. "But it made you smile."

You should have walked away. Should have dismissed him as just another overconfident man in a city full of them. But something about him held you still—something about the intensity of his gaze, the ease in his presence, the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the world.

That was how it started.

And Pietro had never stopped chasing you.

────────────

Loving Pietro Maximoff was like being caught in a storm—wild, electric, utterly consuming.

He didn’t just love you, he adored you. Worshiped you. Every glance, every touch, every word out of his mouth was drenched in devotion, as if proving his love was the most important thing he would ever do.

And he was relentless in doing so.

Like now.

"You are staring again," you noted, sipping your coffee as Pietro rested his chin in his palm, his blue eyes tracing every curve of your face from across the small café table.

"Am I?" he mused, not even attempting to hide it.

"Yes," you said dryly, though your lips twitched. "It’s getting excessive."

His grin was slow, teasing. "Hard not to when you look at me like that, detka."

"Like what?"

"Like I am the only thing you see," he murmured, the teasing edge in his voice softening into something more dangerous. "It’s how I look at you, too, you know."

Your heart stuttered, the way it always did when he got like this—when the playful flirtation slipped into something deeper, heavier. When his gaze darkened, his touch lingered, when he reminded you that he didn’t just love you. He belonged to you.

"You’re ridiculous," you murmured, shaking your head.

"Mmm." Pietro hummed, fingers brushing over yours on the table, his thumb tracing the inside of your wrist, where he could feel the steady rhythm of your pulse. "Ridiculously in love with you, yes."

God, you were done for.

────────────

Pietro had a habit of sweeping you off your feet—both figuratively and literally.

It didn’t matter how long you had been together, how much time passed. He refused to let the fire between you dull, refused to let a single day go by without making sure you knew just how deeply he loved you.

That was why, as you walked through the compound halls, he appeared beside you in a blur and, without warning, scooped you into his arms.

"Pietro!" you shrieked, hands flying to his shoulders.

"Yes, moya lyubov'?" he responded smoothly, spinning you effortlessly, the motion sending laughter spilling from your lips.

"Put me down!" you protested, though the amusement in your voice betrayed you.

"But I like having you here." His lips brushed against your neck as he nuzzled against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. "You fit so perfectly."

Your fingers curled into his shirt, your heart pounding as his hold on you tightened. "You’re impossible."

"And yet," he murmured, lips dragging over your jaw, "you are impossibly in love with me."

You swallowed hard, pulse hammering. "You shouldn’t be allowed to use your powers for seduction."

Pietro grinned. "Oh, printessa, I do not need my powers for that."

Damn him. He wasn’t wrong.

────────────

Pietro didn’t just love you—he needed you.

It was in the way he reached for you the moment he walked into a room, the way he tucked you against his side when you were sitting together, the way he found some way to touch you, always.

And in the dark, when the world slowed and there was nothing but the quiet space between your heartbeats, he clung to you like you were the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

Like now.

You lay in bed, tangled beneath the sheets, his body pressed against yours, his arms wrapped around you as if he feared you might disappear.

"Pietro," you murmured sleepily, fingers threading through his silver hair.

"Hmm?" His lips pressed against your bare shoulder, the heat of his breath sending shivers down your spine.

"You’re holding me so tight I can barely breathe."

"Good," he murmured, lips curling against your skin. "Then you won’t leave me."

You smiled softly, tracing your fingertips down his spine. "I’m not going anywhere."

He exhaled, his grip on you easing just slightly—but not enough to let you go. "I know. But sometimes, I still feel like I need to remind myself."

You shifted, turning in his arms so you could face him. His blue eyes, always so vibrant, so full of life, held something else now—something raw, something vulnerable.

Your fingers brushed over his cheek. "I’m yours, Pietro. Always."

His throat bobbed, his jaw tightening as he looked at you like you were the most precious thing he had ever held in his hands. "I do not deserve you," he whispered.

You frowned, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Don’t say that."

"It is true." His hand slid along your waist, his touch reverent. "I have never had anything that was truly mine. Not my home, not my family, not my life. But you… you are the first thing I ever cared about more than myself. More than my family. More than anything."

Your chest ached, your heart breaking and swelling all at once.

"That’s how I know," he whispered, thumb brushing over your lower lip. "That you are the love of my life. My soulmate."

Tears burned at the back of your eyes, your breath catching.

And then his lips were on yours, soft at first, then desperate—like he was trying to memorize the taste of you, like he was branding himself into your soul.

You melted into him, fingers threading into his hair, pulling him closer, as if the space between you was too much.

Pietro never did anything halfway—not even love.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

[winterbaron-valentines-event]

THE EVENT IS NOW LIVE ON AO3! GO AND ENJOY THE 12 14 AWESOME FICS POSTED SO FAR!

KUDO, COMMENT AND BOOKMARK! 💘💝💖

https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Winterbaron_Valentines_2025/works

Trouble? No, Happy Valentine's Day, James! (And maybe trouble later...)

