a-spes

⋆ Max' ⋆ 21 ⋆ She/her ⋆ ⋆ Writing account ⋆

[a-spes]

𝖆-𝖘𝖕𝖊𝖘'𝖘 𝖓𝖆𝖛𝖎𝖌𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓 𝖕𝖔𝖘𝖙 

𝔱𝔴𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔶 𝔬𝔫𝔢 𝔶𝔞𝔢𝔯𝔰 𝔬𝔩𝔡. 𝔰𝔥𝔢/𝔥𝔢𝔯. 𝔢𝔫𝔤𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔥 𝔦𝔰 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔪𝔶 𝔣𝔦𝔯𝔰𝔱 𝔩𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔲𝔞𝔤𝔢. 

˚　 . ⤳ 𝔪𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱. . ☁ ˚ ⤳ 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔨𝔰 𝔦𝔫 𝔭𝔯𝔬𝔤𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔰 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔣𝔲𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔢 𝔭𝔯𝔬𝔧𝔢𝔠𝔱𝔰.  ˚ . ⤳ 𝔣𝔦𝔠𝔰 𝔯𝔢𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔡𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔰. ⋆ ⁺ ₊ ✧ ⤳ 𝔯𝔢𝔮𝔲𝔢𝔰𝔱 𝔤𝔲𝔦𝔡𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔢𝔰. ⋆ ⁺ ₊ ⤳ 𝔱𝔞𝔨𝔢𝔫 𝔞𝔫𝔬𝔫𝔰.

⤳ last update — Dec. 28, 2025.

[westwriteswhatever]

Choosing You

Chapter 3: Polo

Pairing: WandaNat x Fem!Reader

Chapter Summary: After a weekend that feels like you weren't fully there, it's finally your first day as an intern at Romanoff-Maximoff Global. Will the exhaustion catching up to you win first or will you get fired by the CEO herself before that?

Word Count: 8.7k

Warnings for this Chapter: depersonalization, past psychological trauma

A/N: Longer chapters (7.5k+) after this one are only going to be on AO3. Tumblr changes my format quite a lot and fixing it (especially with this longer chapter) is giving me eye strain 😅 For the longer ones, I'll still do a preview here and tag those that asked. Hopefully this is an okay compromise! Thank you guys for reading!

Series Masterlist —

Muffled footsteps thud against the ceiling. Low chatter from the basement leaks through the metal vents. In the distance, people shout from one of the fraternity houses nearby. The world outside this room is alive. It’s almost midnight on a Friday. Everyone around your age has exciting plans carrying late into the night, but you lie in your bed, in the dark, alone.

Your tongue drags along the swollen muscle inside your cheek where you drew blood. The wound feels tender, warmer than the rest of your mouth. You press against it, forcing a blunt, radiating pain through your jaw. A condescending huff escapes you, aimed entirely at yourself.

You deserve this pain.

Memories of the interview with Wanda flood your head. You secured the internship, but the achievement feels hollow.

It feels like pity.

An ache wells in your chest, spreading to your throat until it tightens by the second. You grip the rough bedsheets beneath you as tightly as you can, ignoring the lingering pain in your fingers from how hard you squeezed your shirt earlier.

Even through the heavy cloud of exhaustion from the day, shame burns. How could you act like that? How could you let that ugly side of you show?

You release the sheets from your grip, exhaling a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

Stop wavering. Stop complaining. Just be…

“Perfect.”

Your mother’s voice finishes the thought for you.

Silence rings in the air. The vent rattles as the heat kicks on, but it feels like your parents' words are what swirl around the room, chilling the air. Maybe it’s the sheer fatigue of the day, but you can’t wave your hand and push them away tonight. They replay on a loop. Sharp words with jagged edges that tear your skin open, over and over. The strikes come too fast to heal.

You flinch.

Sudden shouting rises from the lower level. The couple downstairs are fighting again. It’s a noise you have grown used to, but tonight your brain stays on high alert, firing on all cylinders despite the exhaustion crushing your limbs.

You just want to sleep.

Lifting your arm, you press your forearm over your eyes as if the extra cover can protect you. But the shield is useless. You’re still trapped in this house.

You still have to go to the coffee shop in the morning. You still have to face your manager, handle the rush, and explain why you need to drop your weekday shifts. You still need to figure out what clothes are passable for a corporate office like Romanoff-Maximoff Global. You still need to calculate your rent, check your draining savings, and ration what to eat.

You still need to…

Pain shoots through your skull. There’s too much. And you have to do it all on your own.

The jagged words, the mistakes from today, and the endless checklist drag your mind into loops with no exit. It’s a carousel of failure that refuses to stop spinning. You squeeze your eyes shut until stars dance behind your lids.

Your hand forms into a tight fist. The air leaking from the vent is supposed to be warm, but your fingers are freezing. You never actually noticed how cold your hands always are.

Not until you felt the contrast of Wanda’s hand holding yours.

You just want to sleep.

—

You open your eyes with a start at the first ring of your alarm. It feels like you only just blinked. Did you sleep? You must have, considering you feel shockingly awake.

Your fingers squeeze into a fist, testing the muscle. The ache from last night is gone. You run your tongue over the bite inside your cheek. The skin is still raised, the deep indents from your teeth still sharp and noticeable, but no matter how hard you press, the pain doesn’t arrive.

Even the usual exhaustion in your limbs is missing. There’s no heavy ache, no weight holding them down, no desperate craving for a caffeine hit to fix your problems.

You swing your legs over the edge of the bed. Your body moves with an ease you haven't experienced in two years. It’s an unfamiliar sensation. It should feel welcome. Instead, beneath it all, you feel completely numb.

Your feet slide into your slippers. Your body goes to work, moving through your morning routine without your permission.

Brush your teeth. Wash your face. Apply skincare.

You reach for the hairbrush automatically, dragging it through the tangles left by your pillow. Staring into the bathroom mirror, it doesn’t feel like you’re looking at yourself. It feels like you’re miles away, trapped behind a thick wall of glass. Despite the usual bloodshot strain being completely absent from your eyes, they look incredibly distant.

Your head turns away the moment your body deems your hair to be acceptable.

Dressing yourself feels like dressing a mannequin. You pull on your long-sleeve shirt and jeans then tie your sneakers. There’s no warmth in the fabric.

Smoothing a hand down the front of your shirt, your fingers stop over your heart. You press down to remind yourself you have a pulse, before your hand drops away.

You reach for your backpack leaning against the wooden desk. The straps slide over your shoulders. You open the bedroom door.

The hallway is dark as usual, the smell of stale weed lingering in the heavy air. Creaking footsteps echo from the basement stairs. Usually, your chest would tighten at the sound. Your heart would pound, your ears straining for the distinct weight of Matt’s shoes on the wood.

This morning, there’s nothing. No fear. No racing pulse.

Your feet simply carry you past the central staircase with quiet, even steps. You step out onto the porch, the front door clicking shut behind you. The crisp autumn breeze that usually bites at your skin feels like a ghost.

—

The warm lights of the coffee shop blend with the golden sunrise spreading across the floor. Steam from the espresso machine hisses into the air, clouding the shot glasses resting on top of the metal grid. The scent of burnt medium roast and chemical sanitizer from where your coworker scrubs the counter is overwhelming, but your nose barely registers the smell.

Your fingers move rapidly across the touch screen of the cash register. Ring up a large drip coffee. Tap the screen. Process the card. Swipe a paper cup from the stack, write the drink acronym on the side with a black marker, and slide it down the line.

"Next," you call out.

The word falls from your mouth like a pre-recorded audio file. Your voice is steady, polite, and easy.

A customer snaps at you because they forgot to order their latte with oat milk. Usually, your stomach would knot at the harsh tone. You would apologize immediately, your throat tightening as you rushed to fix the mistake even if they were technically wrong. Today, you just nod with understanding.

"We’ll make it again with oat milk."

You walk to the espresso bar and pull the carton from the fridge. Explaining the situation to your coworker feels like watching yourself from a distance. It’s an eerie sensation. The rehearsed voice is the exact same one you used when your parents invited people from church to your home, or when you were dragged to after-school programs.

So this is how people hear you. It’s pleasant. Confident. Soft enough to never sound commanding. It makes sense why your parents wanted you to speak this way. But somehow, it doesn’t sound like you at all.

You continue anyway.

You speak to the next customer. You share a laugh with a regular who always orders a mocha. Your lips curl, stopping exactly at the point where the smile looks just real enough. Even if it doesn’t feel like you—even if you’re just watching yourself follow a program forced into your skin—at least it doesn’t hurt. At least your head isn’t pounding, and it doesn’t feel like gravity is trying to pull you into the ground. At least your arms aren’t shaking just from lifting them. At least your stomach isn’t curling in on itself from the emptiness.

At least it feels like all the stressors in your life don’t exist. Everything is being done for you while you watch from deep inside your mind.

Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad thing for it to stay this way until you graduate university. It would be easier to live in a world completely free of pain and exhaustion.

But would that really be living? The thought forces its way into your cloudy mind before drifting away.

—

The day continues the same way even as the routine shifts.

Your manager at the coffee shop hadn’t exactly been receptive to the sudden change in schedule, but had agreed nonetheless. The tight grip of guilt never comes.

You return home, drop your bag, and change out of your work clothes into a t-shirt and sweatpants. The weekend always brings a different kind of labor. Some weeks it means a long trek to the grocery store to buy discounted frozen meals. Sometimes it means cleaning your room, despite how small the space is. Other times it means scrubbing the communal kitchen or bathroom.

This weekend requires studying and completing assignments.

Dead week starts Monday. Fortunately, the two major assignments due can be turned in online. Completing them now will clear your schedule for the internship, leaving the rest of the week free of classes to study until finals arrive the following week.

Everything after that could be figured out later.

You sit at your desk, bringing out your notebook and laptop and open the first assignment.

—

You close your laptop the second the final assignment uploads. There’s no time to celebrate the small victory. Your body is already moving, changing out of your sweatpants and into a crisp white button-down and black slacks required for your restaurant dinner shift.

The restaurant is a completely different beast than the morning coffee rush, but you navigate the crowded dining room with the same quiet detachment. You balance heavy trays of drinks on icy fingertips. You recite the evening specials with that same pleasant cadence.

When a table sends back their steak because it’s undercooked, you smile. You apologize for the mistake and offer to fix the problem like you’re reading a script. Carrying the plate to the kitchen, you explain the issue to the chef and return to the floor without a single flicker of irritation or fatigue.

Everything happens as though you’re a marionette on stage. Sharing conversation. Forcing laughs. Reciting a rehearsed story. The noise of clinking silverware, the bright glare of the kitchen lights in contrast to the dim dining room, the demanding voices of your tables—it all bounces off you as if you’re made of wood.

You survive Saturday night this way. The amount of sleep you get feels even shorter than the night before, but the harsh effects never strike you.

You survive your shifts on Sunday the same. You perform every task flawlessly, like a ghost floating through life. When you look back at the weekend, it doesn't feel like a memory. It feels like a movie you watched from the back of a dark theater.

It’s easier this way. You could live in this black-and-white movie.

But Sunday night arrives, and the biting air of your room finally registers.

—

You look through your drawers for suitable clothing for tomorrow morning. One of your roommates downstairs has friends over. The sudden spikes of laughter and raised voices feel like background noise to the mission at hand.

The white collared shirt you wore the past two days won’t work. Toward the end of your shift, a coworker accidentally spilled red wine on your right sleeve. The purple-red tinge is far too eye-catching to pass. The long-sleeve shirts you wear to your coffee shop shifts are too informal. Your t-shirts are out of the question—a cheap array of colors and old school shirts from middle and high school.

Your eyes turn to the candleholder on the wall. The spare collared shirt from the interview still hangs there along with the black skirt. It was easy to ignore this weekend. You were able to ignore all the problems looming over you. The deep wrinkles still remain across the left midsection.

Shaking hands. Erratic breathing. Fingers clutching fabric like a lifeline. The metallic taste of blood in your mouth.

Shame burns into your skin, melting into your bones. The interview. Wanda comforting you. Your manager’s disappointed look when you asked to change shifts. The guilt eats at you from the inside out. Suddenly, the room feels far too cold to bear.

You drop to the floor. The freezing wooden floorboards seep through your clothes, biting at your skin where they make contact. Pulling your knees tightly to your chest to conserve heat, you lower your head to your knees.

You blink rapidly in the darkness that you’ve created. It feels like you can’t stand. Your arms lock around your legs tighter, as if you can make yourself even smaller than you are right now.

But it’s impossible. You bring your feet closer to your body and tuck your hands between your knees.

Why is it only getting colder?

Your fingers intertwine with each other, a desperate grip as if to remind yourself that you’re still here, still with yourself. You look down at where the dim room light finds its way past your legs. Your hands are shaking, but it’s not from the cold.

The sound of laughter rings from downstairs again, followed by the sound of your own breathing. It’s coming far too fast. Your chest seizes, tight and suffocating.

Like it did in the bathroom on Friday.

Like it did during your interview with Wanda.

It’s scary. The negative thoughts, the spiral, feeling like you can’t take a breath.

But it never fully culminates.

