#welcome to the state house new jersey | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

gisellaaa · 10 months

Text

overwhelming how much i am grateful; you are her own.

mb13 | mat requests that you and your daughter attend the home game for your daughters 4th birthday. somehow, mat conjures up the best birthday present for your daughter.

If you asked Amelia what she wanted for her birthday, it was to watch Mat play hockey. Not toys or books, she wanted to watch Mat play hockey. Amelia had watched him play on TV and always requested to go see him play in person.

The only thing keeping her from watching in person was you.

You and Mat had been dating for around a year by this point. A year filled with laughter and love. You appreciated the true feelings that were built in the relationship. The only thing that had not happened was you and Mat going public. Of course, it wasn’t that big of a deal. On social media, Mat was popular with the ladies. The thought of getting hateful messages from the media was lingering in your head.

But frankly, how could you say no to your daughter’s only birthday request?

You had met some of Mat’s friends before, along with their wives. In general, they were so kind to you. When some of the wags found out you were attending a game, they were ecstatic. They had invited you to join them to the pregame get together. Of course, you accepted.

“Are you gonna cheer me on, Milly?” Mat asked, grabbing his jacket from where it was hanging.

Amelia had a bright smile on her face, digging her fork into the cake you had made. “Yes!” She replied, food falling out of her mouth.

“Don’t talk with food in your mouth,” You reminded, leaning against the lip of the counter.

“It’s my birthday, don't get mad at me.” Amelia shook her finger at you, sassiness filling her tone.

Mat disappeared back into his bedroom, coming back with a box in his hands. You furrowed your brows, curious what was in the box. Amelia had already opened all her presents from you and Mat. So this last box raised some confusion in your brain.

“What’s this?” Amelia asked, pushing the plate forward towards you.

“Open it,” Mat stated, his eyes flickering between you and Amelia.

Amelia ripped open the box, staring at the blue and orange jersey in the box. Amelia pulled the item of clothing out. It was an Islanders jersey, on the back Barzal was etched into the fabric.

“It’s just like yours!” Amelia looked up to Mat with bright eyes. “Mommy, look! It’s just like dads!”

“It is!” You watched as your daughter excitedly laid the jersey out on the table.

Amelia looked so happy while staring at the jersey. You noticed it immediately. It was such a hearty feeling to see Amelia joyous over a hockey jersey.

“Thank you! ThankyouThankyouThankyou!” Amelia looked at Mat, holding her arms out to him.

Mat catched the hint, pulling the small girl out of the chair. Amelia tightly wrapped her arms around his neck, giddy of delight. Mat held the girl in his arms, placing a kiss to her head.

“You’re welcome,” Mat replied, putting her down on the ground. “I’ve got to go, you are meeting up with the other girls, right?” Mat asked, walking over to you.

“Yes, I am. Good luck, alright?” You smiled.

“I will-”

“Matty, you better play good! If you don’t, you won’t play with dolls with me for a week!” Amelia sternly told him, a serious look on her face.

“I will, Milly. Don’t you worry.” Mat replied, turning his attention back to you.

He placed a quick kiss on your lips before rushing out the door. Amelia had the jersey clutched in her hands, starting to dance around the kitchen of Mat’s house. You were watching her as you cleaned up her mess of cake. Amelia was continuously chanting, “I’m gonna be just like dad.” while parading around the room.

You quickly learned of her new name for Mat, still not necessarily knowing when it started. You just woke up one morning and heard Amelia call Mat ‘dad’. You were shocked, to say the least. More than shocked, you were thankful. It made you think of all the things that Mat had done to help you and Amelia.

It made you feel loved, finally learning what it was like to be treated well by a man. A lot of your previous insecurities fleeted away after Amelia called Mat dad. The insecurities being replaced by love and safety.

The other girls were piled into two cars, Amelia (unsafely) sitting on your lap. Emma, Anthony’s wife, was seated next to you. Emma was the WAG you were exceptionally close to. This was due to the fact that Anthony and Mat were close as well. You met Emma before any of the other wives and girlfriends.

Emma was sweet and babysat Amelia a handful of times.

“We should get there when warm ups are starting, so we will go down to the boards first.” Emma informed the group of girls.

“I swear if they lose today, I will lose my mind. I’m tired of Adam coming home in a crappy mood.” Jen complained, physically face palming.

“Mat’s team better not lose.” Amelia grumbled, looking up at the girls. “Not on my birthday.”

The girls laughed. “I’m sure they will play better just for you, princess.” Jen smiled, patting Amelia’s head.

Once parked and inside, the arena was filled with fans. The Islanders were playing the Capitals tonight, Mat was sure they’d win. Jen led the girls to security, which led to them getting ushered down to the boards to avoid the crowd. Amelia clutched onto you tightly, nervous from the large number of people.

Amelia wore the jersey Mat gave her, a black long sleeve underneath to combat the cold. Amelia told everyone in the group about the jersey, always bringing it up. She was the top entertainment of the night for the group.

You stood next to Jen, who pointed out where Anthony and Mat were. Amelia squealed, placing her hand against the glass.

“There! Momma, there’s daddy!” Amelia cheered, pointing at Mat across the ice.

“I see, Mils.” You held her tight to your body. Though you refused to admit it, Amelia was getting bigger, so holding her for a long amount of time started to tire out your arms. “I’m gonna set you down, okay?”

You sat Amelia down, her head barely popping over the boards. Matt Martin skated over to Mat and Anthony, nudging them. Matt pointed over to you and Jen, leading to both boys skating over to the three.

“He’s coming over, mommy!” Amelia squealed, standing on her tiptoes to look over the boards.

Mat stopped before he collided with the boards, squatting down to look at Amelia. He held his hand against the glass, Amelia placing her hand on the opposite side.

“Better play good, daddy!” Amelia shouted, a bright smile on her face.

Mat let out a laugh, saying something inaudible before joining his team. You scooped Amelia back into your arms, following Jen back up to the main area of the arena. Security guards found you guys, leading the group up the box. Everyone got comfortable, chatting before the game started.

It was now nearing the end of the third period, Islanders leading 5-2. Mat had scored three goals so far, he was playing an amazing game. The girls kept commenting about how you were his good luck charm.

In the last minute of the game, Mat scored his final goal. It clicked in your head quickly, four goals for Amelia. You noticed it quickly, watching as he played more aggressively on offense. He was making lots of attempts throughout the night, hoping to score as many goals as possible.

Amelia cheered for the goal, jumping around in front of the glass.

“That’s four! Four points!” Amelia cheered, clapping her hands. You took out your phone, recording a video of her excited reaction.

“Four goals for the big four year old!” Emma smiled, fist bumping Amelia.

The box erupted in cheers, you just taking a sip from your drink. The whole game, the smile on your face was never once erased. All your nerves about taking Amelia to a crowded arena filled with rowdy men seemed to cease to nothing.

The game ended, the Islanders winning 6-2. The girls waited in the box for another twenty minutes before going down to the tunnel. Most of the boys were leaving already. A few were stuck in the dressing room, doing media. Mat was one of them, considering he played one of his best games all season.

Another ten minutes passed, Amelia starting to get grouchy. Soon enough, Mat exited the room, Amelia instantly perking up. She reached out of him, a cheesing smile plastered on her face. Mat took her into his arms, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

“You did so great!” Amelia smiled, pressing her hands against Mat’s red face. “You got four goals, Matty. I guess you can still play dolls with me.” Amelia leaned her head against Mat’s shoulder.

“You guess?” Mat let out a laugh. “Got four goals just for you, Milly.”

Your face warmed at his words, your suspicions being quickly proven. You pulled out your phone, quickly snapping a picture of Mat and Amelia. You loved to capture little moments like this, always enjoying looking back at them.

“Four goals for me? Oh! Cause I’m four now! You got them for me!” Amelia squealed, her excitement seeping from her small body. A yawn fell from her mouth, her mood quickly shifting. “I’m tired.” She mumbled.

You and Mat both let out a laugh. “Time to put the princess in bed.” You commented. “For sure, you guys are staying with me again tonight?” Mat asked, leading you out of the hallway.

“Yes.”

By the time you guys got out to Mat’s car, Amelia was asleep in his arms. Mat safely buckled her into the carseat, tossing his bag into the trunk of the car. The radio was kept at a low volume as you guys drove home.

Mat had his hand tightly clasped in yours.

“She wouldn’t shut up about you all night,” You spoke quietly, careful to not wake the sleeping girls.

“Is that right?” Mat raised his eyebrows, glancing at you quickly.

“Yup, every other word was your name.” You replied, your eyes fixated on the man. “She had a lot of fun.”

“Did you have fun?” Mat asked, his focus on the road in front of him.

“I did, you make it hard to not have fun.” You admitted, a small smile on your face. “The girls think I’m your good luck charm, they are silly.” You shook your head, a small laugh falling from your mouth.

“You are, baby. You give me a reason to play good,” Mat replied, causing a small blush to form on your face.

“Better keep me around for a while, so that you’ll always play good.” You playfully replied.

“I planned on keeping you around for a while.”

Your face glowed a bright red, though the dark atmosphere kept it hidden. Your body filled with the feeling you thought you’d never feel again. A feeling that had been long forgotten since you’ve been with Amelia’s biological father. After he left, you swore to never fall in love with someone.

Then Mat showed up and he became your only exception.

#nhl #nhl imagine #nhl x reader #hockey #hockey imagines #father mat barzal #mat barzal x y/n #mat barzal x you #mat barzal oneshot #mat barzal fluff #mat barzal fic #mat barzal #mat barzal x reader #mat barzal blurb #mat barzal imagine

544 notes · View notes

noxturnals-void · 2 months

Text

My Dearest Shadow

Jason Voorhees x GN! Reader

Pt. 1

(It might lean fem at times but I’m going to try my best to keep it neutral for everyone!)

I don’t know how many parts there will be so just hold on for the ride. ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

Tw: stalking, anxiety, paranoia, jason shenanigans

2,311 words below the cut

You had renovated a little house your father had told you about, one you didn't even know existed two years ago. You spent lots of time fixing it up, lots of money, and tireless days doing the work by hand, and still, you weren't done. Thankfully, most of the difficult, labor-intensive parts were handled with the help of a few hired people.

Supposedly, the house lying on the outskirts of a small town in New Jersey had been abandoned for the past 20 years, belonging to some old couple before they moved into another state and left the place to rot when no one wanted to buy the house because of some superstition about the land. It went up on the market after they died and sold for 50,000. It was a concerningly low price that your house-flipping father had taken advantage of.

He hadn't even visited the property in the years he had owned it, let alone told you about it until you mentioned wanting to set up a little getaway spot on the east coast. He had told you the details, and you decided it was exactly what you needed—a new project to focus your energy on. But you were woefully unprepared for the beast of a job you'd just signed yourself up for.