[itsagentromanoff]

Pietro and Wanda Maximoff

He’s fast, she’s weird

[olsenmyolsen]

Chapter Thirteen: For You

The Farmer's Daughter - (A WandaNat Story)

Masterlist . Tag list: @xenaizogie

Summary: Wanda talks to her mom about Natasha just before Pietro comes home..

Word Count: 2.8K

Content: Feelings, Mother-Daughter Talks, Awkward Kate Bishop

"Do you wanna talk about it?" Kate asked as she looked from the road to her friend in the passenger seat. Natasha had her head rested against a neck pillow—a bag of semi-frozen peas from Kate's freezer on her head.

"I could've won," Natasha stated for the nth time today.

Kate laughed again. "Yet you lost and have a black eye and bandage on your nose." Natasha turned her head, and instead of bickering, she looked at her friend with whom she had missed time and spoke honestly. "I'm glad you found someone, Kate." Natasha turned her head back and let her friend sit in the moment.

A playlist from Kate's phone quietly played in the background as Kate smiled. She then thought about how to ask Natasha about Wanda.

Since Kate found her in the stairwell at the art show, she hasn't brought up the younger woman.

"It's just a little after lunch. Do you wanna stop somewhere?" They weren't far from the farm, so Natasha shook her head no. Plus, she wasn't hungry. "Have you talked to her?" Kate then asked, making Natasha lift the peas off her face.

"Since last night?" Natasha asked for clarification. Kate nodded. Natasha slightly nodded and shook her head. "I texted her after my shower."

"Oooohhh!" Kate said, making it sound a lot sexier than the text actually was. "Kate, I just told her we were about to head on the road."

"Oh," Kate said, disappointed.

Natasha wasn't sure how to explain or talk about her bruises and fight with Maya over the phone, so she was just gonna save it for her face-to-face with Wanda.

But she did take some pictures of her bruised face and body after the shower. Natasha sometimes thought it made her look sexier and that the selfies of her face were fun.

"Anything else?" Kate asked, wanting to know anything else that might be going on with Natasha and Wanda. Natasha put the peas back in her head and eye. Natasha smiled. "I'm excited to see her."

Kate looked over at her friend for a second. "Oh, she's gonna flip when she sees you."

Speaking of Wanda, not long after that, she was returning home after crashing the night at Sam's. As Wanda entered her home, the smell of something cooking in the oven worked its magic, creating a desirable smell in the air. Wanda turned to see her Mama on the couch working on a cross stitch.

Magda lifted her head to the sound of slip-on shoes hitting the ground. She smiled at her daughter, who crash-landed on the couch—wearing an oversized scarlet shirt and black leggings. Wanda sprawled out all over the sofa.

"Hi, my baby girl." Magda laughed at Wanda's actions.

"Hi, Mama," Wanda said before turning to face her mother upside down. "Did you have fun with your friends?" Wanda nodded, but Magda could see something bothering her daughter. "Up," Magda said, moving her cross stitch to the table beside her. "Up!" She said again directly to Wanda, making the younger woman pout and sit properly on the couch.

Magda slightly turned to her daughter as the TV played re-runs of a 90's comedy in the background.

"Talk to me. What's up." Wanda sighed. Of course, her mother saw right through her. "It's silly." Wanda tried to dismiss the conversation. Magda shook her head. "Wanda, you should talk to me if something bothers you." Wanda deflated her body and looked away.

Magda allowed her daughter to gather her thoughts.

"I..." Wanda looked at her mother. "I really like Natasha..." Magda kept her eyes on her daughter and nodded. "Okay... as more than a friend, correct?" Wanda slowly nodded. "Yes, Mama."

Magda, of course, had her suspicions, but it was nice to see it confirmed and for her daughter not to shy away from telling her the truth. Plus, Magda had been watching Natasha, and she was confident the redhead was infatuated with her daughter.

"Well, that's okay," Magda said, and while Wanda wasn't asking permission or anything, it was nice to hear. "You're an adult, Wanda. I trust you know what you're doing."

That was just it. Wanda knew she wanted Natasha, but since last night, something had been in the back of her mind.

"What else is it?" Magda asked of her daughter. Wanda opened her mouth and let out an anxious breath before speaking. "I just don't want to mess anything up." Magda's heart almost shattered at seeing her daughter this soft and scared.

Wanda had never felt this way about someone.

Sure, boyfriends and girlfriends have come and gone. But this Wanda was growing up, and Magda could see the actual care behind those eyes. "Plus.. you don't think she's too old for me... do you?"

Magda wasn't expecting that, but it would've been a lie if she had said it hadn't crossed her mind. Magda leaned back against the sofa and was quiet with thought.

Wanda watched and softly picked at the skin on her thumb.

"I think Natasha is mature and has had a very different life experience than you have had so far..." Wanda's face began to turn into a frown. "That doesn't mean you and her can't share new experiences. Yes, she is older than you, my dear." Magda paused for motherly dramatic effect. "But like I said, you're both consenting adults and should do what you feel is comfortable." Wanda felt closer to her mom and had her eyes sting with gratitude. "She's a very nice woman," Magda added.

"Thank you, Mama." Wanda leaned forward and hugged her mom. "Of course," Magda said before pulling Wanda's face to look at her. "Just be safe and remember that your heart belongs to you until you trust someone to share it." Wanda nodded as she sniffled. "I love you, Mama."