Your fingers release each other and your arms drop, landing with a blunt thump on both sides of you. Your shoulders that were rigid and pulled up to your ears collapse. Your knees give way, your thighs and calves lying flat across the floorboards.

Only your head remains in place, hanging downward as you look at your shadow across the floorboards.

You flatten your right hand against the wood, forcing yourself upward. Your arm threatens to break under the weight of your racing thoughts and a body that refuses to move quickly. Reaching out, your fingers hover near the wrinkles on the hanging shirt.

Your breath quickens. You turn your head away. It feels like if you touch the fabric, the feelings from that day will return, snapping whatever thin string is holding you together.

The laughter downstairs pricks at your skin.

You take careful steps back to the drawers. Every movement is calculated, silent, as if there’s a monster in your room that you’re desperately trying to hide from. You try to slow your breathing, forcing the air to pass quieter through your teeth than before.

The bottom drawer opens with a hollow scrape.

You never open this drawer. Not once through your two years in community college. Tasteful shirts you wore to church appear beneath the dust. Most are hand-me-downs from your mother. A few she bought specifically to make a statement to the congregation.

Evidence that her daughter is put together. Something for the neighbors to be jealous of. Proof that she’s a better parent than everyone else.

You haven't seen these clothes in a long time, but somehow you know exactly where everything is placed.

Pulling out the top and holding it in front of you, you know it will work for tomorrow. It’s one you were complimented on many times before, though the fabric never actually made you feel good about yourself. The knit is soft against your fingertips.

The black cable-knit polo brings back a flood of memories with its ivory buttons on the front and white accents on the sleeves and bottom hem.

Your mother told you to feel grateful for it. She called it a status symbol. But you never wore it a single time unless she commanded it.

A stray breeze from the vent brushes past, and the faint scent of your mother’s perfume suddenly wafts around you. The fabric has been trapped in a dark drawer for two straight years, yet it still refuses to let you forget. The memory makes your head throb.

She used to spray that perfume everywhere. On her shirt, her neck, the car. Every ride filled the tight cabin with the scent of sharp floral alcohol and the heavy, musky cologne from your father. The combination always made you feel sick.

You close the drawer softly despite the heavy thudding in your head.

Rising from the floor, you force your eyes to the metal hanger on the candleholder. You remove the wrinkled white shirt, crumpling the thin fabric between your fingers before tossing it into your makeshift laundry basket. It lands right on top of the pile.

Carefully, you work the metal hanger through the neck of the black polo before hanging it up. The ivory buttons glint under the dim light of your room. You slide your skirt over the hanger so that it rests atop the shirt, trying to cover it, but the ivory refuses to hide itself.

You shove the wrinkled white shirt further down the pile of dirty clothes. The bits of white still show. Frustration wells in your chest, ready to burst at any moment.

“Only incompetent people lose their cool over simple things.”

Your father’s teaching echoes instantly, killing the anger before it can start. You force a harsh breath out through your nose before your shoulders slump again.

Turning the lights off, you kick off your slippers and lie in your bed. The room plunges into darkness. You stare upward, but the ceiling looks frayed, almost blurry at the edges. Your body feels rigid, the muscles of your arms and legs holding a tight tension you can’t seem to release. The scent of your mother’s perfume swirls in the air, making your thoughts muddled and your chest heavy.

You reach for your phone. The movement is almost painful against your stiff arm. The bright screen burns your eyes, forcing you to squint.

1:05 AM.

The internship starts at 8:00 AM. Waking up at 6:00 AM is the only way to be safe. It takes a full hour from the bus stop to get to the building. If I fall asleep now, at least I’ll get almost five hours of sleep, you calculate. It’s better than the usual four hours you get. You close your eyes, desperately needing the energy for tomorrow.

First day.

The words replay in your head, forcing your eyes to shoot open. You crane your neck to see the clothes hanging on the candleholder. Turning your head, you see your backpack resting against your desk, packed and zipped from earlier. You check the time again.

2:23 AM.

If I sleep now, I’ll get a little under four hours of sleep. You lie your head back against the pillow.

What if Wanda asks a question and you can't answer it? What if you get lightheaded again and trip? What if you make a mistake in front of everyone?

You check the time.

2:51 AM.

Your sister’s unanswered message. Your mother’s shirt. Your father’s harsh words. Your display in front of Wanda. Rent. Tuition. Food. First day.

You check the time.

3:15 AM.

They’re going to know I’m exhausted. If I sleep now…

—

The alarm blares through the room.

You sit up frantically, your hand scrambling across the mattress to find your phone and kill the noise. The alarm is silenced. The room plunges into sudden stillness, but your breaths come fast and shallow.

Checking the volume on the screen, you find it set to the same level as usual. Yet, it feels as though someone cranked the decibels up an additional hundred percent. The bright light of your screen forces your eyelids to close tightly from the pressure mounting.

Your eardrums throb with the phantom echo of the ringtone. Or maybe the pulsing rhythm originates inside your skull. Every single beat sends a wave of nausea directly to your stomach.

A cold sweat rushes over your skin. Your hand flies up to cover your mouth as your stomach violently heaves, but nothing comes up. Maybe you’re lucky that the only thing you consumed yesterday was a few scraps of dry bread during your shift.

That fact doesn’t register with your body. Your mouth waters and acid rises up your throat, forcing you to swallow it down repeatedly.

You swing your legs out of bed once it feels like your stomach has settled slightly. Your hand rests on your chest, pressing your palm down and rubbing side to side as if to coax your heart into a slower rhythm.

A granola bar sits atop your desk. Maybe eating it will make you feel better, you think, reaching a hand out toward it. The sudden thought of the dry texture on your tongue makes your stomach churn again. Your fingers drop away.

You take a single step toward your bedroom door.

Your leg folds completely beneath you, and it takes every ounce of your remaining strength to force your leg straight again. You reach for the brass doorknob, but your fingers swipe through empty air. Looking down at your feet, you realize you're standing entirely too far away.

The floorboards look like they’re vibrating beneath you.

You can do this.

The thought comes slowly, a heavy weight you have to drag directly out of the mud.

The bathroom door closes quietly, but the scrape of old wood against the frame pierces your ears.

Turning on the light, you finally raise your head to take in your appearance. A few sharp blinks force some moisture back into your eyes. Your eyes are bloodshot and puffy, the delicate skin beneath them looking slightly bruised. You can see the effort your body is making just to keep itself upright in front of the glass. Your hair is disheveled, knotted from where your fingers gripped it during those short, fitful bursts of sleep.

Not today.

The thought slams down as you grip the cold porcelain sides of the sink.

Freezing water runs from the faucet. You force your already freezing hands directly into the stream, scrubbing your face repeatedly. Your palms press hard against your skin, rubbing as if the freezing water can wash away the dark circles and the red in your eyes. As if it can erase this far from perfect appearance.

Shame bubbles up as your fingers turn numb. This is your own fault.

The bristles of the hairbrush feel like needles against your scalp with every single pass. Every tug at a knot radiates a sharp, stinging heat across your head. It triggers an unbidden memory—your mother sitting you down in front of a mirror to brush your hair. Her movements only get rougher the moment the bristles hit a tangle, forcing the plastic teeth straight through the knot without warning.

You remember the desperate urge to cry. Yet, the sharp glare your mother would fix on you through the mirror would always force the tears right back down.

Her version of a perfect daughter doesn’t cry.

You turn the handle of the faucet, stopping the stream of water. You press your fingertips against the dark circles under your eyes. You’ll have to cover it with concealer.

—

You stand in front of the outfit you assembled last night. The comfort of your worn sleep t-shirt and sweatpants is forced off of you, leaving you exposed to the room. Your hand shakes as you remove the skirt and polo from the hangers. The skirt slides over your skin easily, though the deep chill of the house instantly creeps up your legs. The polo feels heavy against your fingers.

Sliding the shirt on, the luxurious knit feels scratchy against your sensitive skin and actively drags your shoulders down. You fasten the ivory buttons with clumsy, uncoordinated fingers, smoothing down the collar with a trembling palm. The phantom scent of sickening floral perfume and heavy cologne immediately surrounds you. Your throat constricts, but you force slow, breaths through your nose to keep the nausea back.

Heavy straps from your backpack dig deep into your shoulders. The front door clicks, then slams shut behind you with a deafening thud.

Walking toward the bus stop, you keep your head down as the pavement sways and shakes violently beneath your sneakers.

The low chatter inside the crowded bus hits your ears like physical pressure. It forces you to pull your backpack tightly against your chest, squeezing your eyes shut to block out the sea of faces. You lean your head against the window, the cool glass grounding you for a brief moment.

Then the bus ride begins. The heavy rumble of the engine and the constant friction of the tires against the pavement rattle your jaw, vibrating straight through your skull. Your teeth clench hard into the swollen muscle of your inner cheek.

Not today.

—

The building towers above you. The glass reflects the cold morning sunlight. Immovable and unyielding.

Your steps are labored as you walk up the stone staircase, each forcing a heavy sigh of effort. Your abdomen feels sore from the violent heaving that awaited you right when you woke up. Your thigh trembles as if you’re wearing through the last bit of energy you have.

The glass doors open when you step into range. The familiar synthetic scent of the lobby washes over you as you walk into the luxurious lobby.

You look up at the warm glow of the chandeliers high in the ceiling. The lights blur and sway in your vision. You force your gaze back level at the desks across the lobby. The panic you felt when you first walked into this lobby a few days ago worms its way into your tired mind.

Suddenly, it feels like you’ve been injected by ice. Your eyes widen and the distorted vision you’ve had all day clears. The edges of the room become crisp. The nausea evaporates. The dull, throbbing pressure behind your eyes vanishes, as if a tight band around your head was loosened. Your limbs suddenly feel weightless. The clatter of heels on marble and the low murmur of conversation drop away into distant static.

You feel entirely hollowed out, but perfectly still. Untouchable.

The trembling in your thigh stops. You roll your shoulders back, adjust the strap of your backpack with a steady hand, and take a deep breath. The exhaustion is gone. In its place is a crystal-clear emptiness. It’s different from the weekend where you felt like you were watching yourself from the sidelines.

You’re present.

It feels good.

The instructions from your onboarding email flash through your mind verbatim.

Precise steps carry you across the marble floor to the security desks. Your eyes meet the same receptionist from the day of the interview. You greet her with a warm, measured smile, stating your name and matching the exact check-in protocol given to you.

She blinks at you with wide eyes. Opening a drawer, she slides a black lanyard across the sleek desk.

“The card will be replaced once you get your photo taken,” she says, offering a small smile. “Have a good first day.”

You return the sentiment warmly before turning toward the elevators. The onboarding email directed you straight to the sixtieth floor. Stepping into the elevator, the expensive, clean scent of the air feels entirely different than before. Your head was a chaotic jumble of noise that day. Today, your mind feels remarkably clear.

The floor numbers rise on the digital display.

—

Mark’s familiar face greets you the exact moment the elevator doors slide open. A slight wave of relief washes through your chest that it’s him standing there instead of Wanda.

“Happy first day,” Mark says in his usual monotone voice. “I’ll be your supervisor for the duration of your internship.”

You give him a grateful smile. “Thank you, Mark. It’s good to see a familiar face.”

He gives you a quick glance. “Follow me,” he says, his voice noticeably warmer.

He turns toward a vast array of desks sprawling across the open floor plan. Multiple monitors rest on every desk. Employees sit with their heads bowed, monitoring the market. Thankfully, the space isn't as dim as the fifty-second floor, though it lacks the blinding, sunlit brilliance of the C-suite penthouse. Floor-to-ceiling windows line the perimeter, letting morning light flood the room.

Hushed chatter and quiet whispers cover every square inch of the floor. Employees turn to look at you and Mark as you pass, their gazes brief and entirely uninterested before they drop back to their monitors. You’re at the absolute bottom of the food chain here.

Mark stops at a desk on the far left corner of the floor, right next to a junior analyst.

“This is Eli. It’s his first year as an analyst. When you’re not with me or working on tasks, you can ask him questions before coming to my office.” Eli nods at Mark before offering you a friendly smile. “Nice to meet you…?” Eli prompts.

You give him your name, your voice smooth and polite. Mark points to a structure directly behind your workstation.

“My office is right there. You are to come to my office for instructions every morning.” He turns a sharp look onto you, checking for compliance. “Okay,” you respond lightly.

Mark’s office is barely half the size of Wanda’s penthouse suite. The dark, one-way glass reflects your image right back to you. You look put together. In control.

A rapid tour of the surrounding departments follows. Down in Human Resources, you complete onboarding forms, review corporate policies, and stand against a white backdrop for your official badge photo. The coordinator promises the real badge will arrive by the end of the day. Walking back through the corridors, Mark introduces you to various team members who share brief stories about their own first days.

You smile along, tossing out pleasant laughs at all the right moments. The amusement never reaches your eyes.

Back at your desk, the technical setup begins. You log into the secure servers, configure your corporate email, and map out the specific financial softwares the firm relies on. Mark’s instructions stay sharp in your mind, tracking verbatim. You repeat the data back to him the second he prompts you.