A year and a half was much longer than you had intended to spend fixing this 1000-square-foot cabin cottage, but it was well worth it. It was a beautiful location, nestled right into a vast landscape of dense, private forest with a breathtaking lake view partially in the kitchen and living room windows- a 10-minute walk away. When the sun hit just right in the mornings, it was like a fairytale. A golden bath of warm, welcoming rays wakes you up better than any cup of coffee could ever.

You'd finally gotten in all of the furniture you wanted, having to space out the hauls between a few months at a time. The house was built for one or a singular couple. There was a small porch, redone with fresh wood and a chair set on the front for guilty pleasure moments outside in the late morning or early evenings. Walking into the cabin, you were put immediately into the living room- two chairs positioned apart and pointing toward a smaller flat-screen television tucked away in the corner of the room on a low shelf for your collection of films.

Even with just you living there, the two different chairs were comforting- one more rough, textured, and firm and the other plush and soft, letting you choose depending on what you'd rather sit on to binge a show or movie for the night. To the other side of the room was the entryway to the kitchen, an open-concept attempt at a cozy space. The bedroom was on the other side of the living room wall, housing your queen-sized mattress and more personal furniture and belongings. There was a short hallway leading to the utility closet with the newer models of washers and dryers, which you could get your hands on for less money, and your newly renovated bathroom.

Lots of the house seemed to have gone with age. Things like the kitchen and bathroom floors had to be pulled up and replaced, everything deep cleaned twice over for good measure, and lots of rounds with exterminators and pest control; the first few months paid off in the long run. Admittedly, you felt bad for killing the tiny creatures. They were just trying to find shelter in the large ecosystem at your doorstep.

You'd managed to get a shower and bathtub combo in the more narrow bathroom; glad to have both options when you felt like it. The house already had surprisingly high ceilings, and you didn't mind that the shower head was a bit out of reach because of its design. A little color coordination here and there and most of the cottage was done up in shades of deep, calming, and comforting greens and blues with lighter accenting greys to keep it not so claustrophobic.

Most of your focus went to the outside of the house now. Finished with most of the inside work, you could now turn your detail-oriented self to the withered outside. With some much-needed love and care, you hoped to fix the paint job into a lovely grey blue and pick up some new windows to replace the old and cracked ones you'd been having trouble with.

Really, it should have occurred to you sooner to repair them, but you'd gotten yourself too busy with too many things at once staring out, and you'd put it off for far too long. Last winter had been a nightmare because of those stupid cracked panes, and you were definitely not about to live through that mistake again.

You'd just gotten the garden sorted out. It was something you'd planned for since the beginning, but you had to put a lot of elbow grease into making it work. You had picked up the bulk of the materials last week, including the young plants and seeds you'd needed, along with the mulch and moist dirt.

Now, you were on your knees, elbow-deep in fresh, damp dirt, making shallow holes for the seeds. You sat back, breathing in and sighing out.

It was a lovely day today despite getting a later start than you wanted. The air was crisp and cool, about 60 degrees out today. It was supposed to get chilly the next few weeks and then warm back up before the end of fall. Then came all the rain and possible snow.

You weren't used to the weather of New Jersey yet, but honestly, it was a nice change from California. It didn't really get cold until January, and summers could get pretty hot, but it rained, and the rain was always welcome, in your opinion. It was nice to get snowy Christmases, too. It reminded you of northern Cali, so tree-populated and the air so intensely fresh, that you had to admit it was nice to get away from the city life for a while.

This little adventure had opened your eyes to many things you were missing- yourself included. You'd never spent so much time alone, at least not since childhood. You'd always had friends, roommates, and a busy college life or cityscape to keep you preoccupied. Out here, it was just you, the weekly check-in from your father, the homely woods, the picturesque lake, and... whoever had been living around here watching you.

You'd seen the shape of someone lingering around a few times. At first, you brushed it off. Working hard every day had its downsides, and you thought you were just way too tired to see it properly. It was probably just a deer or something, you convinced yourself.

But after the first month, you couldn't ignore it anymore—the feeling of eyes on you when you walked past some windows, the other presence as you walked through some of the nearby woods. It was always quiet, though, and truthfully, you'd never seen whoever it was close enough to convince yourself fully.

When you'd mentioned it to your father about six months into living here, he'd told you that you must have been paranoid. There was no way anyone lived that far away from the tight-knit town, which was 30 minutes away. The whole forest, including the old camp he had never mentioned before, had been abandoned for years.

You took it upon yourself the next day to walk to Camp Crystal Lake. It took a while, and again, you felt eyes scanning you, searching you for something, or maybe just dissecting you under its gaze. You tried to shake it off, but it didn't help to ignore it. You often scanned through the trees to find the owner of the eyes, but each time, you found nothing. You began to worry that maybe the isolation had been affecting you differently than you thought. Perhaps you had been paranoid over nothing. Maybe you'd been alone out here too long.

You didn't spend long at the neglected campsite. Honestly, it felt wrong to be trespassing in the first place, especially when you had no reason to be there besides foolish curiosity. Many of the cabins looked incredibly run down, the wood rotting and falling away and the forest taking over much of the paths and steps of the place. You had your fill of satisfied curiosity after just an hour of poking around, finding strange things you didn't expect. Notably, some belongings that were from probable teenagers who'd visited. It wasn't surprising to think kids would dare each other to spend the night since it looked so creepy in the first place.

You should've gone straight home, but you felt drawn to the lake. Admittedly, you hadn't visited as much as you wanted. You went down to the pier of the lake, walking out to the far end and taking in the clearer view of the lake against the beginnings of a sunset. It was beautiful, and you almost thought about watching the sun go down but decided against it when you realized you had no light to try to walk back to the house. That and the idea of walking through those woods with those unwavering eyes still on you the entire way made a chill go up your spine.

You got home soon after that, just before dark, yet even in your own house, it was hard to shake the feeling of being watched. Not just by windows anymore, all the time... The second you stepped outside, the eyes followed your every move. It made it hard to live normally until winter came. The feeling of being observed 24/7 stopped completely for the few weeks it got into the tens and twenties, which was an even more unsettling thought.

Maybe it had been a real person, and it was just too cold for them to linger and creep on you. You hadn't forgotten about the campsite or the eyes that stuck to you for a while afterward. But it still made it unsettling when the feeling started up again in early spring.

Part of you was weirded out that you never felt entirely alone, but as the weeks went on, it was almost more of a... comfort. Whatever it was- whoever it was had never harmed you, and the stare it gave off didn't feel dangerous. It almost felt curious, maybe protective? Something out there in the woods was watching you, yes, but it was also watching over you.

You'd had the odd few occasions of falling asleep in random places and waking up in entirely different places. It only happened twice, and you were careful that it wouldn't happen again. You’d been dreadfully tired that particular week, and the physical labor of building a deck by hand had taken its toll on you. You'd fallen asleep outside on the halfway constructed porch drinking tea the first time, trying to keep yourself awake long enough not to mess up your sleep schedule. It didn’t work. You later awoke in your living room, a thin blanket pulled over your legs.

It freaked you out at first—the idea that someone had moved you and been inside your house. But after a thorough, slightly panicked search through the cottage and realizing no one was around and nothing was touched besides, well, you—and your now cold cup of tea—you calmed down. You mulled over it for the rest of the week, not understanding why whoever it was had decided to take care of you like that.

The second time wasn't as much of an accident; you'd fallen asleep outside again a little more intentionally than before. You simply tested if it were to happen again. It did. You woke up again on the chair with a blanket, the same as before, but this time, you were noticeably less clean than when you’d fallen asleep.

Whoever it was left fingerprints of dirt on your waist and thighs where they had picked you up and carried you. Most of your clothing on one side was significantly grime-coated, and that was enough to make you decide not to try it again.

You wiped your brow with the back of your arm and finished up planting all of the seeds you wanted. You were saving some to plant next spring in case these didn't make it through the winter, just to be safe. You got to your feet, wiping your hands down your dirt-covered jeans and huffed, stretching out your sore back. As you did, a twig snapped, and you froze in place, wondering whether or not to turn around toward the tree line behind you.

In normal circumstances, you would have checked immediately, figuring it might have been an animal. But you felt those eyes on you, those same eyes that had followed your every move for the last year and a half. Your paranoia got the better of you now, and the idea of seeing whoever had been watching you this entire time made your stomach turn to mush.

Your eagerness got the better of you, and you turned around despite the loud thumping in your chest. There was nothing at first as you searched through the closest trees. A figure quickly moved to the side at the edge of your vision- a very large figure. You gulped, scanning the tree line and focusing on a thick tree trunk hiding the person well. Whoever they were, they were most definitely right there, and to your knowledge, this was the closest encounter you'd had with them while awake.

You tried to think of something to say, pondering if you should have said anything at all in this tense moment.

What were you supposed to do…?

#slashers #slasher x reader #jason voorhees #jason voorhees x reader #slasher fandom #friday the 13th #friday the thirteenth #friday the 13th 2009 #friday the 13th 1980

28 notes · View notes

coochiequeens · 2 years

Text

An intact white male went to a Korean spa and wanted access to the space for nude women, was denied, found another spa that was trans inclusive and is still suing the first spa.

A man who identifies as transgender has filed a legal complaint against a New Jersey sauna over “discrimination” on the basis of gender identity.

Alexandra “Allie” Goebert was denied access to the women’s section of King Spa & Sauna in Palisades Park on the basis of his sex, a move he claims was a violation of the New Jersey Law Against Discrimination (LAD).

Goebert, who is a US Army Veteran and law school graduate, filed the complaint to the state’s Department of Law and Public Safety on October 7, 2022 over the incident, which he states occurred last year on August 14. Goebert also is the owner of White Crow Martial Arts, located in Watertown, New York, where he teaches the Korean combat sport of taekwondo.

King Spa & Sauna is a facility inspired by the Korean jimjilbang, a sex-segregated public bathhouse intended for rejuvenation and health benefits. Bathing areas are sex-segregated as they are intended to be used nude. The spa’s website makes specific note of this custom.

“If you are K-spa newbie and uncomfortable being nude, you could skip the bath house. Change to the Spa uniform in the locker room and go straight to the saunas. For bath house users, you must be fully nude,” it advises.

According to the complaint, Goebert was issued a “male token” when he arrived at King Spa & Sauna, “which did not align with [his] gender identity.” Additionally, Goebert alleges that he was asked whether he had undergone genital surgery by a staff member who stated, “Have you changed your front?” to which he replied, “No.”

In accordance with the facility’s policy, Goebert was told he was prohibited from entering the women’s section, where female patrons made use of the hot tubs and wet saunas, because “those areas required nudity.”

Instead, the complaint states, Goebert was told to use the co-ed areas, which required that guests be clothed. Dissatisfied with being denied entry to the area where women were undressed, Goebert complained. The General Manager then issued him a refund and asked him to leave the premises.