"I love you too, my Wanda."

Magda released Wanda from her hold. "But if she hurts you, I swear-" Wanda raised her hand with a smile. "I know we have witches in our blood. You'll curse Natasha." Wanda wanted to roll her eyes at the speech she heard numerous times before. "Don't say anything to Papa, please," Wanda asked of her mother.

Magda scoffed. "Please, if anyone is going to be telling him anything, it better be that Natasha." Wanda couldn't help but laugh. "That works." She said before her stomach growled. It was just after lunch, and the intoxicating smell of food was too good to ignore.

Magda had gone back to her cross-stitch. "Don't touch the stuff in the oven. It's for dinner." Wanda rose to her feet. "What is it?" She asked as she made her way to it. "Take a look, but don't touch it!" Magda yelled from the living room.

Wanda listened and took a peek. She quickly turned the oven light off and tilted her head slightly, confused. She then turned around and saw ingredients for Baklava on the counter. "Mama!" Wanda shouted from the kitchen before walking towards Magda on the couch.

Magda turned her head to her daughter and waited for Wanda to keep talking.

"You have Dolma in the oven!?" Magda smiled at her daughter and nodded. Wanda smiled back. It had been forever since her mother made a dish that was so unique to Wanda and her brother. "Is there any special occasion?" Wanda asked.

Magda shrugged. "I just thought it might be nice since my children will be under one roof again."

That made Wanda freeze. "Pietro is coming home?" Wanda's accent thickened as she spoke about her brother. Magda stopped her art and turned around on the couch. "Surprise! Papa is on the way to the airport now to pick him up!"

Wanda smiled wide and grew excited. She hadn't seen her brother since the new year. He was meant to come home before his trip abroad but was so busy wrapping up classes that he couldn't make it home. "Why is he coming home? Shouldn't he be in Russia or Sokovia right now?"

Magda shook her head. "He said he had a two-week break before he had to start his thesis." Wanda joking rolled her eyes. Her brother was not only a super athlete but could never stop studying.

On the flip side, Wanda was taking her summer to relax and forget about the ups and downs of college.

A redhead was inadvertently making sure of that.

"Between you and me, I think he's homesick," Magda said with a certain smile. "Mama, I think you're the one who missed Pietro." Magda waved Wanda away. Wanda laughed and went back to the kitchen. Doing her best not to steal food that was meant for dinner.

By the time Magda finally made it halfway through her cross-stitch, a black car was pulling up the gravel driveway.

Wanda heard the car approach, and before it parked, she was running down the stairs from her room. Magda laughed at how her daughter fumbled with her shoes. "Wanda." Wanda looked at her mom, calling her name. "She's not going anywhere."

Wanda knew it made her look downright bad for Natasha, but she could barely think about anything while she was gone.

Still, Wanda slowed down and breathed before tossing her hair and looking over her face in the mirror by the front door. "She missed you too," Wanda whispered to herself before opening the front door and stepping out.

Her green eyes squinted as she exited due to the sun reflecting off of Kate's car, but they soon adjusted themselves as Natasha stepped out of the passenger seat.

"Hi- oh my god!" Wanda's smile turned to one of panic as she looked over Natasha's face. "What happened!" Her Vans kicked up some rocks as she ran around the front of the car to Natasha's bruised face. Wanda's soft hands immediately touching Natasha's delicate skin.

Kate stepped out from her side and grabbed Natasha's bag from the backseat. Smiling as she watched Wanda's worried eyes scan Natasha's face with care until they turned to Kate as she walked up behind Natasha.

"Did you do this!?" Wanda barked as she clenched her jaw and waited for an answer.

Kate's eyes widened as she could've sworn she saw red instead of Wanda's green eyes. "No- I- She-" Kate stuttered and fumbled over words as Natasha tried to gather Wanda's attention.

"Wanda!" Natasha grabbed Wanda's face and made her look away from her scared friend. "I did it." Wanda knitted her eyebrows together. "What?" She asked as her hands moved down to hold Natasha's wrists.

Their touch sent butterflies to their stomachs.

"I did an expedition boxing match with Kate's girlfriend." That made Wanda scrunched her face more.

Since when did Kate have a girlfriend?

Oh, Natasha was in love with the scrunch and couldn't stop the smile and laugh that escaped her. "What?" Wanda asked as her eyes continued to look over Natasha's face before falling back to her eyes again and again.

Natasha stepped closer into Wanda's space. Her thumb pads rubbed the sides of Wanda's cheeks. "You're cute," Natasha said quietly, making Wanda beam. "You come back bruised, with a bandage on your nose after getting into a fight on purpose, and that's what you have to say?" Wanda said with a stern but gentle tone.

These two knew exactly what they were doing.

Natasha grinned. "I missed you," Natasha added, and Wanda melted at that. "I missed you too, Natasha," Wanda said quietly in between the space they created. Her heart beating rapidly.

"Who exactly did you fight?" Wanda asked as she moved her right hand to Natasha's barely open eye. Her fingertips glided along the edge of the bruise. "Maya Lopez." Wanda looked behind Natasha for any additional information, but she only found Kate on her phone several yards away.