You sit in your chair like a statue. Your shoulders are pulled back, your spine locked ramrod straight. Your eyes stay fixed on the display despite the busy movements around you. Other employees casually stretch their arms upward and twist their necks to relieve tension. You don’t move.

The moment Mark steps away into his private office, your lower lip vanishes between your teeth. You press down, squeezing just until the skin is about to break.

Your fingers slow against the keyboard. The clean, sharp gridlines of the financial software begin to blend together on the dual monitors. You try to blink away the sudden blurriness once, twice—each blink coming slower than the last—but your vision completely refuses to refocus.

Reaching out for your temporary ID badge resting on the desk, your own hand betrays you.

A tremor shakes your fingers when you try to lift the plastic card. To fight it, you dig one of the sharp plastic corners deep into your open palm.

Why? Everything was going so well.

Your hand continues to shake as if taunting you, a reminder that you can’t outrun this exhaustion forever. Goosebumps ripple across your bare arms, forcing you to pull your shoulders even higher to conserve whatever body heat you have left. The hushed chatter that felt like background static earlier now expands, surrounding you entirely.

Eli turns to look at you in your peripheral vision, an unmistakable look of concern crossing his features. Before he can speak, the entire floor goes dead silent.

Eli's head snaps toward the elevators to see what everyone is staring at. Your eyes follow his gaze, forcing your heavy eyelids open against the crushing urge to close them.

Wanda steps into view.

She’s wearing a crisp white blouse and tailored trousers. The outfit is simple, yet her quiet authority remains unmistakable. Her eyes slowly travel across the open floor plan before her sharp gaze locks directly onto yours.

You stare back at her, blinking rapidly in a desperate attempt to combat the growing dryness in your eyes.

Her eyebrows furrow slightly, a tiny movement as if she’s spotted something she dislikes.

You snap your gaze back to your monitors. She thinks this is too much for you already.

Your breaths come too fast, shallow and erratic. Trying to force them into a slower rhythm, you draw a deep breath through your nose. The mistake is instant. The phantom scent of that overwhelming, sickening floral perfume floods your senses all over again, making your jaw clench tight enough to ache. Your stomach twists into a violent knot.

Subconsciously, your hand rises to your hair. Your index finger and thumb drag along individual strands, smoothing them over before patting them down. Nothing on the screen registers anymore.

A light touch against your back suddenly forces your back straight.

The change is immediate. The scent of old perfume and heavy cologne vanishes into thin air. The comforting aroma of summer flowers and memories of warm August nights replace it. Your tight shoulders relax slightly. The air that felt completely frigid just moments earlier seems to rise a few degrees.

“This is unexpected. Did we have a meeting scheduled?” Mark's confused voice comes from directly behind your chair.

“No. I just thought it would be a good idea to visit the analyst floor,” Wanda responds smoothly. Her voice sounds crisp and professional, entirely different from the gentle tone she used during your interview. “It raises morale.”

You sneak a quick glance over your shoulder as they continue to converse. Wanda stands with her arms pulled behind her, the back of her hands resting against her lower back. Yet, the fingertips of her left hand press lightly against your upper back.

She hides the touch behind the long sleeve of her right arm.

She taps her index finger against your spine rhythmically, as if reminding you to turn back around.

Panic flares all over again. Now she thinks this is too much for you and that you can’t even pay attention.  Your lower lip finds its way right back between your teeth, your jaw locking tight.

Wanda’s fingers remain steady on your back as the volume of her voice rises slightly, addressing the room.

“Remember to remind everyone that there are snacks on the counters on both sides,” Wanda says nonchalantly to Mark.

Her fingertips drag slowly against your back one last time before she pulls her hand away and walks down the aisle.

The air instantly chills the second her warmth leaves you.

A cautious glance follows Wanda’s path all the way until she enters the elevator. The doors slide shut, allowing you to finally release a heavy sigh. There’s no telling how many warnings Wanda will graciously grant you before you get fired. You don’t have the time to be eating snacks.

Squinting back at the monitors, you flatten your vision as if the forced focus will make the data readable. You try to familiarize your mind with the foreign software. It’s the only task Mark left you with since it’s only your first day, but your fingers stay hovered over the keyboard.

The keys remain untouched. It feels as though your brain is slowing down at a concerning, dangerous rate.

A brief blink turns heavy, your eyelids refusing to lift. The sudden sensation of your head sinking downward feels exactly like succumbing to temptation. Gravity drags you deeper, pulling you down into a dark, empty space of nothingness. Just rest.

Your head snaps up.

Your heart pounds violently against your ribs Your eyes frantically find the bottom corner of the monitor, searching for the digital clock.

It hasn’t even been a minute.

Your breathing slows down after a few moments. You try to tell yourself how stupid you’re being, but your brain rejects the thought. You don’t even have the energy to hate yourself right now.

Your eyelids drop. Your head sinks. You go under again.

Then you snap awake. Heavy, frantic breaths. A racing pulse. Your eyes dart around the room to see if anyone caught you.

The cycle repeats over and over, and you can’t stop it.

A tap on your shoulder breaks the cycle after five minutes.

Turning your head slowly, you find Cindy standing beside your desk. She’s smiling down at you softly. “Hi, it’s good to see you again,” she says quietly, as if she already knows the exact state you are in. “I was asked to bring you up for a meeting.”

Your pulse spikes. You’re getting fired.

“I…” you start weakly, clearing your throat. “I have to familiarize myself with the software. Mark said it’s my task for today.”

Cindy’s soft expression shifts, her mouth curving into a look of quiet sympathy. “Don’t worry about that. This takes precedence.”

Don’t worry because you won’t be coming back to this desk. That’s what she really means. You state the fact to yourself, your chest tightening as you prepare for the end.

Rising from the chair, you grab your backpack and pull the straps over your shoulder.

You slide the lanyard over your head, pulling down on the plastic card. The fabric tightens uncomfortably against the back of your neck. It’ll leave an indent. Cindy watches the entire process with a curious expression, but her soft smile returns the moment your eyes meet.

“Let’s go.”

She beckons you forward, looking back every few paces to ensure you’re keeping up. Your steps wobble beneath you, but you force your weight forward anyway.

The trip up the elevator is quiet and familiar. Relief washes through you that Cindy doesn’t attempt to make conversation. Your brain can’t process words quickly enough right now.

The bright C-suite penthouse floor feels entirely different than before. The sunlight is far too intense, blinding and painful. Your eyes drop to the floor, tracking your own careful steps right behind Cindy’s heels. The path is exactly the same, leading all the way to the right side of the floor.

Cindy stops just short of Wanda’s office door.

She stops at the door right beside it instead. Two sharp knocks echo through the hall before a smooth, raspy voice responds from inside.

“She can come in.”

Cindy opens the door and ushers you through the threshold. The heavy oak door clicks shut behind you, leaving you standing entirely alone just inside the executive office.

The rustle of shuffling papers fills the quiet room. Forcing your eyes up toward the sound, piercing green eyes lock directly onto yours.

Beautiful, you think briefly before she speaks up.

“Sit,” she says simply.

She points a manicured finger toward the chair directly in front of her desk. It’s the exact same design from Wanda’s office. Shaky steps carry you across the polished floor. You slip your backpack off your shoulders, resting the bag against the base of the seat.

The leather is soft against your thighs. The material immediately reminds you of Friday's interview. Except the person sitting across from you today is entirely different.

Your eyes naturally gravitate to the nameplate resting proudly on the front of the massive glass desk.

Natasha A. Romanoff. CEO.

You adjust your posture in the chair, sliding forward until you rest right on the edge of the seat. Pulling your shoulders back with effort, your spine straightens completely—as if your mother’s knee is digging straight into the small of your back.

Your hand reaches over to where the sleeve of the polo has folded, uncurling it and smoothing it down before resting your palm over your shoulder. It trembles beneath your touch from the exertion.

The quiet scratching of her pen against a document echoes through the office.

“Wanda spoke very highly of your interview on Friday,” Natasha says, her raspy voice flat and calm.

That’s a lie, you think tiredly.

“Thank you, Ms. Romanoff,” you respond. The soft cadence of your voice falters toward the end of the sentence, a quiet slip that doesn’t go unnoticed by you. You squeeze your shoulder tighter.

Natasha caps her pen and leans back in her chair. Her green eyes lock onto yours, heavy and unblinking. Her gaze drifts briefly down to your shoulder, where you keep your posture rigid and impossibly still.

“However,” Natasha continues, her tone dropping into something noticeably colder. “That doesn’t seem to be reflected today.”

Your throat constricts tightly. Wanda told her. You wet your dry lips before responding, your mind racing for a single acceptable answer that will save you.

“It won’t happen again,” you promise. You force your voice to hold completely steady. “Please. Give me another chance to prove myself.”

The intense sunlight shining into the office forces your eyes to squint slightly. You don’t waver, holding her gaze even as a fresh wave of dizziness threatens to blur the room.

She rises from her chair elegantly, walking around the perimeter of the glass desk.

Stopping directly in front of your seat, she leans her lower back against the edge of the glass. Her frame blocks the sunlight coming in through the windows, casting a shadow over your face. Your eyes can finally open completely. She wears a similar outfit to Wanda, except her tailored blouse is a light blue. The white heels make her look even taller from your position in the chair.

You crane your neck upward to maintain eye contact, desperately clinging to some semblance of competence.

The bright morning light shines right behind her, catching the strands of her hair until it looks like a fiery halo around her head. It would be mesmerizing if you weren’t about to be fired by the CEO herself.

Her lips pull into a thin line as she scans you, as if she's calculating something in her mind. Under her heavy scrutiny, an intense urge to cover yourself and hide away wells up. You know you must look terrible right now.

She lets out an exasperated sigh before walking past your chair.

The scent of your polo that’s been following you all day is instantly replaced by a wave of fresh pine and clean mint. The new aroma clears your mind slightly, though your torso still shakes from the sheer exertion of holding your posture straight.

A sharp, cold sensation presses against the side of your neck, jolting you completely out of your thoughts.

A low huff of laughter sounds from behind you, and a plastic water bottle comes into view in front of your face. She sets the bottle firmly into your free hand before walking back around to rest against the edge of the desk once again.

“Drink,” she says flatly. It doesn’t feel like she’s asking.

Bringing your other hand down from your shoulder, you try to hide the tremor shaking your wrists. Your fingers feel completely weak against the ridges of the bottle cap as you try to twist it. Your fingers slip off from the inadequate pressure.

Don't fail now.

You try a second time, forcing every ounce of your remaining strength straight into your fingertips. A small step sounds on the floorboards right in front of you the exact second the plastic seal finally cracks open.

You look up to see Natasha taking a step back, leaning back against the glass desk casually. She nods at you as if urging you.

The plastic ridges of the opening feel dull against your lips, but the cool sensation of the water moving down your throat is heavenly. You hadn’t realized just how dry your throat actually was.

You stop yourself the second you notice Natasha watching you, your arm lowering the bottle down against your thigh.

“Keep drinking,” she commands bluntly. “I can’t have an employee pass out from dehydration.”

You bring the opening back to your lips, swallowing the rest of the water much slower than before. So it’s just to make sure you're not a liability, you realize while looking down. There’s barely anything left in the plastic container by the time you finish.

“If you continued the way you were on the sixtieth floor, you would have been reprimanded by Mark,” Natasha states sharply once you’re finished. “Maybe even fired on the spot.”

Your eyes drop down to your sneakers, the swaying floorboards finally stopping. “I… I know. I’m sorry,” you apologize weakly. “I’ll do extra work to make up for it. Please. I won’t ask for another chance after this.”

Looking up at her, you try to hold her gaze with pleading eyes.

Her eyes lose their hard edge for a split second before sharpening once again.

“I don’t need you to do extra work,” Natasha says, her voice returning to a cold, businesslike clip. “I need you to do the work you’re assigned, and do it well without finding the material so boring that you fall asleep.”

A sharp breath hitches in your throat. This is it. She’s about to fire you.

“Go back to your desk and finish the task you were assigned.”

She’s already walking around the perimeter of her desk to sit back down in her plush chair when your eyes lift in shock.

Why isn’t she firing you? You literally slept on the job.

You stare at her with disbelief written all over your face.

She meets your eyes languidly, raising an eyebrow. “Are you not going to follow that instruction either?”

Jumping up from the seat, you clumsily slip your backpack over your shoulders. A sudden wave of lightheadedness makes your knees wobble, but you blink away the black dots in your vision. You turn toward the exit, your hand reaching for the handle.

“I won’t waste the chance you’re giving me,” you say, your voice tight but urgent. “I’m sorry again and thank you so much.”

You pull the heavy oak door open and walk out into the bright corridor before you can hear another word.

—

Eli is away from his desk when you arrive back on the floor. Everything remains exactly as you left it, except for a small plastic packet resting right next to your keyboard.

Placing your backpack against the base of the chair, you sit down and pick up the object. The weight feels instantly familiar in your palm. Flipping the packet around, your eyes land on the colorful branding of a fruit snack.

It's the same ones Kate would always carry in her bag at school.

You shake your head despite it feeling like it's throwing your brain around in your skull.

The top corner is already slightly torn, as if someone deliberately pre-cut the plastic to make it easier to open.