According to the legal claim documents, the general manager of King Spa & Sauna is alleged to have failed “to accommodate Complainant so she could use the facilities in accordance with her gender identity.” As compensation, Goebert “requests whatever relief is provided by the law, including, but not limited to, affirmative relief, and compensatory damages for economic loss, humiliation, mental pain and suffering.”

Goebert took to social media to complain about being denied access to areas where women and girls were undressed. In a Facebook post, Goebert suggested he would instead frequent a different facility, Island Spa & Sauna, as an alternative to King Spa. Goebert claims to have reached out directly to Island Spa in one comment, saying, “I have spoken with them personally and they’re trans-welcoming.”

According to admission policies posted on Island Spa’s website, “All guests, including transgender guests, have the right to access the spa in a manner consistent with their gender identity and gender expression.”

The company further implies that any patrons who object to the presence of a man in a women’s section of the spa may be removed from the premises. “We expect all members, regardless of gender identity, to show respect for others so that all members may have a peaceful and pleasant experience.”

“We have a body-positive and accepting environment; respect your fellow bather and help us to create a safe and welcoming environment for guests of all gender, race and body types. Island Spa & Sauna has the right to remove any guest found to be in violation of these policies,” the website states.

Additionally, rules regarding the bathing area explicitly stipulate that nudity is a requirement: “Bathing suits and clothing are not allowed in the bathing area. Traditional Korean Spas require all guests to be fully nude in our gender separated bathhouses.”

A woman who was a regular patron of Island Spa told Reduxx that she, and several of her acquaintances, would no longer visit the sauna out of fear for their privacy and safety. The woman, who has requested to remain anonymous, pointed out that Asian women in particular were “horrified” to learn of the self-identification policy.

“It fills me with dread knowing this fetishist is going to be there and we wouldn’t know when. I am never going there again. I am absolutely concerned about other women and girls. My circle is mainly Asian women and everyone was horrified to hear about it. We won’t be going there now,” she said.

“Why should a naked man be in there with the women at all? We don’t care about his gender identity. He can always use the co-ed section. Why does he want to be where women and girls are naked? The spa is used by teen girls, too.”

Island Spa’s admission policy allows access to children over the age of 10 on a regular basis, and hosts “family days” once per month which permit entry to children under the age of 10 years old.

Goebert’s Instagram profile reveals that he follows a range of fetish-related accounts.

Among them are women’s lingerie company Honey Birdette and sex toy retailer Wet For Her. Hashtags followed by Goebert include “lesbian”, “boyinadress”, “menindresses”, and the misspelled “nuedisnormal”, which features photos of naked or nearly-naked women, often in sexualized poses.

On Twitter, Goebert has stated that he has not had any genital surgery, and clarified that he has no intention to do so in the future.

Goebert’s legal claim comes as “gender identity” policies allowing adult men into areas of undress designated for women and children are coming under national scrutiny. This week, news reports circulated revealing that a trans-identified male is facing multiple indecent exposure charges after repeatedly stripping down in the women’s locker room at a YMCA in Xenia, Ohio, including when minors were present.

In January, a young woman became the target of trans activist vitriol after she took to a city council meeting in Santee, California, to report that she had seen a male in the YMCA locker rooms. 17-year-old Rebecca Phillips teared up as she recounted her experience at the January 11 meeting, stating she had seen “a naked male in the women’s locker room.”

Christynne Lili Wrene Wood, 66, announced publicly that he was the man that Phillips had been referring to in her testimony. Reduxx would later find that Wood had a disturbing social media history that included posting photos of little girls he compared himself to.

In 2021, another Korean spa in the United States became a flashpoint for debates on gender ideology after a trans-identified sex offender had been granted access to the women’s facilities.

Wi Spa, a jimjilbang-style establishment in Los Angeles, California, was the subject of international attention after a video recorded by a female patron went viral on social media. In the video, the woman confronts spa staff because of a nude male who was exposing himself in front of women and girls in the women’s changing room.

The incident was initially dismissed as a “transphobic” hoax by progressive commentators, but would later be verified by police who issued a warrant for the arrest of Darren Agee Merager, a registered sex offender. Merager was arrested in December of 2022.

#USA #New Jersey #Alexandra Goebert is a man #king Spa & Sauna #palisades Park #New Jersey Law Against Discrimination (LAD)#white Crow Martial Arts #lipstick doesn’t turn a man into a woman #Intact male wanted to be in a space for nude women

329 notes · View notes

lehhoh7822 · 6 months

Text

personal theory on how the wttt verse works in terms of states

hi gang

cw: i do mention some policy/politics as a referential thing because this is a satirical series about american politics so these issues appear within the series.

welcome to the table. gotta love it. so

i think states represent

their people

their policy

their environment

(there's more focus on the first two definitely however the last one is also relevant. i also like mentioning this because it allows for good fic content, frankly.)

and then the relevancy of this changes depending on whats going on. when a state reflects one of these very strongly and cannot represent another, then you get manifestations of that. alternatively, enough division within the state and you get things like new jersey (watch his intro episode) and texas (cmon gang we all know im talking about austin). you can also see regional differences if they're stark enough (nocal and socal).

because texas is, within canon, implied to have did and non healthy multiplicity ("i feel like i saw this on Moonknight"), my next point is that depending on how geniunely major a difference is and how poorly one of the things is being represented by the state, the more intrusive whatever is going on becomes. so while most of the gang is generally..... kind of... fine... texas, as a state that is a swing state but still making big discriminatory policy represents the policy well, and the rights and needs of the people less so, meaning that instead of the mostly functional/positive multiplicity seen throughout the series starts becoming less functional altogether.

the government also represents people, policy and a little bit of environment. it/he also represents the system and its needs/wants; such as explicitly benefitting from the industrial military complex over in america, or with the democratic party utilising big issues as part of a campaign (re, overturning roe v wade).

states also probably have some kind of magic to them; they're manifestations who are older than the states as they are part of the US, and we know that loui definitely got something going on there. mother nature tries to get florida and when she misses, both texas and louisiana are soaked from afar, again, representing environment, but also magic is an abstract property which is perfectly realistic in thsi universe. the government does the statehouse; which is a house which externally appears to be normal and holds over 50 rooms and somehow was not destroyed already. this is all to say, the idea of states being able to manifest shit is not beyond canon. go nuts. show nuts, even

yeah lol anyone got any agreeeing/disagreeing opinions

#welcome to the table #welcome to the statehouse #texas wttt #florida wttt #wttt #wttt headcannon

26 notes · View notes

justinspoliticalcorner · 23 days

Text

Dean Obeidallah at The Dean's Report:

Donald Trump’s idea of being patriotic is not about supporting the United States. It’s about supporting those who help him. That’s why Trump has long praised and defended the Jan 6 terrorists who were helping him attempt to remain in power despite losing the 2020 election. Now Trump is taking this support to a new level by welcoming to his exclusive country club in New Jersey an awards show called the “J6 Awards Gala” created to honor those who attacked the Capitol—including those who brutally beat police officers. This is akin to Osama Bin Laden holding an awards event four years after 9/11 to honor those who waged that terrorist attack. And it’s just as vile and anti-American.

The website for this Sept. 5 event--organized by the Stand in the Gap Foundation--boasts that Trump has been invited to speak—although reports are he’s not expected to attend. But the event website notes other visible Trump allies will be speaking including Rudy Guiliani and former advisor Peter Navarro—who was released in July from prison after serving three months for refusing to comply with the House Jan 6 committee’s investigation. It's no surprise that this event is being held at one of Trump’s marquee properties given his track record. The GOP’s 2024 presidential nominee has hailed the attackers as “patriots” and vowed to pardon those convicted of crimes— including those “who assaulted officers.” And last year—to little media attention--he spoke at a fundraiser at this very Trump golf course in support of the Jan 6 insurrectionists. Trump has even kicked off campaign rallies with an announcer asking the crowd to “please rise for the horribly and unfairly treated January 6 hostages” followed by a recording of the national anthem performed by people incarcerated in connection with the attack. Indeed, it’s these Jan 6 prisoners who sang that song--which Trump lent his voice to--who will be honored at the upcoming event at Trump’s golf course.

[...] In addition, the organizer of this J6 awards ceremony is Sarah McAbee, the wife of Ronald Colton McAbee, a former sheriff’s deputy who was sentenced to nearly six years in prison for assaulting police officers on Jan. 6. As DOJ detailed, McAbee despicably held down another police officer who had been “knocked to the ground, kicked, and stripped of his baton by other rioters” enabling the crowd to viciously beat him. As a result, “the officer sustained physical injuries, including a head laceration, concussion, elbow injury, bruising, and bodily abrasions.” These are just some of the Jan 6 attackers expected to be honored at Trump National Golf Club in New Jersey. Interestingly, the country club’s website explains that for large events like weddings or galas, organizers need to contact the club management to utilize a “membership sponsored program.” Did Trump sponsor this event? Did he waive this requirement? It’s unclear but one thing is certain: Trump has not denounced the event, called for it be canceled or demanded his photo be removed for the website promoting the “J6 Awards Gala.” At this point, even if Trump were pressured and ultimately denounced the J6 awards gala, it would ring hollow given his record of praising and defending the attackers. These are Trump’s people and Jan 6 was his attack. As the House Jan 6 committee’s final report summed up well, “the central cause of January 6th was one man, former President Donald Trump, whom many others followed,” adding, “None of the events of January 6th would have happened without him.”

At the Trump National Golf Club in Bedminster, NJ, Donald Trump is set to welcome the domestic terrorist-honoring J6 Awards Gala on September 5th.

Trump himself is invited to speak but currently isn’t confirmed; however, Peter Navarro, Bo Loudon, Colby Covington, and Rudy Giuliani are just a few of the confirmed speakers.

#Donald Trump #Capitol Insurrection #J6 Awards Gala #Domestic Terrorism #Stand In The Gap Foundation #Rudy Giuliani #Peter Navarro #Trump National Golf Club #Bedminster New Jersey #Bo Loudon #Colby Covington

13 notes · View notes

snorky · 3 months

Note

Hiiii! Could you write something for Ukko Pekka Luukkonen? Any type of story is fine! Thank you!!!

As We Grow, So Does Our Comfort

Hey y’all, and hiiii to the lovely requester! I decided to write a platonic, domestic, Upie fic because life isn’t all about romance, as fun as it is, but I appreciate the gentleness of soft friendships. I hope you all are doing lovely, wonderful, and amazing, and I hope you all enjoy this fic, and remember to take care of yourself!

Pairing: Platonic!Ukko-Pekka Luukkonen x GN!Reader

Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings: None :)

—

A gentle tip-tap and pitter-patter of the rain sang quietly against the window as they stood outside, hood pulled over their head to shelter them from the harsh Buffalo elements. Usually, the weather wouldn’t be this dreary, but the mix of spring and summer seemed to dance together like an innocent soul and the devil.