"Don't worry; it was all good fun," Natasha said as her hands fell to Wanda's. Grabbing them and bringing Wanda's attention to her again. "Plus..." Natasha drew out. "I think you like seeing me like this."

Wanda inhaled quickly. "And what if I do?" She raised an eyebrow while trying her best to contain her nerves. "Then I can get bloody and bruised for you," Natasha growled as she stepped closer, placing her boots right next to Wanda's Vans. Their bodies closer than ever. Wanda was trying to control her breathing as they stood in the gravel driveway.

"For me?" Wanda questioned. Natasha nodded. "For you."

Without saying it, they told each other what they wanted to hear.

Wanda smiled and pulled her hands up Natasha's side, stretching herself to make herself taller as her arms wrapped around Natasha's neck. "I know I said it before, but I really like you, Natasha."

There it was. The softness that bled from Wanda.

"Even though I did this to my face?" Wanda smirked at Natasha, making her blush. "Well, technically, I didn't, but-" Wanda stopped Natasha by placing her lips onto the redheads. Natasha wasn't one to ramble, but the nerves were getting to her.

Once Wanda's soft lips touched hers, she grinned into the kiss and felt her stomach flip.

Kate had turned around just in time to finally see her friends not be idiots and tell each other how they felt. She then turned back as the sound of a truck engine and gravel rolled down the driveway.

"I like you too, Wanda," Natasha said as she caught her breath and held Wanda's hand in hers. Wanda bit her bottom lip and went from Natasha's black eye to the sound of her father's truck.

Natasha heard it, too.

In a flash, Natasha and Wanda's hands separated from one another as they stepped back. Natasha picked up her bag from the ground and stood near Wanda as they watched Erik's truck park on the opposite side of Wanda's SUV.

Kate walked up to the two, hung up her call with Maya, and watched Erik step out of the truck and go to the bed, pulling out a suitcase and duffle bag.

Natasha tilted her head before the creaking sound of the passenger door was heard. The redhead watched as a tall man around Wanda's age with dark hair and silver highlights stepped out. He wore aviators, brown boots, slim-fit dark wash jeans, and a graphic tee.

He reminded Kate of a modern-day Ryan Gosling in a certain way.

Natasha wasn't occupied with who the man looked like. All she cared about was who he was.

The man with Erik behind him stopped in front of the porch of the house and opened his arms side. "Sestra!" He yelled in a heavy accent. "Pietro!" Wanda yelled back before running to the man.

Shit.

"Pietro?" Kate quietly asked. Without taking their eyes away, Natasha answered. "Wanda's twin brother." Kate looked shocked at Natasha and could see Nat's green eyes studying the man.

Kate turned back just in time for Wanda to point to Kate and Natasha behind her. Erik nodded to something Wanda said before they started to move closer. Natasha took steps forward to be polite.

Kate followed and started questioning if she should've just dropped Natasha off and left.

Wanda arrived in front of Natasha with a hidden smile while the other two men looked at Natasha differently. Erik was the first to speak with concern while Pietro looked at Natasha through his sunglasses. "Natasha, what the hell happened to you? Are you all right?"

Kate stepped forward. "It's okay. Natasha just got into a fight with my girlfriend." Kate smiled as she didn't hear her own words. Natasha and Wanda opened their mouths to correct Kate, but Pietro spoke up. "Did you win?" Erik smacked his son's head, making his sister cover her mouth to hide a laugh.

Natasha smiled. "No, and it was an exhibition match anyway."

Pietro hummed with a tone of disappointment before he lifted his sunglasses up. It was in the eyes that Natasha could see how similar Wanda and Pietro really were. "Think you could take me?" He smirked, and that got under Natasha's skin for some reason.

However, thankfully, before she could utter a single word, Wanda and Erik had better suggestions. "Oh, quit it!" Erik patted his son's shoulder. Wanda stepped in front of Natasha and nervously laughed. "Trust me, Pietro, you don't want to do that." 

Kate thought the same thing.

He shrugged. "Maybe someday." He looked Natasha up and down. His eyes stopping in one place along the way. "Solider." He smiled and turned with his father to greet Magda on the porch. Her eyes moved from Natasha and Wanda to her son.

"What the hell was that," Natasha whispered with her arms crossed over her chest as everyone else, aside from Wanda and Kate, disappeared inside the house. "He's just trying to get a rise out of you. He's annoying like that."

Wanda was correct, and for a moment, Natasha remembered that that's what siblings do to their sisters and their friends.

"Plus, knowing him, it's his way of flirting." Wanda shook her head at that gross thought. "Ew." Kate audibly said, making Natasha laugh.

dividers by @/benkeibear

[arty-jackson]

OK, so this is a very team cap post.

So I'm pretty sure Tony never told Peter the reasons for the Civil war. Like Peter would have one hundred percent taken Steve's side ( the sokovian accords say that all superheros must reveal thier identity, which Peter would not want to do at all.)