The sudden sound of Eli settling back into his rolling chair makes you look up. “Did you give this to me?” you ask, holding the small packet up for him to see.

His eyebrows furrow. “No, that wasn’t me. That definitely wasn’t here earlier.” He offers you a small, easy smile. “Lucky you,” he says, turning his attention back to his monitor.

Staring down at the plastic, you slide your thumb into the pre-torn notch and rip the wrapper open the rest of the way. The cut helps immensely against the waning strength in your fingers. You pop a single strawberry gummy into your mouth, chewing slowly. It tastes familiar

The lingering memory of the warmth in Wanda’s office washes over you. You had been too out of it at the time to look at the packet carefully, but the shapes of the gummies and the fruity flavor are the same.

Your rigid posture finally droops a bit, the tension draining from your spine.

Halfway through the packet, the violent shaking in your hand begins to subside. The sugar works through your system, clearing the thick fog in your mind and easing the painful, hollow ache in your stomach. Though, the exhaustion still hangs heavily over your body, refusing to let go.

“Oh, sweet.” Eli’s voice rings out from beside you. “They put the snack basket closer to us.”

Turning around in your seat, you look at the space between Mark’s office and the neighboring manager’s door. A new table has been placed directly in the center of the walkway. Massive baskets filled with an array of snacks rest proudly atop the wood.

Eli slides out of his chair, grabbing a package of cookies from the basket before turning back to you with a grin. “Lucky us.”

You give him a wide grin back. It’s been a long time since you smiled like this.

Friday was emotionally draining. The weekend was caught somewhere in a blur between a dream and a nightmare, and Sunday night dragged up memories you hoped to keep buried forever. This morning brought a rollercoaster of feeling entirely at your lowest point.

But you made it to the office safely. You didn’t get fired.

Now, the sweet grape flavor of the fruit snack permeates your mouth, chasing away the distant taste of acid.

“Yeah,” you say, your voice holding a quiet trace of wonder. “I guess we are lucky.”

—

The sky holds a deep red-orange hue as the sun sets slowly outside the windows. Only forty-five minutes remain until your workday is officially scheduled to end. A majority of the analysts on the floor have staggered schedules. Many of them left for home an hour ago. Eli was called into a late meeting, leaving you entirely alone at your workstation.

You memorized and navigated the different software systems multiple times, ensuring you can answer any unexpected questions. Your torso leans heavily against the front of the desk. The fruit snack packet you consumed hours ago granted just enough sugar to complete your assigned task today.

Looking around the quiet floor, you log into your university portal and pull up a set of lecture slides. Finals are coming in the blink of an eye. Your eyes scan the text, your hand writing notes in the notebook you brought from home.

Fifteen minutes pass before your hand begins to move slower. Your head drops inch by inch, drawing closer to the surface of the desk.

A cool breeze passes through the walkway. Pulling your arms closer to your chest, you rest your forearms against the wood. Your head follows, resting flat atop your arms.

Just five minutes, you reason with yourself hazily. The assigned work is completely finished, after all.

—

“...wanted her to take care of herself,” a raspy voice sounds faintly through your consciousness like a dream.

“You always wrap your words around spikes. Just admit that you were worried,” a sweet, slightly accented voice follows.

“Says the one who left her a treat without a single word,” bites back the first voice.

“Mmm…” you murmur into your sleeves, fighting weakly through the thick layer of sleepiness.

Silence follows for a moment.  Something is gently draped over your shoulders, and the sharp, comforting scent of pine trees and mint instantly surrounds you. The intense warmth lulls your body, dragging you right back to the brink of sleep.

A hand rests lightly on the back of your head. Careful, gentle fingers run through your hair, untangling the knots without a single hint of roughness.

“Sleep a little longer,” the second voice whispers lightly against the dark.

The soft aroma of jasmine mixes perfectly with the pine.

“Okay,” you mumble tiredly. Your consciousness leaves you completely, enveloped by the comforting mixture of scents protecting you from the cold room.

—

A/N: Sorry for how long this chapter is! When I committed to this series I promised myself I wouldn't take any shortcuts when talking about mental health and trauma. And I really wanted to talk about the stuff that often happens after anxiety attacks because it isn't mentioned enough. Like the insomnia even though you're so tired, the dissociation, adrenaline induced clarity, and the crash from not addressing the problem. Hopefully the softness towards the end rounded out the heaviness? :D (Let me know if there are any mistakes, I tried to edit, but there's always a chance I miss something)

I really appreciate your guys' thoughtful comments here on each chapter. I hope the change with the chapters doesn't bother you guys too much 😅

[a-spes]

Just Like Her. (W. M. x N. R. x R.) — One Shot. (3.143 words)

you have the faculty to transform yourself into a perfect copy of whoever you want. so, when wanda leave for a mission, you see in her absence the means to finally get what you wanted the most; a warm house. but what happen when she returns earlier than expected, not giving you the time to run away?

⋆ Tags & Warnings — WandaNat x Shape Shifter!Reader. Mean Natasha Romanoff, Soft Wanda Maximoff. Being knocked out, Fight, Mentions of Lies and Manipulation, Past Abuse, Slight Angst.

⋆ GENERAL MASTERLIST ⋆

The realization did not hit her all at once. It had not been sudden or swift, but it should have. She should have known, from the beginning, she should have. Instead, it had taken weeks of doubts she kept pushing aside before she connected the dots. Now that she had truth in front of her eyes, everything became so obvious that she wondered how she had not realized it sooner. It has been there the whole time, not only right under her nose, in the shape of what she loved most, but also in her home, entangled with her when night came.

“P- Please… don’t hurt me. I-,” the words were uttered between two sobs. The same voice that had whispered sweet nothings to her over the past few weeks — years, in reality — but which was now unbearable.

“Shut up!” she yelled, her own voice twisting into something she did not recognize — something she did not like. That was not her; she was never the type to lose her temper, years of training had ensured that. “Just… shut up, please,” her voice broke on the last word, but not in a whisper that asked for something, rather in one that demanded it.

That word bore a threat and it was clear; speak one more word and it will be your last. It was a warning, one she would not say twice because she was already on the edge of doing something she might regret — something thoughtless. It was unusual for her who had always found solace in control, yet, in that moment, the anger overpowered everything, years of training forgotten the instant truth revealed itself. Her hand had found its way around the throat of the snake that had made its way into her home. In that position, she could just tighten her grip a little more, slowly increasing the pressure until it was enough to end everything — the idea was so tempting.

However, a part of her knew this act would not give her the relief she was chasing, because the anger, which was causing her hand to shake, was directed at herself — for failing. She should have known, from the very first second, and yet, even now, as she had them both in front of her eyes, she could not tell them apart. It was not only the appearance, but also everything else. The voice, the habits, the memories, even the abilities were the same, producing such a perfect copy of the woman she loved that she saw nothing. Not the first day, not the ones that followed, even when they became weeks, and not even now that she knew the truth.

“Natalia, my love, you need to calm down,” but this time Wanda’s voice did not have its usual soothing effect. Instead, the hand the brunette had placed on her arm was pushed away.

“How?! How am I supposed to calm when-,” she did not finish her sentence, the words replaced by a shaky sigh. In years of relationship, she had never raised her voice at her girlfriend, and she surely did not want this time to be the first. “It doesn’t matter, we need to bring that… thing to Fury,” she added, changing the subject. Something shifted in the air, everyone could feel it, but Natasha had been faster than Wanda, and she had moved before the latter could react. She delivered one blow. Only one, sharp and precise, something she had done countless times before, and it has been enough for the person beneath her to lose consciousness.

⊱ ⋆ ⊰

The moment you opened your eyes, pain erupted. Perhaps it was already there before, perhaps not; you were not sure. Not about that, nor about anything else. The memories were blurry, different times, different lives, most of them not even yours, that blended into one. The scream you let out was guttural, a cry so frightening that they flinched behind the two-way mirror.

Wanda was the most sensitive of the two, she always had been, and she immediately put her hand over her mouth, horrified by the sound. Yet, the woman whose arm she was clutching with her other hand remained impassive, not doing so much as blinking the whole time.

“Where are you going?” The redhead eventually moved when the witch did the same. It was now her turn to hold on to her girlfriend’s arm. Except the gesture was not meant to provide comfort. It was strong, almost painful for the brunette; not an invitation to stay but an order.

“What do you think? Where do you think I am going?” she asked back, her voice tinged with irritation. She could not stand the noise, and she surely would not be able to bear it for a moment longer. “I am going in, Natalia!” she exhaled after a moment, exasperated by her girlfriend’s lack of answer, but when she looked at her — truly looked at her — diving her eyes in hers, she saw something was wrong before the other even spoke.

“Are you out of your mind?” she said, answering her question by another. Yet, she had seen the determination on Wanda’s face, and she already knew there was no way to talk her back down. “No. No, I refuse, you are not going,” she said firmly, and she tried to pull the brunette towards her, but the latter only moved further away.

“Are you insane? She is suffering. We can’t just stay here and watch.” Another sigh fell past her lips when she noticed the worry etched on the other’s face. “Everything will be fine, I promise,” she said, her free hand cupping her girlfriend’s cheek to force her to look at her. Yet, even the kiss she pressed to her lips had not been enough to earn her acceptance.

“Let her go,” Fury calmly said. He had stayed silent until this moment, observing the prisoner with the same impassivity as Natasha, but he was now slowly turning around to look at the two agents. The redhead knew that gaze, and she hated it, because it never heralded good news.

“What?” she asked, releasing her grip to face the man. “Have you lost your mind?” Despite her tone rising, he did not flinch. He was not scared of her — not anymore.

“That girl is no use to us in that state. If we want answers, which I am sure you do, we need her to calm down,” he explained, but the woman did not have time to protest that the door slammed shut behind her. When she turned away, Wanda was already done — fuck, she muttered, I hope you know what you’re doing.

⊱ ⋆ ⊰

You did not hear when the door opened, nor the careful footsteps that followed, every sound covered by your own voice. There were not many things that mattered right now beside the fire that had ignited in your body. You were trashing against the restraints that kept you attached to the table, barely registering the pain it caused to your wrists. You were not sure what was happening, but you knew you needed it to stop. 

“I- I am sorry. I won’t do it again. Please, make it stop.” The words were uttered between two screams, and if the pleas seemed to have a sense for you, they did not for the witch. 

She had not moved yet, observing the scene from a cautious distance for now, but some things were obvious, as your distress. It was filling the room entirely, so intense that it almost pushed past Wanda’s mental defenses. The feeling was raw, and no matter what Natasha might think, it was real, she could feel it, and if she did not know where it came from, she was sure it was not an act. She would refuse to admit it later, but she considered leaving for a moment.

When she saw the state you were in, she was not sure there was anything she could do. It was not only about the pain, because that was something she could handle with no difficulties, but also about the way you seemed to be… glitching? That was something she had never seen before. It was so small that they could not see it from behind the glass, but now that she was in the same room as you, it was obvious. She could see the change, she could feel it. 

Memories that could not belong to one person, that came from thousands of lives, suddenly flooded her spirit — that is impossible, she thought. Yet, it is only once she was close enough to touch your temples that she realized the extent of the situation. A red mist, product of her magic, granted you with a moment of clarity, an instant to breath through the pain; a chance to talk. For the first time since you woke up, you have been able to focus on something else than the pain, and now that your vision was not blurred anymore, you could take a moment to observe the room you were in. 

The walls that kept you prisoner were too familiar, made of concrete, built as a fortress. They stand tall and impenetrable, arousing in you a fear that came from your own memories, but they were still slightly out of reach, at the border of your mind. It was close enough for you to recognize the feeling they bore, but not enough to remember where it came from. 

“Hey, look at me.” Her voice pierced through the haze, but it is only when one of her hands slid down to your cheek, guiding your head, that you obeyed, your glassy eyes finally meeting hers. The witch’s gaze bore a steadiness that eased your fears for a short instant — or maybe that was the result of her magic.

“I- I am sorry. You have to believe me, I didn’t mean to- to-.” Somewhere in the middle of your sentence you lost track of your thoughts, the words getting out in a tangled mess that the woman could not understand. She had tried to give a sense to it, but your voice was now so low that she could barely hear it.

“Focus on me,” she said, her tone somewhere between softness and firmness. As your eyes started darting around, looking for who knows what, she gently guided your head back towards her, hushing the protest before they could fall past your lips.

The look in your eyes, she recognized it. It was like a mirror of herself years ago. That raw fear, the kind that was etched in your bones until it became a second nature, she knew it. As the seconds passed by, she realized the more she waited, the further away you were slipping. You were bracing yourself, preparing for the punishment that you were sure was to come — because it always does, it is inevitable.

“Tell me, where does it hurt?” she prompted you. Wanda’s magic may be strong, but it would not be long before the red strings cease to be enough to dull your pain.

“Everywhere,” you sobbed out, “something… something is messing with my abilities.” Realization flashed on her face upon hearing your words — because it was evident now. A simple gesture, for the closest guard around to unlock your cuffs, was all it took for the pressure to disappear. 