Their eyes scanned the road, hands fiddling with their sweatshirt sleeves as they waited for their new roommate to arrive, and hopefully, within the next few minutes. Why they couldn’t have waited inside was something they didn’t think of, but they justified it as wanting to help their roommate move and settle in smoothly.

Shortly after, the sound of a car could be heard pulling up to the curb, and the familiar blond hair and gentle features of their roommate could be seen as he stepped out of the car.

“Who are you waiting for out here?” he asked, voice baritone and laced with a slight accent, eyes searching the street for another person. “You’re going to catch a cold.”

His Bills jersey was starting to become slightly drenched in the rain, the athletic material turning a deeper shade of blue. In his hands, he held two duffel bags, with one they assumed he had his necessities, and the other, a much larger bag, hockey gear.

“Waiting for you, Ukko,” they simply stated. “Anything you need me to bring in?”

He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “That’s nice and very welcoming of you, but it’s just a few boxes. Nothing I can’t handle.”

Smiling softly, they motioned for him to follow them into their now, shared apartment, out and away from the relentless, yet comforting rain.

As the door to their apartment opened, the cozy interior welcomed the both of them, a couch with a soft throw blanket and pillows, the hum of a record player, and a dim-lit candle on the kitchen counter.

The scent of warm chocolate chip cookies that were baking in the oven filled the air, causing him to realize that it had been a while since he last ate.

Setting the bags down against the wall in the main hall, he walked into the kitchen, looking into the oven. “You’re making cookies?”

“Yep, thought it would be a nice little welcome treat,”

He looked at them and smiled, already seeming to warm up to the atmosphere of the house, as well as their presence. “That’s lovely of you, I’ll enjoy a cookie later if that’s alright with you.” Turning around, he made his way to the entrance door, looking back at them for a brief moment. “I’m going to bring in the rest of my boxes, so I’m sorry if the knocking is going to make you sick and tired,” he laughed.

“Do you need any help?” they offered, following his steps to the door.

Shaking his head, he smiled at them, declining their offer. “I’m okay, I can handle it.”

He walked out of the apartment, down the creaky stairs and out to his car, grabbing a box from his backseat, and brought it back inside.

Meanwhile, they stood in the other bedroom of their apartment, walls blank, furniture vacant. They felt a little bad that they couldn’t have provided him with at least a bed or dresser, but they were trying to make ends meet at the moment, which is also why they sought out a roommate.

“Where do I put my stuff?” His voice snapped them back to reality, their head turning to face him, where they saw him standing there, holding one of his boxes.

Stepping aside, they loosely motioned to the empty space in the room. “Anywhere in here is okay—or anywhere in the apartment actually—make yourself feel welcome,” they shrugged. “I’ll bring in your other two bags from the hall if that’s okay?”

“You’re a generous and thoughtful person you know?” he replied with a slight chuckle. “Go ahead,”

They grabbed both of his bags that sat on the floor in the hallway, which were heavier than expected since he made it look so easy to carry.

The bags dropped to the ground with a slight thud, and they cringed internally, hoping that nothing was broken.

“Crap, sorry!” they apologized, an embarrassed flush covering their face.

He looked at them, eyes sweet and forgiving, “It’s alright, probably just my skates,” he assumed.

Evening came by, and the sun was starting to set, the apartment dimming slightly. He had already sorted and unpacked all of his belongings, starting to make himself at home as he took a bite out of the chocolate chip cookie while leaning against the counter.

“These are really good, like as good as they smelled when I first walked in here,” he said, carefully wiping the crumbs off of his face.

They felt a sense of pride fill them, a smile beaming at his approval of their baking skills, which they had previously assumed were quite rusty since they only ever baked for special occasions. “I’m really glad to hear that,” they laughed lightly.

Enjoying the cookies together in a comfortable silence under the dim kitchen lighting, candle on the counter extinguished, they had already started to wind down, preparing for their own individual nightly routines.

Falling into easy conversation, they continued to talk despite the cookies on the plate being all finished.

“Do you know any good restaurants in this area?” he questioned, following up with, “I’ve been around Buffalo and Rochester, but never around this area surprisingly,”

They sat there, across the counter from him, deep in thought. Not eating out often led to a not surprising consequence of not knowing much about the local area, despite having been around for quite some time.

“I don’t—I don’t really know,” they admitted bashfully. “One day I’ll go out exploring and let you know what the best spots are.”

He smiled, hoping to start off his new chapter with a more bold approach. “One day, we’ll find a perfect spot that will be our go-to,”

It was strangely personal, yet comforting, hearing the “we” and “our” just settled into his words like that, but they smiled nonetheless, accepting this as a new start for them as well.

As time passed, the shared apartment between the both of them felt more like home, less division and separation, and more co-existence, his stuff and theirs littered around each room, the foods in the fridge accommodating their different lifestyles, and even the furniture had their own say in terms of decoration. His Sabres hoodie was hung on the back of a chair, their books scattered on the coffee table, it was a comforting sight for the both of them when they returned from work.

“Welcome home, I got some alfredo cooking on the stove, if you want some,” he called out from the kitchen.

A wave of relief washed over them, their muscles easing from the tension it previously held as they hung their work bag up on a hook that Ukko had installed in the hallway a week or two ago. They walked into the kitchen, noticing the savory aroma of the food that he was cooking, which made them realize how hungry they actually were.

Seeing him stand there in the kitchen over the stove top, stirring the sauce in a pan with a glow around his head like a halo from the kitchen light, they realized how really domestic and homey it felt for the both of them, as if they’ve known each other for years.

“You okay? You’ve been staring at me like I messed up your recipe,” he chuckled.

“Oh—” Laughing, they shook their head. “No it’s not that, I’ve just been really hungry all day, and I just appreciate you cooking something up for us,”

Looking over his shoulder, he smiled warmly at them, “It’s no biggie,”

When the food was done, they helped him out with plating the bread and fettuccine alfredo, placing it down on the dinner table. They both sat down and ate in peaceful silence, enjoying the warming comfort food, savoring each bite and taste.

After they finished their food, they started to help him with the dishes, cleaning up the plates and silverware, as well as the pan and pot used to make the dish itself. It was a task they didn’t mind at all, finding it quite relaxing even as the warm water rushed over their hands.

Ukko’s head perked up at the sound of the dishes being washed, and felt guilty about them doing the dishes for him. “You don’t have to clean my messes up!” he panicked.

“I know that, silly,” they lightly sighed. “But I want to, since you made the food.”

Silence was between them for a brief moment. “That’s why I wanted to do the dishes,” he reasoned.

“I’ll let you do them next time, Ukko, promise.”

He got up from the table, having finished his plate, and walked over to the sink where they were standing, setting the plate down on the counter. They looked over at him, reaching out to grab the plate, but he pulled it away before they could get it.

An offended look appeared on their face, causing him to let out a laugh. “I thought you said I could wash them next?”

“No, Ukko,” they chuckled. “Like, the next time we eat. Now hand over the dishes and silverware,”

He reluctantly slid the plate and utensils over, allowing them to rinse it off with water before scrubbing with soap. “Only if I can wipe off the counter and table.” His hand grabbed a rag, running it under water for a brief moment before starting to wipe down the counter. “How was work?”

“It was okay, same as usual,” they responded. “How was practice?”

“Good.” He moved over to the table, starting to wipe the surface. “Stopped a good amount of pucks during scrimmage. I also had a nice workout to help with strength training and stuff,”

“Oh? That’s good to hear. It’s always smart to make sure your body is in good condition before doing the splits in full goalie gear y'know?”

He laughed at their words, bringing the towel back to the counter. “I appreciate the compliment on my skills.” Grabbing a drink out of the fridge, he turned to face them before taking a sip. “Can I tell you something? It might seem a little silly,”

“Go ahead,” they said, turning around to face him. “What’s up?”

“I just wanted to say that I appreciate the little things here, I’m really glad I moved in with you.” His confession was not surprising, with them noticing his small smiles whenever they hung out or talked about the more mundane things in life. “And I also want to add that, I appreciate everything you do around here, it keeps the place running while I’m away,” he chuckled.

Their heart warmed at his gentle words, their actions being validated and effort noticed. “It’s nothing big, Upie, it’s a cooperative thing, we’re both trying our best,” they smiled.

#nhl #hockey #nhl hockey #nhl writing #nhl fic #hockey fic #hockey imagine #buffalo sabres #nhl sabres #ukko pekka luukkonen imagine #ukko pekka luukkonen #ukko pekka luukkonen fluff #ukko pekka luukkonen x reader

13 notes · View notes

sparrowsarus · 6 months

Text

#polls

16 notes · View notes

wmarximoff · 2 years

Text

𝐢 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮 | 𝐰. 𝐦𝐚𝐱𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐟𝐟

summary: when you return to your family, ghosts from the past keep you from moving foward.

warnings: mentions of smut, mentions of smoking, mentions of drinking, canon typical violence, so much angst.

pairing: Wanda x fem!reader

word count: 10k

main masterlist| series masterlist|

༺ᱬ༻

You leave a few crumpled bills in the rough palm of the grim-faced driver before opening the tin door and stepping out of the vehicle in a state of complete silence. He starts the car and drives away, quickly and quiet; you see only a silhouette of the vehicle fading into the distance, vanishing until it gets small and goes missing into the horizon.

With shrewd eyes, you look back and forth along the empty street, your worn-out pair of sneakers stomping softly on a tuft of green grass; enormous brown and green trees and large, comfy houses lined up as far as the eye can see – the New Jersey suburbs have always been calm and welcoming, with an air of serenity and a perfect pleasant environment for the consolidation of a family; for raising children, for the establishment of a longstanding and solid family nucleus.

An ideal location to let the kids romp outside until sunset, to have weekly neighborhood barbeques and to attend carnivals with the whole family during festive seasons. A domestic atmosphere indeed. It reminds you of your own childhood – your parents, your dog.

Maybe that's why Wanda decided to move to Westview with the boys some time ago, when the pair were still vulnerable little babies, still immaculate and inexperienced, longing for her own children the perks stolen from her in childhood, when she was so young and so innocent – at the time, you already were no longer included in her plans, but you were fully aware that this was all your fault and not hers.

You sigh, your gaze migrating toward the two-story house across the street; a compilation of empty windows stares back at you, silently judging your presence like you're a misplaced filth, something inapt that doesn't deserve to be there in the first place.

The walls are painted a pale aqua-green, interspersed with streaks of white paint, and the closed door is like a sickening, somber metaphor for your miserable life – your family is all tucked inside, all of them under that same roof, breathing the same air and eating the same food, and you are outside, watching, not daring to open the raised door between you and them.

Even if the weather is pretty warm in the middle of the spring morning, you wear a dated leather jacket over a slightly worn tank top that was the first clean piece of clothing you found in your closet; and, with your left hand, you search for something inside the inner pocket of your jacket. Something to calm your nerves down.