So if he chose to mislead (trick) Peter, how can anyone really believe that he's better than cap!?? Like he has no problem tricking a fourteen year old boy and yet people still support him? Whereas Cap was a good friend all through the film, and gave up everything to fight for what he thought was the right thing.

Not to mention the fact that Tony dragged a flippin 14 year old into a battle! And the fact that he tried to kill Bucky - who is also a victim - to get revenge for his parents even though bucky was even more of a victim than the starks!

And I'm not even getting started on his treatment on bucky.

I know there are more anti-iron facts, feel free to add them.

[annachum]

Some more drawings I have for Heike Wisniewska

After receiving feedback from the wonderful @loveloki555 ( who is from Poland ) , it turns out rich Polish women hardly ever wear those beautiful headscarves. So I apologize in advance for any confusion that caused. I just thought that those Slavic headscarves are beautiful.

Anyway, a little edit on Heike's wardrobe - she has several Slavic shawls that she wears as neckties or scarves, and she regularly wears fur hats in the winter. She often has luxurious clothes from Germany, France, Switzerland and England, and she often wears her heirloom pearls.

Also, Heike and Helmut had had a 2 week honeymoon in the alps of Switzerland where the enjoy skiing and sight seeing after their October wedding

[bloodstainedstar]

Incorrect Quotes: The Falcon and The Winter Soldier Inspired by this text post.

[bromcommie]

Sokovia falls in spring.

Much of it is blurry now, forced into oblivion, but he remembers that part with vicious detail - the unassuming, forgettable prelude to hell; Lazarus Saturday, the intermittent tinkling of bells down their cul-de-sac and the heavy wet air while he sat out on the wide expanse of the balcony, sipping on his lukewarm coffee and sneaking a rare indulgent cigarette while the house was empty. It'd done little to ward against the chill of the morning, the kind of cold that broke him out into consistent goosebumps and seeped down into his bones, seemingly misplaced in early April. The metal railing stuck to the warm skin of his forearms when he leaned over it to peer idly down at the street, to where snow had accumulated in front of the row of brand-new luxury apartment buildings; all alike in their appearance, all that same shiny glass and metal and blinding white that had become popular in the last fifteen years, fifteen years too late in regards to the rest of the world, and that would fall apart in about as many. All laid out like a poor man's idea of opulence and a stark contrast to the unkempt street.

He'd hated it initially - hates it still, really. The cheap sterility of it, this sign of the times made palpable infrastructure that was devouring what was left of a once beautiful neighborhood, clashing with the old, dilapidated villas and steadfastly grey communist architecture. But Sandra had said, it's a peaceful neighborhood. There's a good school nearby. Sandra had said, There's a life for us here, love, and it'll be a good change of pace. Look how beautiful the view is from up here. Sandra had said: just because you grew up in exile doesn't mean Miho should.

And she was right. So a pristine-white, new-century-cold castle on the hill it was. He could still fit his dream of a future in Sokovia into a different shape, he told himself; what mattered was what was inside, anyway.

He'd watched as a gaggle of children slipped and skittered their way downhill from the international school, kicking the stray willow wreaths that had slipped off the heads of previous passersby back and forth until they'd get stuck in the muddy slush, and found himself wishing again that he'd gone with his wife and son to visit her mother in Kralyev Pole. But he was scheduled to go back to Vienna in the morning - it was a familiar rhythm by now - and Sandra had just pressed a firm kiss to his cheek and said we'll see you back home at Easter in a purposeful, loving tone that almost got lost between the distracted flurry of packing and her distant eyes.

Looking down at the murky palette of the street below he'd wished, not for the first time, that it'd all felt a little more like home. That he wasn't itching to be back on that plane out of the country the second he landed, a feeling amped up to 11 the second his family had set foot outside the building.

But then again, Novi Grad had never been his home; not really, not in any way that mattered.

He'd been in a foul mood already when his father called, the glaring absence of sound from the open double doors behind him and the grey sky pressing down over his head like a steel trap setting his teeth on edge. He'd let the phone ring and ring for almost a full minute before guilt had finally, inevitably, won over.

Their conversation had been relatively brief, caught between perfunctory and utilitarian, much like all of their other phone conversations since he'd started splitting his time between Sokovia and work abroad. They talked about the unexpected snow, about what is to be done for the anniversary of his mother's death, about whether Mihailo would like a BMX sports bicycle for his birthday. He'd tried explaining that his son still didn't really know how to ride one well - that at eight, the five-speed he already had was perfectly fine, thank you, but it's a nice thought. His father had just scoffed.

"You were never athletic as a child either, you know. Never climbed trees with the other children. Always too afraid of falling, I suppose," he'd said mostly to himself, and then, "If the kid actually had someone around to teach him, maybe he'd be learning faster."

On a different day, he might've let it slide. On a different day, he wouldn't have let the sentimental old age in his father's voice feel like a personal affront. "Nobody ever taught me, and I learned just fine."