You gasped, as if air was something you had been denied for too long. Wanda saw the change immediately, and it was not only the relief that flooded your eyes, but also everything else. She barely did as much as blinking, her eyes closing for a second, at most, but when they opened you were not the same anymore — you were her. Again. Just like a few hours ago, she was facing a perfect copy of herself, but she did not find it as disturbing as she might have before, because she could see you now. 

Somewhere, behind the familiar face, laid something that was never her; shoulders hanging too low, a restless gaze that avoided hers, arms protectively wrapped around yourself… these signs were not lying. Earlier, even herself could have been fooled, because you were acting, embodying her perfectly, but now that exhaustion had taken over, you were unable to be anyone but yourself.

⊱ ⋆ ⊰

You were sitting on the ground, knees pressed against your chest, arms wrapped around yourself. They had asked you multiple times if you would not rather lay on the bed, but you had refused, insisting on sitting right there. There, it was safe, familiar, the pain in your bones soothing — because it was punishing. 

Wanda would say that you did not need to make amends for your mistakes, that it was not your fault, not really, your choices driven by an instinct of survival you could not control. Natasha, however, would say that you deserved it. She had not even tried to hide her hatred for you, but you could not exactly blame her. Understanding however did not prevent you from curling further on yourself at the thought of the woman. 

From your spot, you could hear them. They thought they were being discreet but their urgent whispers reached your ears despite the closed door that separated you from them. The thing was you did not want to hear what they were saying, their words a reminder of your mistakes, but even with your hands covering your ears, you could still hear each of them — so you kept pressing further, until your ragged breath drowned the world.

You never meant to be bad. It was not like you at all, some people had made sure of that, beating you into obedience. Their hands left invisible bruises everywhere on your body and soul, some that would never heal — because they were never supposed to. These bruises were a lesson learned the hard way, a reminder that freedom had a cost, and for a moment you had let yourself forget the things you were taught.

When you saw them, everything felt so easy. Suddenly, you had in front of your eyes a life that you did not know was possible, even your wildest dreams would not depict such a perfect picture. You had yearned for a world less painful, but they showed you so much more; safety, kindness and forgiveness. You had observed the women from afar for months, none of them suspecting that a pair of eyes was on them at all times. The longer it lasted, the stronger became the wish to have even just a glimpse of what they shared — and so you took it.

You had no right to do so, but jealousy was gnawing at you with such a force that when the opportunity presented itself, you did not hesitate, taking the witch’s place while she was away — it is just for a few days, you had told yourself. Yet, these days soon became weeks.

⊱ ⋆ ⊰

“Tell me the truth,” Wanda said, not asking for it, but demanding it.

“I already told you the truth, Wands!” the redhead exhaled. Her patience was wearing thin but so was Wanda’s; the woman sighing alongside her wife. “Is it so hard to understand why I am not fond of the idea of a potential threat to live with us?” The moment her voice raised, the witch urged her to keep her voice down. The wall that separated you from the was thin, and she had the feeling you were listening to them. However, Natasha’s words were not kind, and if she understood why she might say such things, the brunette knew there was more to it than it appeared. She knew her girlfriend like the back of her hand, and no amount of training could change that; there was no secret Natasha could keep away from her.

“Natalia.” Under the authority with whose her name was called, she felt forced to raise her gaze until it met her girlfriend’s. The latter did not have to say more, a simple glance, tinged firmness, being enough for the truth to eventually spill. 

“I didn’t see anything,” she whispered, her gaze evasive as her confession came through. “I spent weeks with her, and I didn’t notice a thing. I- I wasn’t able to tell it wasn’t you until you came back.” Wanda now recognized the look on her girlfriend’s face — shame. A feeling that mixed with fear, and guilt, pulling the redhead further into a headspace that was not good for her. 

“That is not your fault, you couldn’t have known,” she said, but it was evident that her words did not have the desired effect.

“But I should have!”

“That girl does not only copy someone’s appearance, but also everything else. She had my voice, my abilities, even my memories. She didn’t just look like me, Natalia, she was me,” she calmly explained. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, dekta.” The witch softened when she saw how closed her girlfriend’s expression was. She took a few steps forwards, closing the distance that had been separating them, hands resting on the other’s arm.

“How can you be so sure she isn’t a threat?” Natasha asked, turning to look at her. She did not see anything but a serenity that felt so foreign, so different from the tumult that was happening inside her at the moment. Her worries were etched on her face, the woman not trying anymore to hide, letting her lips press into a thin line and her eyebrows frown slightly.

“Natalia, be realistic. If she wanted to hurt us, she would’ve done it already. She could’ve easily run away with these abilities, but she didn’t. That girl isn’t a menace, she’s scared, and lost,” she answered softly, but the redhead was stubborn, and Wanda knew she was not easy to convince. A sigh escaped her, because she truly was at loss of ideas to make her see in you what she did. “Look, I understand that you don’t trust her, but you trust me, right?” She read the answer in the other’s eye before she even spoke.

“Of course I do,” Natasha said. For a long time, trust had been a luxury she thought she would never be granted, but things had changed the day she met Wanda. Something stirred inside her that day, a desire to share things she had always kept for herself, her walls crumbling under the witch’s kindness, and this moment was no different, her features softening at the reminder — she was not alone, not anymore. Wanda was by her side no, and as long as she was, everything would be fine. 

“Then let’s talk to her,” she concluded, pressing a quick kiss on the spy’s lips before walking away, inviting the woman to follow her inside their room.

⋆ GENERAL MASTERLIST ⋆

[wandamaximoffsbadgirl]

I Don't Know Why I'm Like This

Trinity Santos x autistic!reader

Summary: You blow up at Trinity, which affects you for the next week until she corners you, sending you into a meltdown

word count: 3.2K

Warnings: emotional dysregulation, panic attack, meltdown, yelling, argument, fear of abandonment, references to emotionally neglectful parents and unhealthy childhood communication, self-hitting/pain stimming, intense emotional vulnerability, crying, and themes related to BPD.

Authors note: This was a request which can be found here!

“You good, tightrope?”

You didn’t even look up from the chart in your hands.

“What did you just call me?”

Trinity slowed beside the desk, confusion flickering over her face. “Tightrope?”

Your laugh came out sharp. Mean.

“Jesus Christ.”

Now that got her attention.

“What’s your problem?”

The question should’ve been simple.

Instead it felt like someone striking a match over gasoline.

“My problem?” You finally looked at her, eyes already burning. “Maybe I’m tired of being psychoanalyzed every five fucking seconds.”

Trinity frowned immediately. “That’s not what I was doing.”

“No? Because you always do this.” You gestured vaguely toward her. “Little comments. Looking at me like I’m some wounded stray dog.”

“That is not fair.”

“Then stop acting like you know me.”

The tension at the nurses station shifted instantly. Conversations quieting. People pretending not to stare while absolutely staring.

Trinity crossed her arms.

“You know what? Fine. Don’t take the nickname.”

“Oh, wow. Thanks.”

“But don’t sit here acting like I’m attacking you because I asked if you were okay.”

“You weren’t asking if I was okay,” you snapped. “You were pointing out that I’m barely holding it together.”

Her jaw tightened.

“You are barely holding it together.”

The words hit like a slap.

You went still.

Trinity realized it a half second too late.

“Look, that came out wrong—”

“No,” you said quietly. Dangerously quietly. “You meant it exactly how it sounded.”

“For fuck’s sake!”

“No, seriously, Trinity, why do you even care?” Your voice rose despite yourself. “You hover around me all shift acting concerned like I’m some project-”

“Because you disappear into yourself for hours and then act like everybody else is the problem!”

You stared at her.

The station had gone dead silent now.

“You think I don’t notice?” Trinity continued, frustration boiling over now too. “You shut down every time somebody gets close to you, then you bite their fucking head off when they check in!”

“Maybe because people should mind their own business!”

“Maybe because you make everything feel like walking through a minefield!”

That one landed. Hard. You felt it physically. Like something cracking down the center of your chest.

“Wow,” you breathed.

Trinity’s expression flickered immediately with regret, but she was too worked up now too.

“No, you know what? I’m serious,” she said. “One second you’re joking around and the next you’re glaring at people like you hate them. Nobody knows what version of you they’re getting.”

The humiliation was instant and blistering. Because she wasn’t entirely wrong. And somehow that made it hurt worse.

“Go fuck yourself, Santos.”

“Oh, screw you.”

“Enough!”

Robby’s voice cracked across the ER so loudly both of you jumped. He was moving toward the two of you fast, eyes blazing in a way you almost never saw.

“What the hell is going on?”

Neither of you answered.

“Now.”

“She started-”

“No, she-”

“I do not care,” Robby barked, cutting both of you off. “You are both doctors standing in the middle of my emergency department acting like children.”

The shame hit immediately. Hot. Suffocating. It reminded you of your dad’s stare. He looked between the two of you, furious.

“You,” he pointed at Trinity first. “Trauma two. Now.”

Trinity opened her mouth.

“Now, Dr.Santos.”

Her jaw clenched hard enough to tick before she turned sharply and walked away.

Then his attention landed on you.

“And you are coming with me.”

Your stomach dropped. You followed him silently into an empty consult room, pulse roaring in your ears. The second the door shut, Robby exhaled harshly and rubbed a hand over his face.

“What is happening with you lately?”

The question cracked something open in your chest. But you crossed your arms anyway.

“I’m fine.”

“That’s bullshit. The whole department knows it.”

You flinched.

Robby’s expression softened slightly, though his voice stayed firm.

“I know stress when I see it. I know overload. But whatever just happened out there?” He shook his head. “That cannot happen again.”

Your throat burned.

“She thinks I’m crazy.”

“I don’t think that’s what Dr. Santos thinks.”

“You didn’t hear her.”

“I heard enough.”

You looked away immediately, blinking too fast. Robby watched you carefully for a long moment before speaking again.

“You both hit below the belt.” His voice gentled slightly. “But I don’t think either of you actually wanted to hurt the other.”

That was the worst part. Because he was right and somewhere out in the ER Trinity was probably just as angry and embarrassed and as wounded as you were.

Which made the ache in your chest feel unbearable.

⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

Avoiding Trinity became almost embarrassingly easy once you started trying. You rerouted yourself through different hallways. Timed your charting around hers. Volunteered for tasks on opposite ends of the ER if you heard she was already somewhere. If she walked into the break room, you suddenly remembered you needed to be literally anywhere else. It was pathetic, you knew it was pathetic. But confrontation sat in your chest like a live grenade.

Growing up, arguments hadn’t ended. They’d just…stopped being discussed. Your parents screamed, you cried, everyone pretended nothing happened the next morning. No apologies. No repair. No soft conversations after sharp words.

Just silence stretched over wounds until they were scarred and crooked. So your brain learned one thing very well; distance equals safety. If you disappeared long enough, maybe Trinity would stop being angry. Maybe she’d forget or maybe the shame crawling under your skin would quiet down.

Instead it only got worse.

Because every time you caught a glimpse of her across the department your stomach twisted painfully and Trinity noticed. She noticed when you switched assignments with Victoria without explanation. Noticed when you cut conversations short the second she approached. Noticed how your shoulders visibly stiffened anytime her voice got too close.

At first she looked irritated. Then confused. Then hurt. That last one nearly killed you. By the fourth shift of this, everyone else could feel it too. Cassie glanced between the two of you constantly like she was waiting for another explosion. Mel looked deeply uncomfortable every time you and Trinity ended up in the same room.

Still, you avoided her. Because what were you supposed to do? Walk up and say sorry? The idea made your chest seize. Sorry meant vulnerability. Sorry meant admitting fault. Sorry meant giving someone the chance to reject you after you handed them your softest parts. Your brain would genuinely rather chew glass. So you kept running. Until Trinity cornered you anyway.

⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

It happened in the supply closet near the ambulance bay.

You’d slipped in there looking for saline flushes and nearly dropped the box in your hands when the door shut behind you. Your heart immediately jumped into your throat.

“Seriously?” Trinity said.

You stared very hard at the shelves instead of her face. “Need something?”

“Yeah.” Her voice was sharp, frustrated. “An explanation would be nice.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Bullshit.”

You flinched slightly. That only seemed to frustrate her more.

“For days,” she said, “you won’t look at me. You leave rooms when I walk in. You act like I fucking hit you or something.”

You swallowed hard. “I’m just busy.”

“No, you’re avoiding me.”

Silence. Because denying it now would’ve been ridiculous. Trinity stared at you for a long moment before her voice dropped slightly.

“Did I hurt you that badly?”

The question cracked straight through your ribs. Immediately your defenses shot up.

“No.”

“Then what is this?”

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out. Because the real answer was humiliating.

I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to exist after conflict. I don’t know how to trust people to stay after anger. Instead you looked down at the box in your hands and muttered, 

“Can we just not do this right now?”

Trinity let out a disbelieving laugh.

“That’s the problem,” she said. “You never wanna do this.”

Your throat tightened painfully. She stepped closer. 

“You blow up,” she said quietly, “and then you disappear like if you wait long enough everything’ll reset itself.”

Your eyes burned immediately. Because yes, that was exactly what you did.

“I grew up differently than you, okay?” you snapped suddenly, defensive because you felt too exposed. “Not everybody had healthy fucking communication.”