The tips of your clever fingers successfully find what they were looking for, because you pull a crumpled pack of cigarettes halfway out of your pocket, and from inside you pull out a small white cylinder and slip it through the gaping breach between your lips without making it a ceremony. Smoking cigarettes, for you, is an ordinary everyday act.

You plan on reaching for a silver lighter in the back pocket of your jeans, but you give up on the idea before you even make it. Something deliberates on your heart as an oscillation of realism washes all over you. You run the palm of one hand over the length of your face, and the urge is to deliver a punch against your own stomach as you do so.

“…Shit,” you utter to yourself, closing your eyes for just a second, “What the fuck, Y/n…”

You're going to see your kids, you think, so what the fuck do you think you're doing? Wanda would hate for you to get close to the boys and bring your obscure, depressing cloud of cigarettes and melancholy into their innocent world; ten-year-olds shouldn't know what self-pity is. And you think Wanda has enough reason to hate you; because, in fact, she has.

You then put the cigarette back in the pack before finally tucking it into your jacket pocket again. A groan slips from your uncheerful lips, and without much enthusiasm to do so, you hide both your hands in your pockets before walking lethargically towards the front door of the house.

Every step is an agony, raising and lowering your knees, and the closer you get, the more that place seems to push you away like an invisible shield – you want to escape, because that's what you do. You tuck your tail between your legs and turn your back on like the coward that you are.

Standing on the porch, facing the dark oak door of your ex-wife's house, you consider that you might as well turn and flee, and she would never know you were even there. That you ran away again. But no, you think, you can't abandon them one more time. Not when they need you most.

And it is with that thought hammering in your mind that you raise your right hand and, being seized by a sudden acidic angst that gnaws at the walls of your compressed stomach, you press the digit of your stretched index finger against the bell switch.

The sound that then resonates inside the house seems to reverberate inside the cavities of your own bones, and your tongue seems to be too big to fit inside your mouth. You feel your knees throbbing with an impassive desire to elope, but you just stand there, stiffened on the porch, waiting. And waiting. And waiting. And then, the door opens.

Your stomach scrunches inside you because you see her there, standing in front of you like the painting you aimed to see inside a museum exhibit. Wanda. At this point in life, having been through so much in so little time, she no longer dyes her hair a coppery red, so the brunet color of the silky brown locks you see harks back to your past, when you were just two teenagers playing lovers, exploring and getting to know each other's bodies like if you were attentively scrutinizing a map, and your heart crams inside your rib cage.

A nasty wave of nostalgia fills your lungs, pouring homesickness into your bloodstream. You miss Wanda so much it hurts inside your bones. But Wanda is no longer a teenager, and neither are you. She's older, prettier, more mature, more centered.

Her face swelled into firmer, more polished features, with a sharper jaw and more prominent cheekbones, becoming more oval and less round, less childlike with her age; but the little freckles speckled here and there on her attractive face are still kissable and tempting – you remember you used to kiss them before bed, and your heart feels heavyweight inside your chest.

But something of her is still there, your old Wanda, who slept and woke up beside you. Even if behind the stoning of life, the jovial Wanda who once loved you still shines in the eyes of the Wanda who hates you. Teen Wanda's burning passion, however, was mostly undermined by adult Wanda's unsympathetic disinterest – by the downbeat feelings that had blossomed within her over the years, all conceived towards you. But you understand her, and you don’t hold any grudges about it.

After all, you were the one who abandoned her with two kids to raise alone in the first place, after the perishing and eventual return (after a five-year time window) of half the universe. But she looks your way, aiming at you with that greenish gaze as she did so many years ago, during the fierce battle that spanned all of Novi Grad in the outdated Sokovia, and you swallow hard, being peered up and down by the excruciating sight of your ex-wife. But there's a trace of weariness in the dusky green of her irises.

The redness in her puffy eyes reveals a recent cry. Out of place hair strands point to stress and worry. And you want to hug her, pull her close to you until your bodies almost merged into just one being, so that inside you, you could protect and cherish her. You want to be her safe haven again, her calm and hope, the love of her life. But you just press your lips together and clench your fingers into fists, to censor your urge to lift your hands and touch Wanda's exhausted face.

“Hey Wanda,” you greet her in a low voice when she doesn't do it to you first.

“Y/n,” she then murmurs in your direction, upper teeth digging into the contour of her lower lip, “You look okay.”

“You... you look fine, too.”

You two lie to each other (because you two have the fullest notion that you both look drained and exhausted, and you are aware that your face is thin and pale and that there are deep pockets of tiredness under your world-weary eyes), and then silence settles between you like a third person present in your conversation, haunting both of you to your souls.

She steps to the side and opens the doorway wider, reservedly giving way to you, “Wanna come in?”

And then you sigh. Your stomach is in knots. But you look into her eyes, and she into yours. And then you nod your head in consente, “I- I would love to. I want to, yes.”

ᗢ

It was a pouring night, that second hazy early hours spent that month in Dundee, on the east coast of Scotland, just at the mouth of the river Tay. The city was vast and full of activity, and it had been about a year since you last took shelter in Scottish territory – so much had changed, in fact, that you could barely keep account with the events.

But the city pleased you that last year, and so it was that you decided to come back to spend time after your last mission with Steve and Nat, a couple of weeks before; the two of you have rented a modest three-room apartment near the center of the town, close to a winter clothing store and a small, comfy café. For you and your wife, it seemed like a good plan to adopt the tactic of hiding in plain sight, just two strange faces in the big, undistinguished crowd.

Wanda liked Europe, of course – the green and the gray, the mountains so tall that they seemed to want to break through the shadowy sky. It reminded her of home, a place that no longer belonged to her (as a fugitive wanderer, roots were not a reality in her daily life; with the accession of Sokovian territory by adjacent countries after the fall of Novi Grad, the meaning of home, for Wanda, was wherever you were present).

The sky was gray and grizzled during the torrential, glittering rain, and it was past ten o'clock at night when you sat up in the coziness of the bed to read the pages of a novel; a cup of black coffee placed at the side of your right elbow, just up of a bedside table beside your side of the bed, with little clouds of steam floating in the air.

You hadn't even skimmed through more than two chapters interspersed with a few nips of warm coffee when your wife walked into the comfortable room, half lit by a pair of yellowed lamps, and moved toward the glass-enclosed window, standing there, watching the water droplets running diagonally through the clouded glass.

“Wanda…?”

You called to her, taking your eyes from the words spilled across the pages of your book to stare toward the dark silhouette of your wife; long, auburn hair falling toward her back, locks lit by the streetlights outside, like a cascade of wildfire.

She didn't answer you right away; Wanda seemed to be in a daze, not even having heard you. You closed the book and set it on top of the sheets, got up cautiously, and stepped carefully toward her.

“Wanda, love?”

“Y/n...” her greenish gaze shifted from her own reflection in the glass to looking in your direction.

The small, furrowed undulation between her thin brows portrayed a state of inner distress on the part of your wife, as if she were bewildered and helpless by the very haunting thoughts running through her head. She was wrapped in a thick gray wool sweater and her legs were dressed in soft, cotton pajama shorts—and in that way, she looked perfect in your eyes.

You raised your hands and held her face by the sharp sides, “Is that again? That… that feeling?”

“Yes,” she rested her cheek against the warm caress of your left palm, seeming to relax her shoulders inside the wool sweater, “Yes, malyshka, I... I can still feel it, it’s like it’s talking to me. It’s just so… so loud, Y/n.”

It had been a few days since Wanda told you that she felt a stiffness in her chest, a certain uneasiness that went beyond the limitations of her corporeal existence – a feeling of foreboding reverberating in the magic spots within her own core, agonizing anxiety and chaos magic echoing inside her all at once.

You suppose it would be something to do with the Mind Stone, the source of all her power; and therefore, to the other Avengers, or, to put it even more accurately, something concerning the Vision. The sustenance of your theory was because Wanda could sense the synthezoid whose body was the receptacle of the Infinity Stone – he was like her second birth brother as a being made of pure chaos magic.

Having been without news from your other teammates for a few days, it was conceivable that the connection created from the magical bond between Wanda and Vision alerted her to something that even she couldn't be completely sure of what it was.

It was as if some invisible force was stealing the oxygen that filled her lungs,“Tell me how you feel now.”

You asked her, still caressing the skin of her face, touching a small mole beside the right side of her sharp cheekbones. But Wanda took your hand with her own fingers, bringing it close to her pearly lips so that she could thus place a kiss on the gold band placed by herself on your ring finger, your wedding band (one of the symbols of your bond with her), before lowering her face to sprinkle another warm kiss on the bundle of skin found at the tender junction between your palm and wrist.

“I just feel you, baby.”

She still didn't seem in a serene state of mind as she cupped your face by the sides, pulling your head towards hers so that you two could share a slow, lingering kiss; the predominant slowness in the act, just to seal, between your tangled tongues, the promise that everything would be all right, that you would be there for her, and she would do the same for you.

When you took hold of her waist, though, an irritated cry ripped through the air, and complementary to it, another childish scream pierced the continual rain; Tommy had woken up, and soon after him, so had Billy. You sighed. The synchronicity of the twins was such that the children's whimpers soon became a single harmony of cries and screams reverberating through the thin walls of the small apartment.

“I'll check on the boys, all right? Don’t worry,” you whispered against her lips, a small trickle of saliva breaking between your mouths.

She nodded her head, “Okay. Okay, darling.”

“Love you, my little witch.”

You placed one more tiny peck against the corner of her mouth before pulling away for good; Wanda felt the immediate lack of the intimate heat of your body against hers, and suddenly went cold. She followed you with her gaze as you crossed the room, until you walked out the door and turned down the hall towards the yells of your newborn children. And then she craned her neck, looking thoughtfully back at the rain pouring down over the city. And she whispered to the wind, more a murmur than a sentence.

“I love you too, Y/n.”

A thunder erupted through the darkness of the night.

ᗢ

“So, there's a 10 AM train to Glasgow to give us more time before we go.”

Wanda notified you one night a few days later, her arm hooked through yours as the two of you walked side by side across the chill, interlocking brick of an avenue well lit by white streetlamps—both wearing thick winter coats on your bodies, your wife much more used to the excruciating, bone-chilling European cold than you ever were.

Your right arm, outstretched in front of your body, was comfortably pushing a double baby stroller by the sidewalk; Billy and Tommy had fallen asleep there, both with tiny wool caps to keep their petite childish heads warm. At that moment, the twins were not more than four months old; still infantile and raw, only acquainted by the presence of each other (from the womb) and the gentle supports of their maternal caresses; there was so much for them to do, and a whole world to get to know.

And with that, you and Wanda have learned to comprehend yourselves in your new encountered way, going through a routine stipulated by the nursing of two small creatures so dependent on you; as mothers and as a couple, as friends and as companions. Fighting side by side on a frontline was quite different than raising two newborn children as first-time parents, but together you could handle the new tribulations incumbent upon you. And every day with your wife and newborn children was a new experience.