This wasn't necessarily true. For most of his young life, Zemo had been coached by a wide plethora of professionals: French, German, Latin, shooting, violin, tennis, horseback riding, mountaineering, art, diplomacy, you name it - he'd had a teacher for every single one of the skills his parents and his surroundings had deemed necessary for a young man of his stature, and eventually, with more or less effort, he'd excelled at all of them; but never alone. There'd been Katya, the au pair that practically raised him in his childhood, young herself and lost in a foreign country and still the warmest presence he'd had in his life. There'd been Oeznik, who'd governed him with a much stricter hand than his own parents, but who had guarded Zemo's life with his own nonetheless.

It's just that things like big-game hunting and history lessons took precedence over things like bike riding and soccer, which was just as well, really. He never liked being mundane.

At the Academy it was a different story altogether. Unnoticeability, the skill of being no more interesting than the person next to him, only came later, and at a cost.

"Just make sure your Germans let you out in time for Easter," the old man'd muttered, "if they even recognize that sort of thing."

He remembers that part clearly, too, that bitter emphasis: your Germans. Like Zemo'd picked the wrong thing to do with his abundant time and money, the wrong way to employ his very specialized skill set, the wrong side of the family to lean into; like his name and heritage were something he'd picked himself and not something that was hammered into him by way of memorization, that he was taught to take pride in and embody down to the last detail. Like this mild-mannered, West-oriented young man who spoke German and a handful of other languages softly but deftly, who subsumed all his wilder impulses and hid his smoking and all his other dirty habits from his family and from the world behind a courteous smile wasn't an inadvertent yet nonetheless direct creation of the man on the other end of the line. A prince and a baron, turned a lowly gastarbeiter.

"They're Austrian," Zemo'd said simply. "Look, I have to go - Sandra and the kid just came in. I'll talk to you later."

It's not the last conversation he had with his father, but it's the last one he rememebers. Subtle judgement, the smell of smoke and cold and stale Turkish coffee and all those little clear bells, ringing, ringing, ringing: Lazarus rising, just to fall a week later.

Novi Grad falls on his son's birthday, the 11th of April, the day before Easter. It takes everything else down with it.

This was not the first time Novi Grad had fallen. Historically, this wasn't even the first time it’d suffered this extent of loss of life. But it was the first time the ruins were cauterized before something could grow from in between them like weeds out the sidewalk. It was the first time that what was lost was acknowledged as such: dead, gone, our condolences for your loss. Nothing more to be done.

There’d been excuses, of course, and platitudes spoken by the feeble remaining government, echoes of the UN and NATO and the EU he'd learned to recognize as empty long before he started working in security consulting:

We empathize greatly with all Sokovian nationals in this trying time. We’re doing everything in our power to stabilize the situation. We’re doing everything we can to never let a catastrophe like this happen again. It’ll just take a few weeks, a month, a year or two or five to rebuild, but patience is of the essence here.

We’re all very horrified, you understand. There aren’t enough resources for everyone, you see. It’s a very complicated situation, there’s no one answer here – now’s not the time to be pointing fingers. But we’re doing everything we can. We’re sure it’ll be enough.

Daće Bog. That’s what his mother used to say – like a vague handwave to ward off all the legitimate fear and anxiety before it can ever take root in her body, in her home. If she saw even a glimpse of it in her son’s face she’d take it as a clear sign that she had personally failed somehow, which would, exacerbated by alcohol and pent-up emotion, upset and anger her more than the original problem itself. Zemo'd learned how to bury and snuff out these embers of fear very quickly.

There's talk of persecution of royalist dissidents abroad - God will protect us from the infidels, you'll see. The regime changes and the country plunges into economic crisis - so what, it'll pass, God willing, and then we'll be able to return. Yet another war breaks out, nothing but a parasitic twin to the last, devouring the country from the inside out and draining off fresh blood – well, it's nothing new. it'll be alright, God willing we'll get the bastards before they get us. Crkli dabogda.

And he’d just nod his little head and allow, very neutral, very acquiescing for the tender age of nine, thirteen, sixteen - sure, of course, it'll all be fine. Much later, he'd adjust the poorly-fitted camouflage greens that would squeeze too tight around his neck and say in that same steady tone of voice into the payphone receiver, Don't worry, mama, don't worry, it'll be taken care of. Daće Bog.

That’s all she’d ever say on the topic, or any topic really. God save us, God willing, God will provide – that was her eternal refrain. Well that and, just you wait until your father gets home, if she'd perceived him to be acting up somehow - more often than not by virtue of sheer existence alone.

This was, of course, yet another half-truth - his father never really took to beating him. There were always bigger things to worry about, things that belonged to the grander picture - too wide for him to fit into as an important variable and just manageable enough to squeeze into his young body like a manifestation of a future his father was pouring all his hope and dreams into.

Either way, the fear was there. The fear of disappointing, of coming up short to the ideal of what a son should be; it was all it took to keep him in line. Father, God – they became two sides of the same coin, the same promise of impending judgement. Both instilled far more trepidation in him than comfort.

It’s only when the bulldozer finally digs up what remains of their old country estate and he can pull his father’s unrecognizable, mangled body into his lap – so small and frail, when did his father get to be so small and frail? – that he thinks: what was I so afraid of all those years?

*** Excerpt from my Zemo character study - turned out to be much longer than a snippet, but I got carried away. Still very much a WIP, but thought I might as well post it until I figure out where I want to go with it.