The second the words left your mouth you wanted them back. Trinity’s face softened instantly and somehow that felt worse.

“Oh.”

That quiet little oh nearly shattered you.

“Forget I said that.” Your voice cracked immediately as you backed into the shelves. “Don’t think about it. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”

You weren’t fine. You slid down the metal shelving hard enough to rattle supplies, hands flying to your ears as panic flooded your system all at once.

Too exposed.

Too vulnerable.

Too seen.

Heat crawled up your neck while your thoughts spiraled violently.

Stupid stupid stupid—

Why would you say that out loud?

Why would you let someone know that?

Now she knew.

Now she knew something was wrong with you.

Your breathing turned uneven.

“Nope,” you muttered shakily. “Nope, forget it. Forget I said anything.”

You were spiraling into a full on meltdown at work over this. 

Trinity’s expression shifted immediately from frustration to concern.

“Hey…”

“I’m fine,” you said too fast.

Your left hand dropped from your ear to your chest, fingers striking hard against your sternum in uneven thumps. Not enough to injure. Just enough pressure to cut through the static screaming under your skin.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Your body rocked forward slightly with each breath. You needed to get it out. You skin felt like it was crawling. You wanted to scream and yell and move your whole body because your body felt wrong. Like someone taking sandpaper to it. 

Trinity crouched instinctively before stopping herself halfway, clearly trying not to overwhelm you further.

“Okay,” she said carefully. “Okay. I’m not gonna push.”

You shook your head hard anyway.

“You shouldn’t know that,” you whispered.

Trinity frowned. “Know what?”

“That my parents,” Your voice broke sharply. “that they fucked me up.”

The words echoed ugly in the tiny room.

You immediately hit your chest harder.

Like punishment.

“Hey.” Trinity’s voice sharpened slightly. “Don’t do that.”

Your eyes darted to hers instantly, panicked.

“I’m not hurting myself.”

“I know.” Her tone softened again immediately. “I know you’re not.”

Your breathing still wouldn’t slow. God, this was humiliating. You were a grown adult sitting on a supply closet floor trying not to crawl out of your own skin because someone reacted kindly to you.

Tears burned hot behind your eyes.

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” you whispered again and again. Trying to regulate. 

Trinity stayed where she was, giving you space.

“You know what I heard?” she asked quietly.

You shook your head against your knees.

“I heard somebody who didn’t get taught how to feel safe after conflict.”

Fresh tears slipped free immediately. Because when she said it like that it sounded…sad.

You hit your chest again, smaller this time.

Trinity noticed your rhythm changing.

“Can I ask you something?”

You shrugged weakly.

“When you avoid people after arguments…” she said carefully, “are you trying to punish them or protect yourself?”

The answer came instantly.

“Protect.”

Barely audible.

Trinity nodded slowly like that confirmed something for her.

“Okay.”

You hated how gentle she sounded right now. It made your chest ache worse.

“I always think people are gonna leave,” you admitted suddenly, words spilling out before you could stop them. “Or hate me. Or decide I’m too much.” Your breathing shook again. “So if I disappear first then maybe it hurts less.”

Trinity’s face crumpled a little at that and that made panic flare again.

“No, don’t look at me like that,” you said quickly, voice rising. “I’m not asking for pity.”

“I know you’re not.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

Your fingers twitched hard against your chest again.

Your scrub top felt like too much with your shirt underneath so you pulled it off over your head. Throwing it on the ground and switched from your left hand to your right. Now tapping over  your heart. It felt better now that your scrub top wasn’t on. Though your skin felt a little crawly still.

Trinity watched for a second before slowly sitting on the floor across from you instead of standing over you.

“You wanna know something?” she asked softly.

You didn’t answer, but she continued anyway.

“When you yelled at me out there?” She glanced down briefly. “Yeah, it hurt my feelings.”

Shame flooded you instantly.

“But this?” Her eyes met yours again. “This hurts way worse. I didn’t want you to end up like this over a misunderstanding.”

“This is just who I am…some of it is from my parents…but I’m…I’m autistic and I’ve got other things going on too…,” you whispered.

Trinity leaned back against the opposite shelf with a quiet sigh.

“Good thing I don’t mind that one bit.”

A shaky laugh escaped you accidentally. It was tiny and Broken, but it was real.

Trinity smiled just a little when she heard it.

“There she is,” she murmured gently. “Thought I lost you for a second.”

Trinity let you continue to stim.

She just stayed there on the floor across from you while your breathing slowly untangled itself from panic.

At some point there was movement outside the supply closet door.

“Have either of you seen Santos or Y/L/N?”

Trinity didn’t even look away from you.

“Nope.” Someone else called back.

“Well if you see either of them Robby is looking for them.”

There was enough finality in her look as the footsteps retreated.

They could wait.

You were still curled against the shelves, one hand twitching against your sternum occasionally, though the hits had softened into absent little taps now instead of desperate impacts.

Trinity watched your breathing for another second before speaking again.

“Hey.”

You glanced up tiredly.

“Five things you can see right now. Go.”

You blinked at her.

“What?”

“Humor me.”

Still confused, you looked around the cramped closet.

“The saline boxes.” Your voice sounded rough. “Your shoes. My jacket. The stupid flickering light.” You swallowed. “And…the pink highlighter on the floor.”

“Good.” Trinity nodded once. “Four things you can touch.”

You looked down.

“The floor.” Your fingers brushed against it. “My scrub pants. My jacket.” A shaky breath. “And…this box.”

“Good job.” Her voice stayed calm and steady. “Three things you can hear.”

“The nurses station outside.”

“Mhmm.”

“A monitor alarm.”

“And?”

You focused harder.

“…your breathing.”

Something softened in Trinity’s face at that.

“Doing great,” she murmured. “Two things you can smell.”

You inhaled slowly for the first time in what felt like forever.

“Antiseptic.”

Trinity smiled faintly. “Yeah.”

“And sanitizer.”

“Good.”

Your body felt strange now.

Heavy and warm. Like the panic had burned through itself and left exhaustion behind. Trinity tilted her head slightly.

“And one thing you can taste.”

You frowned a little.

“I can’t taste anything right now.”

“I have something.”

Your brow furrowed immediately. “What?”

She leaned forward before you could overthink it. The kiss was soft. Gentle enough that you could’ve pulled away if you wanted to. You didn’t. God you really didn't. Your breath caught instead. Trinity tasted like mint gum and berry energy drinks and something distinctly her underneath both. Warm and safe. The kiss only lasted a few seconds before she pulled back slowly. Just enough space for you to stare at her in stunned silence.

“…Oh.”

It was all you could manage.

A faint blush crept over Trinity’s cheeks then, though she tried to hide it behind a tiny shrug.

“There,” she said quietly. “Now you can taste something.”

Your brain completely stopped functioning. The panic that had consumed you minutes ago was suddenly replaced by something equally overwhelming in an entirely different direction.

“You kissed me.”

Trinity’s mouth twitched slightly. “Astute observation.”

You stared at her harder.

“You kissed me.”

“Yeah, I heard you the first time.”

Your heartbeat started climbing all over again, but not sharp like before. Different. Dizzy and fluttering and terrifying in its own way.

“Why would you do that?” you whispered.

For the first time since cornering you in the closet, Trinity looked nervous.

“You really wanna ask that after the way I’ve been looking at you for months?”

Your stomach flipped violently.

Months?

Months?

You opened your mouth.

Nothing came out.

Trinity huffed a quiet laugh through her nose and rubbed the back of her neck.

“Wow,” she muttered. “Okay. Maybe I overestimated your ability to read flirting.”

“I thought you just…worried about me.”

“I do worry about you.”

The softness in her voice made your chest ache.

“But that’s not all it is.”

You stared at her, overwhelmed all over again.

“You picked now to tell me this?” you asked weakly.

Trinity snorted softly.

“To be fair, kissing you wasn’t exactly planned.” A small pause. “You looked like you were about to crawl out of your own skin and my brain short-circuited.”

Despite everything, a startled laugh escaped you.

Tiny.

Real.

Trinity smiled immediately when she heard it.

And God.

That might’ve been even more dangerous than the kiss.

“I don’t expect it this time,” Trinity said softly as she pushed herself to her feet, “but in the future we’re gonna work on the I’m sorry’s, okay?”

The words should’ve made shame flare again.

Instead they settled somewhere warm in your chest. Like she genuinely believed you could learn. Trinity held her hand out toward you. For a second you only stared at it. Nobody had ever really taught you what came after conflict. There was never a hand waiting for you afterward. Never softness after raised voices. Usually there was just distance. Coldness. Pretending nothing happened. Slowly, you reached up and took her hand. Trinity’s grip tightened immediately, steady and warm as she pulled you carefully to your feet.

The second you were standing she tugged you gently forward into her arms. You froze. Not because you didn’t want it. Because you did. Your forehead bumped lightly against her shoulder as her arms wrapped around you securely, grounding you in a way your spiraling brain desperately needed.

“No disappearing next time,” she murmured against your hair.

Your throat tightened.

“I’ll try.”

“That’s all I’m asking.”

You felt her shift slightly before one of her hands took yours and moved to tug lightly on the sleeve of her scrub top.

“If you ever need grounding,” she said quietly, “just grab my scrubs.”

Another little tug at her sleeve.

“Here.”

Then she guided your hand lower toward the hem of her top.

“Or here.”

Your fingers curled instinctively into the fabric.

Soft cotton.

Warm from her body.

Real.

Your breathing steadied even further. Trinity glanced down at your hand still clutching her shirt and smiled just a little.

“See?” she murmured. “I’m still here.”

Something fragile inside you ached at that. You nodded against her shoulder because your voice suddenly didn’t work right. After a second you managed quietly,

“Thank you, Trinity.”

The hug tightened briefly.

And for the first timein your entire life after a fight, the aftermath didn’t feel like abandonment.

It felt like repair.

[westwriteswhatever]

Choosing You

Chapter 2: Fruit Snack

Pairing: WandaNat X Fem!Reader

Chapter Summary: It's interview day and nothing is going right. With your final round interviewer being someone you would never have expected, will you be able to hold it together?

Word Count: 7.5k

Warnings/Tags for This Chapter: Describes an anxiety attack, unsafe living environment, past psychological abuse, hurt/comfort

Series Masterlist AO3

— You lean your back against the counter in front of the espresso machine, glancing down, the digital calendar glares back at you.

Romanoff-Maximoff Global.

It was the last company you expected to hear back from—if you even factored them into your reality at all. You vividly remembered the moment you submitted that application. It had been a desperate Hail Mary thrown into a sea of listings, a wild shot at the most prestigious entity in the corporate world. As a leading consulting and venture capital firm, their name was a household fixture, synonymous with an elite, gatekept world of wealth. The firm was notorious for its fiercely guarded internship cohorts and a grueling, multi-stage interview process designed to break lesser candidates.

The very same interview you were just offered.

You tap your finger against the side of your phone, going through all the logistics in your mind before the morning rush begins. The available dates only have morning openings, ninety minutes. Meaning, it’ll be a two-stage interview. You’ll have to cut one of your shifts at the coffee shop short, or call out altogether. It isn’t something you can exactly afford. Getting the internship is the only way it’ll be worth the loss in wages.

You glance up at the sound of the door chime.

A student walks into the shop, a backpack slung over her shoulder and her phone pressed to her ear. “Mom, am I supposed to separate my clothes by color when I do my laundry?” The student looks up, giving your coworker an apologetic smile. “At least darks and lights? Okay, cool. Love you.” She hangs up and begins ordering.

Watching her, you remember having to figure everything out entirely on your own. Three burnt eggs. A load of laundry destroyed. Smacking your printer until it finally worked. Even down to securing your very first part-time job.

A notification flashes across the top of your screen, breaking your train of thought.

Your older sister.

Hey, you haven’t texted me back in a while. Do you not love me anymore? Haha, call me soon.

You open your text history with her. The last time you messaged her was three months ago, a brief note assuring her that everything is going well. You scroll backward, tracing the conversation history to the earliest saved messages. The gaps of time between your responses grow longer and longer the further down you scroll.

Do you not love me anymore?

It isn't her fault she doesn't know. You silently left that day, and the only explanation you gave her was that you were excited to start school. If there’s a feeling greater than love, then that’s what you feel for your sister. It’s a love that makes you willing to sacrifice anything for her—even yourself. It’s the very love that made you accept becoming a marionette for years, until you had no choice but to finally break away.

Now, you are still trying to stand, desperately trying to figure out who you are now that the strings are cut. And it’s because you love her so much that you can’t talk to her. So instead, you don't respond, simply so you won't have to continue to lie to her.

You move your screen back to the digital calendar and choose the earliest date before you can think twice. Two days from now. Friday. Somehow, the message from your sister reminds you of exactly why you’re here.

Your coworker hands you the customer's order, and the morning rush begins.

—

The remainder of Wednesday brings back-to-back classes, paired with heavy assignments due for both the following Monday. Your sister’s message lingers with you throughout your restaurant shift, dragging memories in its wake as you set plates down at customers' tables. The imperceptible shaking of your hands is becoming increasingly harder to ignore. You don’t know if it’s from the interview looming, or from the fact that you’ve fixed your hair for what feels like a hundred times today.