Slow, frugal walks to the preludes to the soft twilight were often taken after the children came, accompanied by the scent of cinnamon and tea emanating from Wanda and your little Billy and Tommy. But, that night, it was by the silver glint of moonlight targeting the parallel structures of the city that you walked as a family; this turned out to be your new means of acquiring your daily doses of physical exercise as parents.

“What if we,” you breathed, still a little hesitant in your speech, “What if we miss that train?”

“There's one at 11.”

"Wanda, what if this time we just... just miss all the trains?” You stopped walking, and so did she.

The stroller stopped turning its plastic wheels and you turned your gaze to your wife, staring into her intriguing greenish eyes, “What if we didn't leave this time?”

“Y/n...” she hesitated for half a second, but it was enough for you to see the glint of hope in the green of her irises giving way to a shadow of distress and concern, “You... you know we can't. You gave your word to Steve and Natasha, and so did I. Even more so now, with the boys... We can't, malyshka. We both made promises.”

“Yes, but I also made a promise to you,” your hands traveled gently towards her shoulders, holding her so that you both sustain a constant eye contact.

Her hands didn't take long to brush the sides of your waist, fingers adorned in rings stroking you through the thick fabric of your dark jacket,“All this time we've been stealing these moments, trying to see if this, our family, could work. And it works."

“It works,” she agreed, a lovely half smile plastered to the pulp of her lips, tenderness brimming with the greenness of her passionate eyes.

“It works,” you exclaimed, smiling too.

“When we don't run away or hide, when we just live our lives like any other family out there, even despite this situation, it works – you, me and the boys, we work. And maybe running from place to place was the right thing to do when it was just the two of us, but with Billy and Tommy it's different. They deserve stability. They deserve a home to grow up in and call their own. They didn't ask to be born to two runaways in a world that is divided about their parents, but they certainly deserve more, much more, than all of this. They deserve a home. We deserve a home, darling.”

“Y/n...” she seemed to contemplate, pondering. The half smile on her lips perished quickly.

“Let's stay, Wanda. Stay with me.”

She spread her mouth so she could answer you, but the response never came, having drained out of her throat. A thunderous explosion echoed, loud and reverberating in the distance, a burst fending through the night, like the roar of a fierce dragon, spitting flames of scalding fire.

You frowned in a blend of apprehension and notorious misunderstanding; Wanda raised a ready hand in promptness, eyes burning a watchful shade of scarlet red, a crimson mist encircling her fingers at once; an instinctive protection for her children and her wife branching swiftly into the young enchantress who stood, in a defensive posture, by the stroller that held her two precious boys.

You felt your muscles strained like a smooth sheet of metal as another blast split the silence of the night, this time sounding even closer and more menacing, as the portent of the coming calamity, “Fuck, I'm starting to think we should have stayed in bed.”

A heavy thud, like a bowling ball falling to the ground, sounded booming as something imploded from the structure of a nearby building, hurling itself onto the solid ground next to you and Wanda.

Between pieces of rafters and wood and brick, covered in dust and soot, was Vision's metallic body, red and green and yellow clashing with Dundee's gray floor, as if paint cans had been spilled onto the pavement's dull bricks. On the synthezoid's torso, a golden diagonal glow pointed to a slit in his green suit that hadn't been closed even with his regenerative abilities. The twin babies started crying in their stroller because of the bang. The joints of Wanda's limbs stiffened in concern.

“V-Vision?!” You moved towards the ragged synthesoid, holding him by the arm so you could help him to his feet and out of the crater caused by the impact of his own metallic body against the ground, “Vis!”

His long golden cloak behind his large shoulders was muddy and frayed, like a dirty mop. Wanda, however, was stagnant near the crying children and wouldn't be leaving anytime soon; that sick feeling in her chest was back, swallowing her up inside.

“M-Miss Y/L/N, Miss Maximoff,” he whimpered, bewildered, instinctively pressing his red palm against the distended fissure in his greenish abdomen, his piercing blue eyes looking horrifically in your Direction, “Protect yourselves, please, protect yourselves. They followed me here.”

“They who, Vision?” you asked him in a sharp tone, full of tension, “Who are they?”

“The Stone warned me about them,” the robot man mussed in an uneasy timber of voice, chatting more to himself than to you properly, “The- the Stone… the Stone warned me...”

“Yes, I felt it too,” your wife whispered in a grim tone of voice, though not looking at the synthezoid, her gaze fixed like a vigilant watch dog in the direction Vision had been flung.

“Y/n, get the boys and Vision and take them to a safe place.”

Your children continued to cry, and for half a second you felt a burning desire to do so with them, “W-what?! No, no way, no!” you gestured arduously towards her, “Wanda, I'm not leaving you here to fight on your own!”

“Y/n, please,” and then she turned towards you; the sober green of her eyes was clouded by the tears compressed there, “Let me take care of my family, detka.”

ᗢ

Wanda Maximoff is a great mother to your children. The kind of mother who kisses their sore bruises, bakes warm cookies to congratulate them on some new achievement, sings them lullabies before tucking them into their beds with good night kisses, and knows how to treat a cold or, in the worst case, a terrible fever (with ginger and honey tea and black radish – or, as her mother used to call it in her native language, "chyornaya redka").

And there’s you – you, who pays child support on the correct days and don't forget about their birthday. There's never even been any doubt about the fact that your ex-wife is one of those people who were born to have a child (to play the role of a mother figure in a child's life), of course, but even so, you can't help but gaze with an air of tenderness at the picture frames that hang around the length of a high wall. Your stomach feels heavy.

The pictures greeted you with a warm welcome as soon as you entered the house, following closely behind your soundless ex-wife – fearing that it was indeed a crime on your part to roam within the walls of that home while unaccompanied by the figure of Wanda. Like you're not welcome there at all.

But it makes sense, you think, after all, you never lived there with them. Your books weren’t piled up on the shelves, your pillows weren’t managed on the sofa, your favorite mug is not kept in any cupboard. Your favorite cereal isn't in the storeroom and your preferred ice cream flavor isn't in the freezer. Your jacket isn't hanging inside her closet. Your blanket is not on her bed. There is no trace of you inside Wanda's home.

It is the most diverse photographs displayed there on the wall, however, that immediately catch your attention; your meticulous eyes look towards the dozen portraits, and in them the boys are everywhere, smiling, pointing, showing something or just playing like the jovial children that they are.

There are holidays, parties and domestic situations eternalized with all the warmth of a mother's gaze symbolized in the molds of photographs; it doesn't take more than a glance for you to notice that each and every moment summarized by the lens of a camera, hanging there as an eternal reminder of that burning sensation in her chest (love), deals with situations in which Wanda would wish to always remember, keeping to herself the memory recorded on small pieces of paper, saving the remnants of moments to when she would like to reminisce about the twin boys' lives.

She is monitoring your children in most of the photos, being a figure that exudes affection, always accompanying them while carrying the most genuine of loving smiles on her face; they are kissing her cheeks and she is hugging them most of the time.

From the other images, the twins are either together, or next to at least one member of your old circle of friends. You are not present at all at first, and the full notion of it is an unpalatable truth, too bitter to swallow – but which sinks easier to the pit of your stomach when steeped in whiskey or brandy.

But then, there is a photograph almost hidden among the others, looking a little timid, but which you quickly recall the moment as soon as there is a second of hesitation and recognition on the part of your own memory. And you let a small, dejected grin take care of the contour of your lips, the immediate sensation is that of your heart melting within your chest.

It's a photograph that you took yourself, a few hours after the birth of your tiny children so many years ago, on the backs of that comfortable wooden cottage built on former Sokovian territory. The picture portrayed is a little dusky because most of the lamps that lightened the hovel were shattered during the exhausting hours that Wanda spent in an excruciating labor, but the small brightness is enough to find, in there, a couple of full-sized, genuine smiles on both the faces of the young first-time mothers – a youthful couple who could barely look away from the newborns or even each other in that moment so intimate, so pleasant.

The bundle cuddled in the protection of Wanda's arms is Billy, the last one she gave birth to, and he finds himself clad in a pale blue jumpsuit, supplanted by her chest like a puppy seeking its mother's bodily warmth. The grumpy little figure dressed just like him, standing on your own prop, is a tearful Tommy with his mouth open exposing some rosy, toothless gums, both brothers not having more than a couple of hours of existence in this world when the photo was taken.

The young Wanda in the photograph still wore her old locks dyed in a profuse copper color, and her sweaty head rested tenderly on the length of your right shoulder. She was just so peaceful that it ached in your guts. You feel your heart constrict inside your heavy chest.

But the worse feeling takes over soon after, without giving you a measly second to recover from the initial shock; because, right next to that homely family photograph, there is an image of a Natasha Romanoff sitting on a gray sofa, with baby Tommy supported just to the left leg of the former spy, while baby Billy is sitting on the opposite side of his brother, just to Natasha's right kneecap (both the assassin's hair, cut short to above her shoulder height, and the strands of her very sharp eyebrows, were bleached from the original auburn coloring to give way to a shade of blonde as bright as the sun).

You remember hurling that same picture frame against the wall, blasting it into dozens of shards right after Tony Stark's funeral, days after Thanos' defeat and the return of those who were blipped five years before that same day.

You recall that day pictured in that photograph, after the Vision's assault on Scotland. When the rest of your team rescued you all before it was too late, that being the first time both Steve and Natasha had ever gotten to know the twins. And you miss them.

ᗢ

“Please tell me that at least one of them would be named Natasha if he was a girl.”

The former assassin grinned affably, holding in her embrace little Billy who was peering with his curious gaze towards a face he had never seen before in his life, otherwise than through the square screen of a cellphone - trying to decipher her, even at such a young age, trying to understand her and find out about the role she would fit in his still so recent life. Steve and Sam were playing with baby Tommy not far from Wanda's maternal gaze.

You chuckled softly, nodding your head slightly, both your hands tucked under your armpits, interspersed with your forearms crossed just above your chest. You were one of the few people who knew Black Widow's innermost secret, of course; you knew all about her sudden weakness when around small children.

“Wanda prefers Talia.”

“Talia?!”

Natasha replicated aloud while still holding your youngest son against her, turning a well-cut brow toward your wife who was standing beside your left elbow, a loving arm neatly wrapped around your waist. She gazed at Wanda and narrowed her eyes accusingly.

“Traitor.”

ᗢ

“Mom!”

In the course of a sudden dizzying microsecond, your discernment about the whereabouts of the small body in a displacement occurs, only, when it is located just beyond a tiny distance from your position in front of the wall as you are, splitting through the oxygen molecules around you like a little blue comet; which, then, impacts against the middle of your body in a resounding compact thud, like a hammer blow to a wet cloth. You're barely know what hits you, flinging you towards the front door.