Translations: Daće bog - God will provide, God willing Crkli dabogda - may they all die, God willing gastarbeiter - (German) foreign or migrant worker

[raphs-marvelcat-designs]

Pietro Maximoff / Quicksilver (MCU)

[this-is-chaos-magick]

I low-key hate the "no need for incantation" thingy for Wanda....like I want to see her yelling or singing incantations or chanting spells....idk anything about real witchcraft...but i want to see her doing more than just throwing red glowing balls

Like she can summon demons (gargantos and that ribboned demon thingy at the beginning of dsmom).... I wish we saw how she did it

[house-of-maximoff]

I love her!!! Come back Wanda!!! Marvel bring her back NOW!!!

[billionairebratenergy]

In the Blink of an Eye

Pietro Maximoff x Reader

Summary: Pietro Maximoff wasn’t the jealous type—at least, that’s what he told himself. But when someone dared to touch her, to act like he had any right to her, his patience snapped, and the only thing faster than his fury was his need to remind the world that she was his.

The bass rattled the walls, sending a thrumming pulse through the floor that vibrated up Y/N’s spine. Sweat-slick bodies moved in chaotic harmony, the room a blur of neon lights and the intoxicating scent of perfume and liquor. She was lost in it—arms lifted, laughter spilling from her lips as she let herself sink into the music, every movement effortless, every spin a moment of weightlessness.

Pietro stood in the shadows, watching.

He wasn’t much for dancing. Not like this. Not when the beat was sluggish compared to the pace of his pulse, compared to the speed of his thoughts. His body itched to move, to be anywhere but standing still. But Y/N was here, and so he stayed, arms crossed over his chest, blue eyes locked onto her like she was the only thing worth seeing in the room.

She always was.

She was his in a way that defied reason, in a way that turned his instincts razor-sharp. And yet, he let her have this freedom, let her dance with that radiant smile that made his ribs feel too tight. He knew better than to cage her in.

Until he saw the bastard watching her.

It was subtle at first—the way the man’s gaze lingered a second too long, how he adjusted his stance like a predator positioning itself before the strike. Pietro’s jaw clenched, his fingers twitching with the need to intervene, but he forced himself to wait. To see what Y/N would do.

Then the man made his move.

Pietro’s blood turned electric as he watched the stranger weave through the crowd, each step calculated. Y/N, oblivious in her euphoria, didn’t notice until it was too late. A hand brushed her hip, casual, almost dismissible.

Almost.

Pietro was across the room before his mind fully processed the decision.

By the time the stranger leaned in, whispering something into her ear, Pietro was already there, his presence slamming into the moment like a storm breaking against the shore.

Y/N stiffened, eyes flashing up to meet his, and for a brief second, relief flickered there.

The man, however, didn’t seem to understand the gravity of his mistake.

“Hey,” Y/N’s voice was sharp, cutting through the music. She took a step back, but the bastard followed, flashing a cocky grin. “I’m not interested.”

“Come on,” he drawled, his confidence infuriatingly intact. “Don’t be like that. You looked like you were having fun.”

“She was,” Pietro interrupted, his Sokovian accent wrapping around each word like a blade.

The man barely had time to react before Pietro was there, solid and unyielding, his hand sliding onto Y/N’s lower back. It wasn’t just a touch. It was a claim. A warning.

Y/N’s body melted instinctively against his, as if she already knew he would take care of it.

The stranger blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Whoa, where’d you come from?”

Pietro tilted his head, a slow smirk curling his lips, though there was nothing playful in his eyes. “Doesn’t matter,” he said, his voice deceptively light. “What matters is that you’re standing too close to my girlfriend.”

The word landed heavy between them.

The man scoffed, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Relax, man. I was just being friendly.”

“Friendly?” Pietro echoed, his voice dropping into something lethal. He took a step forward, forcing the guy to lean back. “You call ignoring her ‘no’ friendly?”

A flicker of hesitation crossed the man’s face.

Pietro took another step, and though he hadn’t touched him—hadn’t even raised his voice—the weight of his presence was suffocating. “Leave.” The command was quiet, precise. Deadly. “Before I decide to show you how fast I can make you regret this.”

The man hesitated. Then, in a flash of self-preservation, he disappeared into the crowd.

Pietro exhaled slowly, but the tension in his body remained. He turned to Y/N, scanning her face, checking for anything—discomfort, anger, fear.

Instead, she just looked at him with that soft expression that made the world tilt.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice low.

Y/N smiled, shaking her head. “I’m fine. He was just annoying, that’s all.”

“Annoying isn’t good enough,” Pietro muttered, his jaw still tight. “If he’d tried anything—”

“Pietro.” She placed her hands on his chest, her touch grounding. “You were perfect. Thank you.”

His eyes softened, but the storm in them didn’t fade. “I don’t like anyone touching what’s mine.”

Her breath hitched. He never said it like that—never so blunt, so raw. Heat coiled low in her stomach, but she didn’t let it show. Instead, she smirked, trying to break the tension. “You’re not always this dramatic, are you?”

He arched a brow. “You know the answer to that.”