On Thursday, you finally ask one of your coworkers at the coffee shop to cover the latter half of your Friday shift. Guilt creeps in at the inconvenience you’re bestowing upon them, but this is your only chance. If you don’t secure this internship now, you’ll be forced to repeat this entire exhausting cycle next term, only to possibly face the exact same uncertain results.

University is exhausting, work is exhausting, and the panic rising in your chest is debilitating.

You glance at the time—half past eleven. You close your laptop. The amount of studying you’ve done is far from sufficient, especially with final exams around the corner, but you know you’re going to need all the rest you can get.

Possible interview questions replay endlessly in your mind as you check to make sure everything is prepared for tomorrow.

Tell me about yourself. There isn’t much to say.

A black skirt you save for special occasions and one of your clean white collared shirts hang meticulously from the metal candleholder. You don’t have any other clothes that would pass for professional wear.

What are your greatest strengths? I can manage to function on four hours of sleep.

Your wallet, notebook, and keys are packed securely inside your backpack.

What are your greatest weaknesses? So many.

Your phone sits on its charger, and a single granola bar rests on your desk, waiting to hold you over for the day ahead.

You turn off the light, and the room plunges into sudden darkness. Sitting at the edge of your bed, you feel the hard mattress digging into your thighs. Only the ugly parts of you come to mind. Answers no hiring manager would ever want to hear.

But deep down, you already know the truth. Despite the terror, despite the total lack of preparation, the practiced image of you will save you. It always does. The phantom strings still holding your spine taut will pull, and your confident, charismatic smile will appear on command. Your voice will alter into that perfect, magnetic cadence you were taught makes you more attractive. You’ll say whatever you need to say to get exactly what you want.

It’s the only thing ingrained into you for years.

You hate that you’re this way. You despise how easily the mask slips on.

You lay back, your head finally resting against the pillow, praying that everything goes well tomorrow.

—

You wake up ten minutes before your alarm goes off, the light of your screen harsh against the darkness of your room. You let out a tired groan. You could sleep for ten more minutes, but waking up a second time will feel even worse.

Ten extra minutes to get ready, I guess. You try to be positive.

And you definitely needed them. The bags under your eyes are prominent, and it takes you far too long to finally make the decision to dab concealer beneath them. One of your shorter front strands has a mind of its own, refusing to stay down even after you use product.

You bite your lip in frustration as you rush back into your room to change into a t-shirt, since you didn’t have the time to do laundry. Your jeans hang too loosely around your waist, forcing you to use the one and only belt you own.

It feels like all your last-minute preparations are going to waste as a sudden realization hits you. You won’t be able to hang your interview clothes in the backroom of the coffee house. The heavy smell of espresso and whatever else lingers in the air will seep right into the fabric.

You take the skirt and shirt off their hangers, folding them meticulously before placing them carefully at the bottom of your backpack. Pulling your keys out, you shrug your jacket over your shoulders and grab your phone off the bed. You rush to close your door and lock it while slinging the heavy backpack over your shoulder.

It feels like your brain is trying to leave your skull with the way it throbs with every breath you take.

The sound of someone entering through the front door makes you pause.

“Oh hey, I’m lucky to catch you. Heading out?” Matt’s voice echoes from the entrance.

He must’ve just finished his shift.

You twist the doorknob twice, making sure it is truly locked, before letting yourself fully come into view.

You greet him with a close-lipped smile. “Hey, good morning. Yeah, I’m in a real rush.” You step toward the front door, but he makes no move to get out of your way.

“I’m sure you can spare a minute," he says, staring down at you with an easy smile. "Do you want to hang out later?”

Nothing is going right this morning.

“I’m sorry, I probably can’t. I have classes and work later.” You try to ease your arm past him, reaching carefully for the front door handle.

His smile drops for a split second before returning. He glances down at your arm, looking almost amused by your effort to bypass him. “No problem. See you later.”

You open the heavy door and push past him into the crisp morning air. Turning back just before the frame clicks shut, you offer a tiny concession. “See you,” you respond, forcing an apologetic look to your face.

The door closes before you can see his reaction. Not that you have the time. You’re already sprinting toward the bus stop.

You manage to catch the bus just in time. Your head aches violently at the sudden rise in your heart rate, your pulse drumming in your ears.

It’s barely five minutes into the bus ride to the coffee shop when you realize you forgot your granola bar.

—

You make an extra effort to greet customers brightly and carry conversations with them as you prepare their drinks. It feels like the only thing that can ease the guilt of leaving your shift early. Hopefully, seeing the extra tips left in the jar will make the impending loss in your paycheck a bit more bearable.

Behind every warm greeting and polite laugh, the interview looms heavily in your mind as the hours tick away. Finally, it’s time to clock out. The extra espresso shot you added to your americano—meant to carry you through the morning—feels like it was tainted by your worst enemies.

Instead of feeling energized, you feel sluggish. Your brain feels like it’s processing everything slower than it usually does on four hours of sleep. The intense caffeine kick that normally eases your headaches only makes your skull pound, to the point that if you pressed a fingertip to your temple, you’re certain you would feel it violently pulsing.

You grab your backpack from the breakroom and carry it into the cramped bathroom. Zipping it open, you find your belongings completely shifted. The cover of your notebook bears fresh indentations from where your keys knocked against it during your walk. Your interview clothes, which you placed so meticulously at the bottom, are slightly unfolded and bunched to one side.

Your back presses against the bathroom door as you hug your backpack tight against your chest. You slide down the frame, the cold wood doing nothing to pull you out of your own mind. It’s only when you’re sitting flat on the floor, your backpack pressed tightly between your torso and your legs, that you feel the first real emotion flicker through the numbness.

“So stupid,” you whisper to yourself, over and over again.

Because what did you honestly think was going to happen by stuffing your clothes down there? Your right leg bounces uncontrollably against your arm. You rest your elbows heavily on your knees to stop the trembling, before burying your face in your hands, running your fingers through your hair and gripping it tightly.

You release your hair before it can no longer be salvaged. Strands hang in every direction in your peripheral vision from where your tight grip pulled them from the elastic.

You dislike yourself even more for worrying about your hair at a time like this.

Reaching back, you pull the tie completely free. Shorter strands fall loosely against your cheeks, blocking your vision from anything that isn't directly in front of you. You pull your interview clothes out of the backpack, unfolding them fully.

Wrinkled.

You suck in a sharp breath, biting your lip harshly as you force yourself to stand up off the floor. You hang your backpack from the coat hook and drape the clothes carefully over the top.

Your hands tremble as you unbuckle your belt and unbutton your jeans. It feels like all your strength is actively leaving your body as you push them down and fold them. You’re operating entirely on autopilot. Your t-shirt follows. It takes two agonizing tries on every single button before your collared shirt is finally closed and tucked neatly into the waistband of your skirt.

You risk a glance at the mirror. Then instantly wish you hadn’t. Blood seeps from your bottom lip where your teeth must’ve punctured it earlier. The fabric of your shirt is noticeably wrinkled on the left side. Strands of your hair are raised in some areas, while entirely flat in others.

A complete wreck. That’s the only description for the reflection staring back at you.

Swiping your tongue over your bottom lip, you barely even feel the sting. Your right hand rises subconsciously, beginning to smooth over the creases on your side. Somehow, it feels less like a fix, and more like your body is desperately trying to comfort you because your mind simply won’t.

Combing your fingers through your hair, you let your nails drag against your scalp to remind yourself that you cannot afford to do this right now. The rigid tension in your shoulders drops, but it brings no relief. Instead, it’s replaced by a profound exhaustion, leaving you feeling as though you’ve just survived a violent war with your own mind.

Reaching into your backpack, you pull out your phone, expecting at least half an hour to have passed. You’re already mentally bracing yourself for a mad dash to the bus stop, preparing for the forty-five minute trip into the city.

It’s only been seven minutes.

You zip up your backpack before slinging it over your shoulder. Glancing in the mirror one last time, you can’t help but feel like you look especially hollow today. Fragile.

Suddenly, you can feel a ghost of a tight grip on your shoulder, fingernails digging deep beneath your collarbone.

“Smile. People are watching.”

The corners of your lips curve upward as if being pulled by invisible strings. Turning back toward the exit, you find the metal door handle cold against your palm.

You hope to leave this weak side of you behind in the bathroom before the interview begins.

—

You settle into the bus seat, hugging your backpack against you like a shield. The contrast between your first early morning transit and the subsequent, mid-day rides has never bothered you. This one is louder, more packed, with strangers constantly pressed close on all sides. Sometimes it’s impossible to find a seat, so perhaps you’re lucky today.

Except for the woman to your right, whose shoulder digs directly into yours as she talks loudly on her phone. You can’t help but wince when she raises her voice at whoever is on the other end. Apparently, they forgot to set an appointment for her.

You hug your backpack even closer to your chest when she waves her arm in sheer frustration. It’s a terrifyingly familiar sight. Loud voices. Placing blame. Disappointed expressions.

You were fortunate that you had never been struck.

It would blemish your skin, after all.

Keep it together, you remind yourself the moment you begin to deeply retreat within yourself.

The woman doesn’t get off at the next stop. Instead, more people pack themselves onto the bus, and the ride only grows louder. The hard plastic of the seat digs into your back. The walls of the vehicle feel like they’re closing in on you, trapping you in a symphony of shouting voices and shifting bodies.

Please, keep it together, you plead with yourself as the bus continues its grueling journey into the city.

—

You squeeze past the passengers standing tightly in the aisle and turn toward the bus driver, offering a grateful smile that you know falls flat with how tired your eyes feel. The driver gives you a brief once-over before shooting an encouraging smile back at you. Stepping off the bus, you walk down the plaza stairs with shaky, uneven steps.

It feels like everything has been completely out to get you today. Even yourself.

But you need this. This internship. To graduate. To get a stable job in the future. Because that’s the entire point, right?

You force your chin up, refusing to let yourself waver as you look toward the towering monolith of reflective glass and steel ahead.

The Romanoff-Maximoff Global building is the tallest structure in the city. It’s entirely fitting for the headquarters of a financial giant. Craning your neck upward, you can barely make out the massive corporate sign displayed proudly on the dark glass of the upper levels.

You take one deep, steadying breath before walking up the wide stone steps toward the grand entrance. The heavy glass doors slide open automatically when you step within range, and a rush of cool, synthetic-smelling air immediately wraps around you. Walking inside, it feels far more like stepping into a high-end luxury hotel than an office building.

The polished white marble floors perfectly reflect the warm light pouring down from the crystal chandeliers above, blending with the natural sunlight cutting through the massive windows to make the lobby feel impossibly bright. Resting areas are abundant, filled with long, plush couches and elegant armchairs. Perfectly arranged fresh flowers sit in heavy vases atop a multitude of pristine coffee and accent tables.

It’s a room you have no business being in.

You scan the sprawling lobby ahead, where a row of people in tasteful, high-end professional wear are seated at sleek desks, intensely focused on whatever tasks they are working on. Your eyes jump anxiously from side to side before you quickly pull up the email on your phone to anchor yourself.

Check in at the front desk.

There are seven of them.

You grip the strap of your backpack resting on your shoulder. Your thoughts race at the possibility of walking up to one of the desks and getting the entirely wrong person. That would be your first memory at this company.

Your heart rate jumps at the thought, sending pangs of pain to your head, but you’re saved when one of the women working at one of the desks calls you forward.

The sound of your sneakers against the marble echo throughout the lobby and it feels like everyone is watching you, waiting for you to slip up. But when you look up, everyone still has their heads down, doing their jobs.

“How can I help you?” the woman asks before you’re even fully at the desk.

“Um.” You scramble to open the email again before stepping the rest of the way and turning the screen toward her. “I have an interview today. It’s in twenty minutes.”

She stares at your phone screen with an impassive expression, glancing up for a brief second. Her fingers tap a few keys on the keyboard, her eyes scanning the monitor before she looks back at you.

“Take the glass elevators on your left to the fifty-second floor,” she says, sliding a sleek black security card across the desk. “The financial planning and analysis manager is expecting you.”

You take the card, your fingers brushing against the cool plastic. You nod a thank you, but she’s already looking back down at her own screen.

Turning toward the left side of the lobby, you look at the rows of elevators. The black card feels heavy in your palm. You run your finger against the edge of it, letting the dull plastic dig into your fingertip.

The elevator doors open instantly after you tap the card against the scanner. Pressing the metal button for the fifty-second floor, you finally lean against the railing. The doors close, and the numbers on the digital screen rise alongside the elevator. You take a deep breath, holding it tightly, then finally release it.

With every exhale, you try to push out all the things that have gone wrong today. Waking up before your alarm was annoying. Matt being the first person you saw was inconvenient. The coffee shop shift completely burned through your social battery. Your breakdown in the bathroom left you listless. The loud, cramped bus ride overwhelmed you.

At least you have a little under twenty minutes to get your head on straight.

The elevator doors slide open, and you’re greeted by a stoic man dressed in a sharp suit.

“Are you my ten o’clock interview?” he asks bluntly.

“Yes,” you respond, the word coming out almost like a question.