There is an upright launch that, when it collides with the bottom of your rib cage, kicks you backwards in a ricochet, snatching, in a chain effect, the rest of your body. As a result of this, as in a domino effect, your forearm goes back and finally your shoulder, causing an inevitable fall with your back open against the wooden floor. A loud smash reverberates through the house. Wanda raises a worried hand toward you.

“Y/n! Wait, Tommy–!”

In a fearful squeal, like a startled mouse, Tommy sprints toward your, leaping, kicking his little heels across the floor, hoisting the kneecaps of his small slender knees up to his hips. The boy and Wanda stand side by side, and your concerned ex-wife offers you a hand to get you up.

“Mo-mom! Mom!” Tommy calls out to you, standing nervously just to Wanda's left side, “Are you- are you okay?! Did I hurt you?! I-I, I'm really sorry, I-!”

“N-no, no, it’s okay Tom, it’s okay, don’t worry” you support the weight of your torso on your left elbow before finally sitting on the floor, hoisting a hand towards the grip offered by Wanda so you can stand up.

“Here, take my hand, Y/n. C’mon.”

The touch lasts for a measly second, and ends before you're even aware you've done it, even though the ghost of an electrical current has passed through your bloodstream, making you see a bright shade of red; but the familiar tingle is still there, creeping through your skin, and she feels it too because she soon tries to stroke her palm against the material on the side of her pants (a cute pair of clean mom jeans), in a failed attempt to erase the sensation of your warm hand squeezing her palm.

“It's okay, I just... I didn't... I wasn't expecting a hug that was... Uh, like that.”

You look at Tommy and he looks overly vexed, his little hands fluttering in eagerness. Wanda soon comes to lay a caring hand on the boy's shoulder, offering him a slightly anxious little smile.

“Your mom’s fine, baby, she’s fine,” and then she turns back to you, coercing cooperation on your part amidst a desperate look.

“You're fine, right, Y/n?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m all right. Mom’s fine. You... You're just stronger than I imagined, son,” you then muffled under your breath, still a little dumbfounded. Tommy is fast. And strong. Dangerously fast and strong.

“Sorry...” the boy whines, creasing his thin eyebrows, “Mama said I should be more careful with other people now...”

“Hey, hey, It’s okay. I’m not like other people, you know that buddy,” you cautiously approach him, and just like that, you touch the pale skin of his left cheek, dotted with a galaxy of tiny freckles.

Wanda once told you that, like your son after he was born, she herself had freckles during her childhood, but that they faded away as she grew up (she was pregnant at the time she told you, and you couldn't help but envision, with your head lying on the pillow just before bedtime, what a little girl would look like with your eyes and her nose, with her small chubby face all covered in freckles, dots sprinkled here and there on her childish cheekbones).

But Tommy just happened to be the next owner of the freckles after young Wanda, “Hey, look at me. Look at me, Tommy. I'm fine, see? I’m fine. It was just a silly scare, that’s all. You caught me off guard there, young man.”

“Promise?” The boy sniffles, still a little apprehensive about your physical condition.

But you smile, stroking the top of his head with your hand, messing up his medium-size brown hair as you do so.

“Uhum. I promise you, little dude,” you wink with one eye towards the boy, just to calm his nerves down, and the act seems to work very well – because he flashes a wide smile in your direction after that. His smile still looks like yours. You wonder if Wanda thinks about it too every time she sees Tommy smile.

“You know it takes a lot more than a small bump to bring your mother down, right?”

"Yeah, kickass!" the boy grins, back to his usual moods, but Wanda just frowns as if she wasn't sure what she'd just heard.

"Kickass...?" she undertones to herself, interspersing a curious look between you and your son.

“Yeah, Wanda, kickass,” you smirk towards your ex-wife, but she doesn't take long to look away, so your eyes go back to the energic little boy in front of you, “Where's your brother, Tom?”

Tommy turns to the stairs that rise just behind him, “Billy! Mom’s here!”

And there’s the ten-year-old boy's intention to sprint upstairs, but before he can even pace onto the wood of the first step with the sole of his well-kept green sneakers, a red haze encircles his small childish body, levitating him like a balloon to a few inches above the carpeted floor.

Thomas floats as if led by the slim shoulders by some invisible entity in a tangled, uncertain, clumsy drape, stagnant in midair as he finds himself bound by invisible scarlet ropes. The boy's brown eyebrows twitch in confusion, and an upset veil spreads across his annoyed gaze, moving his arms and legs from side to side as he does so.

“H-hey! Mama! That’s not fair!”

Wanda has one hand raised toward your son, a grimace not so cheerfully demonstrated in her sharp facial features, the primal source of the same crimson mist lying entwined just at the length of her pale, elegant fingers – between its extensions there is no longer any ring to be seen, be it the usual adornments that she used to wear when she was younger or even the retired wedding ring. The emptiness of her hand is a reflection of the same emptiness found within your core.

“Please Tommy, no running up the stairs, baby,” she asks just once, before putting him back down in his feet with all the care in the world. The boy nods, albeit in a bad way.

“I know, mama, I know,” and then he turns back to the stairs, this time taking them one step at a time at a sliver of speed, still calling out to his younger twin brother, “Bil-ly-yy!”

Before following your son upstairs, you glance at Wanda, wordlessly waiting for a nod from the other woman. But she just looks dreadfully drained, and barely signs silently for you to do so before pacing away to another room in the house. You then take a deep breath and slightly shakes your head before following the path previously traced by Tommy, one step at the time.

The boys will always be your priority. You know which is the twins' room along the vast hallway, climbing the steps of the perpendicular staircase in zeal.

The hallway is covered in a languid flickering luminescence taken from the morning light, white walls lit by sunbeams, and you don't even have a hard time reaching the children's room. There, within those walls painted a profuse navy blue, there are two single beds in each corner of the room, but only one of them is occupied – the other is comfortably arranged, with pillows and plush toys neatly placed on its headboard.

Your stare, however, locates Tommy sitting on the red sheets of the bed to your right, carefully stroking a mound found under the covers that you just know is Billy (your confirmation comes from the way the other twin touches up the boy lying there, because Thomas was always quite zealous when it came to his younger brother).

“Billy,” he murmurs under his breath, but even so the words reach your ears as you're standing in the doorway, “Billy, mom’s here.”

“I know,” a small, fragile voice from under the covers replies to the information given to him by the other twin, “Her thoughts are too loud.”

And you recall adolescent Wanda, because when you were just young lovers attached onto each other's bodies, snuggled in her bed back in the compound, so many years before your children were even born, she was also afflicted by emotions far greater than what she would be able to handle – when establishing a family together was, for you both, just a remote wish in your core that you had not even had the courage to share with each other.

Your ex-wife used to say, in the obscurest days that plagued her disturbed mind, that everyone seemed thought too loudly and it was just too much for her, dozens of feelings echoing inside the fortifications of her cranium; she just wanted to curl up on the bed and disappear, because if she disappeared she would become the void, and in the void there would be no sound to bother her troubled brain.

You almost step on a plastic Spider-Man toy with your right foot as you approach the two little boys cuddled in bed.

“Hey, Bill,” you call out to him in a diminutive tone of voice, showered with tenderness and complacency when you squat next to the boy on the bed, “Hey, can you hear me buddy?”

As motherly custom requires, you sit down next to Tommy and snuggle close Billy's small body on the blandness of the bed, uncovering him from the duvet, revealing a pair of weeping eyes with irises similar in color to those that decorated the eyes of your deceased mother (a woman that none of them have ever met, whose face you no longer remember with clear precision).

“Hi, mommy.”

You smile warmly, brushing the light-brown bangs away from his eyes with your bent right fingers. He still retains the same bone structure as Wanda, and you see the predominant Maximoff genetics sculpting, as much as his maturity allows, Billy's childish facial features. He has her cheekbones and the same shape of her eyebrows. If Tommy has a lot of you, Billy has a lot more of Wanda.

“Hi, Bill. How are you feeling bud? Your mama told me you've been having some trouble with loud noises up there. That sucks, right?”

The gaze that he gives you is very unhappy, half crestfallen and a little tired. You are already familiar with that same facial expression, and it bothers you deeply, that your kid has to go through this at such a young age.

“Yeah... everything is just so loud, mommy. My head feels… weird. It’s, like, really noisy. I don’t like it.”

“I know, baby, I know. It’s okay, Billy.”

You place a chaste kiss at the root of the boy's hair, and he breathe heavily in noticeable relaxation next to your body. You remember all the care you once had for a young Wanda in a similar situation with that of your son, and now you do the same for the apprehensive little boy. Tommy snuggles close to his brother, offering the other twin a half smile.

“See, Billy? I told you that you got the calculation wrong!”

You raise a confused eyebrow at your children, glancing between the two boys in a somewhat curious act as you let out a confused giggle, “Calculation? What calculation?”

“Billy said that mama said that you would come see us every fifteen days, and he counted the days and you didn't came, so I told him he that counted wrong. And I was right, see? I was right!”

You blink once, and then twice. And Tommy smiles towards you exhaling airs of expectation – that same smile similar to yours, that reminds you so much of the child that you once were. And then realization washes over you like a bucket of cold water – because fuck, he's your son. These are your children. Bones of your bones, flesh of your flesh. You are their mother, you think, and you don't fucking act like one.

You'd think getting punched in the face would hurt less than the boy's words at the moment. Because, in fact, you've been punched in the face numerous times before, and none of them hurt that much inside you.

You hold back an excruciating sob that nearly spews out of your throat in a rip, pressing the palm of your right hand against the pulp of your silent lips. You squeeze your eyes into two pained lines, almost shaking your head, swishing the strands of your hair against the contours of your miserable, pitying face. The sensation is like having a boulder stuck in the middle of your larynx.

So, you laboriously gasp for more air than your lungs see themselves as being able to hold in their irresolute core, shoulders almost shaking in little leaps, chest heavy as your ribs were composed of lead and cement. And you perform a pathetic smile towards the twin boys; there's no telling if they really understand all the stress that triggers like an infectious disease inside you. And you feel uneasy, incapable, stupid and idiotic. You feel liquidated.

And then you feel the searing heat of the closeness of your children close to your body, which embraces you to maintain and care for, to protect you from all the evil your own head could create, like a languorous specter, to haunt you whenever you closed your eyes before falling asleep.

The boys are looking at you expectantly in their childish gazes, waiting for an answer that only you could give (because you're their mother, so you imagine they expect you to have all the answers to everything). But this time you don't.

You just lift both of your hands and take in each of the twin boys' affable faces. They are Billy and Tommy, your greatest pride, your greatest treasure to guard and maintain. The living proof that Wanda once loved you as much as you loved her. They are the result of your union with the woman who is the love of your life. You can't possibly love them more than you already do.

“I... I'm here now, all right?” you look from one of them to the other, sounding as confident as you've ever been in the past few Years, “I'm here for you, for all of you. I will always be here for you.”