She laughed, and the sound unraveled something inside him. But he wasn’t done.

His arms tightened around her, pulling her flush against him, the heat of his body bleeding into hers. “I need you to understand something,” he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “There is no world—no timeline—where I let anyone take you from me.”

A shiver ran through her, her fingers curling into his shirt.

“You don’t have to worry about that,” she whispered. “I’m yours, Pietro. Always.”

His throat bobbed, the raw emotion nearly unbearable. “Damn right, you are.”

Her lips quirked. “But maybe next time let me handle it before you swoop in like a superhero.”

He huffed a laugh, his grip still unrelenting. “Not a chance.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the warmth blooming in her chest. “Come on, Quicksilver. Let’s get out of here.”

He smirked, lacing their fingers together, his grip possessive but warm. “I can get us home in three seconds flat.”

She gave him a pointed look. “We are walking.”

He sighed dramatically. “You take the fun out of everything.”

She laughed, tugging him toward the exit. “And yet, you’re still obsessed with me.”

His smirk was slow, devastating. “Faster than a heartbeat, kotyonok.”

And as they stepped into the night, hand in hand, she knew—there was no safer place than right here, wrapped up in him.

[callforspiderboy]

Sokovia Treaty|| Tony Stark × No reader gender

Summary: Your marriage is shaken by your indecision on the Treaty of Sokovia.

Warnings: Anguish, English is not my native language

Your footsteps were silent as you walked across the room, you watched Tony's back as he sat slouched in his office chair, that posture was not his usual one. Your hands slid around his shoulders, announcing your arrival. You expect Tony to tell you why you've been called, but you're greeted by an almost noisy silence.

"You've already made your decision, so why are you still thinking about it?" After a few minutes of silence, you plucked up the courage to say something, your voice low for fear of disturbing the false peace in the room. "Because you haven't made up your mind yet," Tony snapped, still with his back to you. You let out a shaky sigh and squeezed your eyes shut tightly; you were hoping he wouldn't mention your obvious indecision out loud.

"It's difficult..." you were walking on shaky ground, you knew how this whole Sokovia affair was messing with the man "... harder than you make it sound, Tony" you were grateful that Tony hadn't had the courage to look you in the eye, you didn't want him to see the tears that covered them, but you were sure he heard a slight flaw in your voice that denounced your current state.

"You need to clarify which side you're on." You missed all your husband's sarcasm and good humor, it had been days since all your conversations sounded like a silent clash until one of you decided to leave the room for fear of the next words, you'd like to do that now. "I need some time, okay?" You didn't think the treaty would bring the peace Tony wanted, you also feared the damage the Avengers were bringing, but the risks of the Treaty of Sokovia were too great to ignore. Tony closed his eyes tightly, your false indecision making it obvious to him which side you were on.

You were about to say something else in an attempt to maintain your temporary union, when Tony snapped, "You'll have to decide soon," shifting uncomfortably in his chair, you looked over your shoulder at him with frowning eyebrows, they had set a time and you didn't know it? Anticipating your next question Tony was quick to reply "Steve has just been arrested, I'm negotiating his release in exchange for the treaty" Your eyes widened, what would the Captain have done?

Tony turned on the TV and saw a news report about the recent events with Bucky. As he watched the images. A sigh of disappointment escaped your lips, Steve's choice should not have been made on the basis of this negotiation. Like a muscle memory, Tony grabbed her hand, tracing imaginary lines on her wedding ring. In easier times, that act would have brought her comfort, but now it only increased the weight the ring now carried for you.

A guilt invaded your chest, a feeling that you were betraying Tony and in a last attempt to remain faithful to the man you loved you asked, "Do you really believe in the treaty?" Before Tony had a chance to answer you with a probable lie of certainty you added "Be honest" Silence returned to the room for a few minutes, he was trying fulfill your request "It's our only option" Tony knew that those words weren't enough for you, if you were going to sign the Treaty of Sokovia you needed him to be sure that it was the right decision and he didn't have it.

Your hand pulled away from your husband's grip, you bit your lip nervously "I can't do that" The words came out in a whisper, you were ashamed of them. You had promised to be with Tony through all of this, but that wasn't what you were doing now. Tony felt a lump forming in his throat, swallowing dry "Rogers will sign" He tried to sound like his past self, that Tony who was sure of something, but he couldn't. He hoped that the statement would convince you. He hoped the statement would convince you to stay, if the captain gave up the fight there was no point in going against the treaty.

"He won't, I'll convince him to do the right thing" Tony let out a low sigh, accepting defeat. Your body moved away from Tony's chair when you noticed that he wouldn't say anything else, you walked to the exit. Tony realized that this would be his last chance to make everything clear, he just wanted to make sure that he wouldn't spend years dwelling on it "I love you" Your words came out firmly, but apprehension didn't allow him to turn around to see your reaction, "I love you, Tony" You left. For him, those words brought the comfort he wanted, the certainty that you knew that that clash wouldn't change his feelings, even if you weren't going to be together now.

＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿

I was too lazy to translate it.I still don't know what the fandom's reception is like with writing, but here's my attempt.