“We know,” Billy says, trying to emulate the most adult tone he is able to achieve "Mama says family is forever. And you are our family, mom.”

“Yeah, family is forever!” Tommy repeats in corroboration of his brother.

You want to cry, but then you smile. You just smile, “Yes, bud. Family is forever.”

ᗢ

Upon reaching the vast living room (a large rectangular area, simulating even more space due to the well-dimensioned furniture throughout the room), a fanciful lure hooks the top of your esophagus in a piercing turn, when you see the that you are in Wanda's company without the twins placed between the two of you – being the boys the factor that forced Wanda to wrap her prudence around you, in order not to express to her children the troubled past that their mothers share.

But it turns out that the boys are upstairs, and Wanda has her entire attention focused on the television set by the unlit fireplace, where some episode of I Love Lucy elicits a few chuckles from her—and you remember that episode, for you had watched it with her over and over again by the years you spent enjoying each other's company as a couple of young lovers.

And she is perched on the linen sofa seat, sipping, in sheer brio in her polished and well-bred form, a smooth caramel-colored liquid placed in the heart of a tall porcelain cup, with her back turned to you, who are standing awkwardly at the end the staircase.

You know it's hibiscus tea what she’s drinking without even having to taste the contents of the mug. You only see the top of your ex-wife's dark-haired head and want to momentarily sink your nose into it to sniff the scent of her locks, only to see for yourself that she still exudes that same mild strawberry shampoo scent that you always appreciated so much. But you gasp in a ragged, half-embarrassed sigh when your ex-wife's voice is soft in your ears, pulling you out of your little bubble of intrusive thoughts.

“You always had loud thoughts, you know?”

You feel a constriction in your stomach, and inelegantly tuck both your hands into the pockets of your jacket. She's told you this before, when you were just two teenagers, so immature for everything, “Yeah, I’ve heard.”

And then there's the discomforted silence; neither of you dares to be the first to start the next sentence. But Wanda turns her chin over her left shoulder, turning toward you, and you feel her sharp gaze scanning your flesh, searching for some information within your soul; the inexorable greenish gaze is steady and when aimed at your own eyes it's the trigger, and you look away to stare at an opaque stain on the white fabric of your worn sneakers.

“How are they?”

“Tommy seems to be doing fine, he just needs to learn to keep a constant check on his abilities, but... He will get the hang of it. I mean, I've been through it too – you know how it works when you're that strong. It's... kinda hard to control your own strength, sometimes. You know, like that time when we were–”

You say it without thinking, but then your cheeks burn a profuse shade of pink as your blood bristles within your veins, and you see her shift on the couch and reach for a sip of warm tea because you know that the same memories flood suddenly in the deeps of her mind – the two of you are haunted by intense nights that ended up ending with a broken bedframe and torn sheets; she sweaty and her chest panting heavily, the insides of her thighs wet with the final remnants of her climax (of her pleasure), dripping red across the room and from within herself.

You scratch your throat clumsily, trying to get the sight of Wanda's naked body beneath yours out of your brain, “W-well, uh, now Billy...” you whisper in a prickly voice, “Billy, he... he reminds me of you back then.”

“I know,” she smiles, a small, ghostly smile against the rim of her cup, “He reminds me of myself too. I see a lot of myself in him, but... honestly I don’t know how to feel about it.”

But her sweet smile perishes within seconds, and she gnaws at her bottom lip, looking hesitant and uncertain.

“I…I'm scared, Y/n,” she confesses to you in a sigh, licking her lips, “I'm afraid something bad will happen to them because of their powers. They might end up getting into some sort of accident, or maybe get hurt and even end up hurting someone else and–”

Wanda stops herself before finishing her own sentence, but it is not necessary for her to say more for understanding to be present inside yourself. The saliva in your mouth is suddenly too bitter to swallow. Lagos. You know what she meant.

“They're just kids, Y/n. They’re my babies – our babies. I don't want them to end up caged like animals, I... I need you,” she whispers, “I need you here, Y/n, I can't do this alone anymore. I, I just... I can’t do this without you anymore, I can’t. I don't know how to do this without you.”

Her gaze is not at all wrathful, rigid, or perhaps even mischievous, but it was because of it that something pressed sharply into your stinging core – for you to witness Wanda's mild irises as they are, tempting you with their melancholy green. Her eyes look fractured like a shard of glass, submerged in a deluge of compunction, uncertainty and anguish. The excruciating eyes of a broken heart.

It annoys you, in the most acute sense of the word, that this isn't the first time Wanda has affronted you with her dismayed eyes. Her life was painful, it's true. But you just don't want her to suffer one more time. She takes a fresh sip of tea from her cup. You walk around the couch and sit next to her. She looks at you, but it's too much; you look away.

“Wanda, I...”

But whatever you were going to say next is caged at the top of your throat. You hesitate and she stares at you, a knot of flesh and gall taking shape at the top of your larynx. You even almost raise a hand and intend to touch her, but the same hand has remained stagnant over your own thigh.

“I...” you look at her, “I...”

There's so much you want to say, but you just don't say it. Not now. Not again. You can no longer make promises to her, because you know you are unable to keep them.

ᗢ

You promised Wanda that everything would be all right when you went to Wakanda, both of you tasked with escorting Vision through the painstaking procedure of extracting the Mind Stone from its current location at that moment, embedded in the center of the synthezoid's forehead. You would be doing it for Billy and Tommy, you told her, who at the time seemed so hesitant to join the fray.

Wanda never truly aspired to become a hero, and in all honesty, neither did you at first. But at that moment, the whole universe needed you. And at that time, you had something worth to fight for. You would be protecting the world one last time to secure your children's future.

You promised her that this would be the last time you would put on your suits and use your powers on something as brutal as a combat zone where so many had died and so many more would perish by the end of that day. When that infinity war ended, you would go back to your ordinary, domestic life and raise your children together in some small suburban town, that's what you promised her. She asked you where, and you suggested somewhere in New Jersey, where the weather seemed to be nice.

But before the extraction was completed, Vision fell into Thanos' hands, and so did the Mind Stone. The tyrant titan, by then, already had possession of all the other five Stones. He was unstoppable, and you knew it. A relentless wave of bone-chilling fear ran all the way down your spine.

And when Vision convinced Wanda that she alone held the power needed to destroy an Infinity Stone, she cried because she didn't want to. Wanda shook her head as her darkened eyes filled with pale tears, looking disturbingly towards the synthezoid as she heard his final wishes.

“No, no, Vision- Vision I- I can’t. I can’t–”

She, who had already lost so much, did not want to lose another loved one so dear to her. But she knew it had to be her; you were running out of time and the future of the entire universe depended on your wife's actions. And you hated that such a barbaric decision had to be blamed on Wanda, who already had grieved enough in her lifetime.

But you always thought she was the most devout Avenger among you all. And she had the fullest notion that if Thanos took the Stone, half the universe would die. It wasn't fair that it was her, but that's how things turned out. Life didn't used to be fair to people like you (people like her). And in the copious tears that spilled down her gorgeous face, you perceived that she thought of Billy and Tommy as she lifted a trembling hand and dispensed a continuous swirl of scarlet magical energy against Vision's forehead.

And then, at the same time, you felt something piercing through your flesh. The excruciating pain took hold of your nervous system almost immediately, and every cell in your body seemed to rip apart as your confused gaze migrated downward, only to find, there, slashing diagonally across your abdomen, a thick blade opening a stewing slit in the skin tissue of your stomach.

And it surprised you, actually, to see something go through your internal organs, because as far as you knew, the fibers that made up your body were supposedly impenetrable. But Thanos had been able to rip your belly open with the dual blade he so proudly wielded. And it hurt like hell. A trickle of warm blood trickled down your chin.

Wanda glanced in your direction precipitously, and a guttural scream soaked in dread exploded from the depths of your wife's throat when she came across the image of you being impaled in midair, so close to her, “Y/n!”

It was enough; she lost her focus and with the help of the Infinity Gauntlet, Thanos attacked her from afar. You're not quite sure what actions took place in the meantime, when your heavy body fell with a solid thud against the earth, like an old rag doll, and your consciousness began to shift, leaves and branches being painted by a deep crimson color that gushed from the long slit opened in your flesh; the wound stinging hot in your muscles, the blood seeping from your abdomen.

A nearby explosion rattled your brain within the edges of your skull, and you were never exactly sure, but you think your consciousness faded for a tiny fraction of a second when you lay there, dying, in the earth. But you blinked in lethargy, one, two, three sluggish times. Your body temperature was gradually dropping as your blurred vision caught Wanda's tearful green eyes; your wife had your head on her thighs.

You felt yourself dying, slowly losing to the very serious wound stretched along your stomach. Life draining away in a sigh that left your lips parted, little by little your energy draining away until the machine (your body) stopped once and for all. And you cried, because you didn't want to die in Wanda's arms. You didn't want to be another person who would walk away and leave her behind. One more name in the long list of people Wanda would never see again in her life.

You wanted to see Tommy and Billy grow up. You wanted to grow old beside her in a fucking suburb. You didn't want her to see the life drain from the shell that was your perishing body.

“Y/n!” Wanda sobbed, her hands reddened not by her magic, but by the sludge of blood pooled on your suit, “Y/n, no, please, baby! Y/n! You promised! Please Y/n, you promised! Y/n-!”

Your pulse was dangerously weak. Your heart greedily struggled to keep beating. Your brain fought to keep your organs working, so your vision could barely make out when the fingers touching you suddenly disappeared from the grip around your injured body. Her hands thinned around your wound, and the desperate touch in your flesh was suddenly gone.

It was like the void staring into your soul. But you slowly noticed that Wanda's forearms turned sandy, and it crept up her body like the ramifications of a fast-moving disease, undoing the joints of her elbows and then her shoulders and her collarbones, and that's when she caught the air that her pretty face dissolved into a haze of dust right before your blurry eyes, her facial expression forever etched in your memory.

A thick tear fell from Wanda's chin before her body completely melted, and it dripped onto the top of your icy left cheekbone, the tear feeling warm against your pale skin. She was gone. For five long years, she was gone. So far away, on the Barton ranch, both babies Billy and Tommy had also become dust with all of Clint's family – you learned about it a week later, when you woke up inside the compound’s med bay, with Natasha's pained gaze scrutinizing your injured body (she had lost her sister too).

Your wife and newborn children, your entire family, gone. All of them but you. You were the lucky bastard left behind. And that's when it started; the alcohol and the cigarettes, the sleepless nights and the incurable emptiness that settled inside yourself. You never promised anything again in your life.

#wanda x y/n #wanda maximoff x you #wanda x you #wanda maximoff #wanda reader #wanda maximoff imagine #billy maximoff #tommy maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x y/n #wanda x reader #scarlet witch #scarlet witch x reader #scarlet witch imagine #scarlet witch x you #i wanna be somebody!series

337 notes · View notes