He gestures to his left, beckoning you forward. “Great. We can start now since you’re already here. Follow me.”

You breathe in sharply. You’re not ready. But you can’t find it in yourself to ask for more time.

He begins walking down a long grey hallway without looking back once as you trail behind him. His strides are long, and it takes whatever remaining energy you have just to keep pace.

The fifty-second floor feels like the exact opposite of the lobby. Dark wallpaper, dim lighting, and an eerie silence hangs over the space. Stopping at a white door, he opens it and ushers you inside.

The room fits the grim aesthetic of the rest of the floor, but the complete lack of windows makes it feel more like an interrogation room. He takes a seat at a desk against the far wall before pointing to the single chair in front of him.

“Sit down.”

“I’m Mark. The FP&A manager. I’ll be conducting your interview today.” He glances down at the papers resting on his desk. Before you can introduce yourself, he has already begun.

“Walk me through what a $10 depreciation does to financial statements, assuming a 25% tax rate.”

Your brain doesn't even pause to process the sudden prompt. Instead, the ingrained image within you activates. The strings snap your posture a fraction tighter, and the practiced, effortless warmth floods into your expression on command. You block the exhaustion, the pounding headache, and the hollow ache in your stomach behind a glass wall you know will break eventually.

It just can’t be today.

You need to be perfect.

When you speak, your voice slides perfectly into that clear, confident cadence you were taught to use.

“Assuming a 25% tax rate, a $10 depreciation expense reduces net income by $7.50,” you begin smoothly, your lips holding a charming smile. “This increases ending cash by $2.50 on the cash flow statement, balancing the assets and equity sides of the balance sheet down by $7.50.”

Mark holds your gaze for a moment before continuing. “Good,” he says with a faint smile. “Let’s continue.”

—

You stare at the white door Mark has just exited through. The prompts and questions had been endless, one popping up right after the other the exact second you finished answering, leaving absolutely no room for rest.

“Walk me through how the Income Statement, Balance Sheet, and Cash Flow Statement are connected.”

“How do interest rates affect a company's borrowing costs?”

“What is EBITDA, and why do we use it?”

You let out a shaky breath. The smile melts from your face, and your eyes drift closed.

The last forty-five minutes saturate into your body. Your shoulders drop completely, as if they can no longer hold themselves up against the weight of the day. The moment your eyes shut, it feels like the windowless room is spinning as a severe wave of lightheadedness sets in.

One more interview, you reason with yourself, the thought a desperate plea to convince your own body not to give up just yet.

But it’s as if your body knows you’re lying. It knows that after this, you will have to take the bus back to your university, walk to class, followed by another lecture, and then face your restaurant shift tonight. It isn't just this interview.

You fight against your own limbs to force your shoulders upright. Your eyes snap open at the sound of voices right outside the room. The words are muffled behind the thick wood, but it sounds like a casual back-and-forth. You easily catch the confused inflection in Mark's tone.

The door opens suddenly. You wipe the tired expression off your face instantly, replacing it with an easy smile. Turning around, you see Mark standing beside a shorter woman.

“Hi,” the woman greets you warmly. “I’m Cindy. I’ll be taking you to the next round of the interview.”

Mark stares down at her with squinted eyes before turning his gaze to you and offering a brief nod.

“Hello,” you respond as you stand up, grabbing your backpack off the floor and sliding the straps over your shoulders. Your legs wobble slightly under the sudden pressure of your weight. Forcing your posture straight, you nod politely at him. “Thank you for the interview today.”

He gives you a small smile before you walk out the door and follow Cindy down the dimly lit hallway. She taps a gold colored card against the scanner and the elevator doors slide open. She gestures for you to enter before she steps besides you and presses the button labeled C.

She turns to you with an encouraging smile. “Don’t be nervous.” She pauses, tilting her head slightly. “Though, I have to admit, I’ve never seen an undergraduate internship interview take place on the C-suite floor.”

Huh?

C-suite… that can’t be right. Anybody studying anything within the business major knows exactly what the C-suite is.

The highest-ranking senior executives in the entire corporation.

You glance up at the screen displaying the floor numbers. They just keep rising. It feels like the elevator is moving significantly faster than it did on your trip to the fifty-second floor.

The elevator stops smoothly and the doors slide open, revealing an open floor plan flooded with light from towering skylights above. You have to squint, adjusting your eyes from the stark dimness of the previous floor.

Stepping forward behind Cindy, you scan the area. The floor is made of polished dark wood that looks spotless. The center holds multiple plush couches where you assume high-value investors and shareholders sit while waiting for appointments. A long counter rests on the right, the top crafted from white marble with light wood detailing the cabinet space beneath. A high-end coffee machine sits on the surface, surrounded by neatly arranged pods and endless amenities. Chips, cookies, fruit.

Your stomach caves in on itself at the sheer sight of the food.

It’s just as quiet up here as it was on the fifty-second floor, but somehow it doesn’t hold the same eerie atmosphere. Instead, with the sunlight streaming down and the rich aroma of coffee in the air, you feel your shoulders naturally settling.

Massive executive offices line the far wall, each room looking at least ten times the size of your bedroom. Your view inside is completely blocked by heavy wooden frames and dark, one-way glass.

Cindy leads you to the office furthest to the right. You trail closely behind, still craning your head to absorb the pure opulence of the floor. Opening the door, she gestures for you to go inside.

“Have a seat right in the chair in front of the desk. Your interviewer will be coming in shortly.”

She gives you a warm smile that you mirror instantly out of habit, before she steps back and closes the heavy door with a soft thud.

You can’t help but look around the bright office. The left wall holds two massive bookcases lined with a vast array of books, their spines varying in every color. The right wall features a shelf filled with small decorative pieces and jewelry. The brilliant gold and silver of the rings lined across the wooden shelf reflect the sunlight streaming in from the floor-to-ceiling windows behind the desk.

Taking a few paces forward, you reach the single armchair in front of the desk. Slipping your backpack off your shoulders, you place it securely against the base of the chair. As you sit down, the high-end leather feels soft and accommodating against the bare skin beneath your thighs.

You take a deep breath in. Somehow, the room smells exactly how a warm summer night feels. The aroma envelopes you completely—the scent of flowers that bloom in the peak of July and sun-warmed concrete. Even the temperature of the office feels absolutely perfect against your cold, shivering skin.

It’s the first time you’ve felt genuinely comfortable all day.

You finally glance at the desk in front of you. It’s crafted from a dark, rich wood that you can tell is of exceptionally high quality without even touching it. A computer monitor rests to the left, the screen faced entirely away from you. Papers scatter the surface in a way that looks messy, but strictly organized at the same time. A picture frame made of light wood sits at the far right of the desk. The noticeably worn edges of the frame make you believe that the owner must pick it up often.

Your gaze drifts to the elegant nameplate resting right in front of the picture frame.

Wanda D. Maximoff. CFO.

What—

The door opens before you can even fully register the situation you are in. It feels like your body is creaking when you turn almost robotically to look behind you.

You’ve seen her in countless business articles before. She’s one half of the power couple who built one of the most successful companies in the world. Wanda stands in front of you, wearing an elegant navy blazer and a matching long skirt. Crisp black heels make her look even more imposing, if that’s even possible.

She’s even more gorgeous in person.

The heavy door closes slowly behind her. She turns toward you fully, offering a slight tilt of her head and a soft smile. Her sharp green eyes shine against the ambient sunlight, and somehow, the whole room feels instantly brighter.

The distinct shade of her eyes looks almost too familiar. But before you can think further, Wanda starts to speak.

“Well, hello there,” she says lightly, walking directly toward her desk. Her blazer lightly brushes your shoulder as she passes, and the rich scent of summer flowers fills the air.

It feels like you’re in a complete trance as you watch her take a seat in her leather desk chair, which matches the dark shade of the wood. You’re finally snapped out of it when she rests her elbow on the surface, placing her chin in her palm and tilting her head. She offers you an almost teasing smile.

What are you doing? you chastise yourself internally.

You clear your throat, instantly digging for the assured voice programmed deep within you.

“Hi, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” You stand up, extending your hand to offer a firm handshake, exactly like you were taught to do in school.

She stops you with a slight raise of her hand before you are even halfway out of your seat, her smile remaining entirely unchanged. “No need for that. Please, sit comfortably.”

Biting the inside of your mouth, you sink back down into the soft leather. Your outstretched hand finds its way to your left side, nervously smoothing over the slight wrinkles that still remain on your shirt. This is absolutely nothing like the clinical mock interviews you practiced in class.

Wanda glances down at one of the papers resting on her desk before her sharp green eyes lock onto yours once again.

“So,” she begins, her tone smooth and entirely unbothered. “You’re not qualified for this internship.”

You freeze.

Then why—

“Then why are you here?” she asks, sounding almost amused as she cuts right through your internal panic. “Well,” she muses, looking up toward the skylight in thought. She meets your eyes once again. “I like to look at the whole picture.”

“I…” you start, your voice noticeably wavering.

Stop it, you fight with yourself internally, forcing your posture rigidly upright.

“I know I’m not qualified,” you state clearly, the rehearsed confidence taking over. “But I can adapt quickly. I know how to read financial models. I’m proficient in Excel. I know how to do market research.”

You pause when her expression morphs from an amused smirk into a softer, quieter smile. It’s an expression that completely cuts through your ramble.

“I know. You did extremely well in your interview with Mark,” she says slowly. “Perfect, even.”

You breathe out a quiet sigh of relief at that, but your mind is still swirling.

Then why am I here? you wonder again.

Wanda glances down to where your hand still rests over the wrinkled fabric of your shirt. You widen your palm to cover the creases entirely, hoping she doesn’t see how disheveled you feel.

The corner of her lip pulls upward. Her gaze doesn’t move from your hand.

“Tell me about yourself.” Her tone is completely relaxed, but it doesn’t stop the sudden spike in your pulse.

You take a slow breath in before beginning. “I’m currently a junior in university, majoring in finance. I do well in my classes. I balance going to school and working part-time jobs. I learn quickly, and I know I can adapt to working here,” you finish in a poised tone.

“I see,” she says, sounding almost lost in thought. Her gaze shifts, tracking up to focus directly on your bottom lip. You desperately hope it’s healed by now. “What are your greatest strengths?”

The raw truth from last night echoes bitterly in your head: I can manage to function on four hours of sleep.

Instead, you let the script speak for you. “I take instruction well and turn that into results.”

“Mhm.” She nods as if she was expecting that exact response. Finally, she looks up to meet your eyes again. “And your greatest weaknesses?”

So many.

“Sometimes I get too focused on what I’m doing and don’t see what’s around me,” you respond, offering an almost self-deprecating smile.

“And do you balance going to school and working well?”

You move your gaze downward, staring at the scattered papers on her desk. “Yes,” you say quietly, the smile on your lips wobbling slightly at the edges.

The silence in the air hangs incredibly heavy. You force your eyes upward at the total lack of a response. It feels like she’s staring right past you. As if she’s reading your mind.

“What are your hobbies?”

Your mind blanks. What does this have to do with anything?

Your mouth opens, but instead of a quick, tailored answer, your breath comes out erratically. You grip your side tightly, the fabric of your shirt wrinkling further beneath your fingers, but you can’t stop yourself. Maybe it’s the accumulated stress of the interview. The extra shot of caffeine earlier. Seeing Matt. The lost wages from cutting your shift short. The woman’s loud, angry voice on the bus. The months of surviving on four to five hours of sleep. Your stomach twisting painfully in on itself from the complete emptiness.

It feels like you can no longer quell the overwhelming waves of anxiety that you are usually so good at hiding from others.

Because what are your hobbies? Why can’t you think of a single thing?

Your face twitches in sudden pain. You unclench your jaw, realizing your teeth have bitten right through the muscle of your cheek. Blood spreads over your tongue. You barely register the metallic taste.

This is a question you should be able to answer easily.

It feels like the office walls are closing in, the sunlight that had been so bright dimming slowly.

You barely process the sound of a drawer opening.

The remaining light in your vision dims entirely as a shadow encompasses you. A warm hand envelopes your own, the heat of her palm pressing over the fingers you have clutching so tightly against your shirt. You tilt your head up slightly, your vision clearing just enough to see Wanda standing directly in front of you, her red hair curtained softly around her face. Her eyes look almost apologetic as she gently uncurls your stiff fingers from the wrinkled fabric.

The faint sound of plastic crinkling fills the quiet air as she places something small into your palm that she is holding open. You look down blankly to find a small fruit snack packet resting on your palm.

The exact kind you used to eat when you were a kid. A time before there were expectations.

She wraps your fingers gently around the packet, the pointed corners of the plastic digging slightly into your skin.

“I’m sorry, darling,” she murmurs, her tone genuinely apologetic. There’s a faint accent in her voice that you can’t quite put your finger on. “That was a mean question.”

You shake your head slightly. You’re the one who’s overreacting to a simple icebreaker.

She grips your hand lightly, her thumb rubbing over your knuckles with an expression that looks almost disapproving. “Let’s take a break.” She releases your hand, stepping back just a fraction. “Eat the fruit snack. It always makes me feel better.” She gives you a soft, reassuring smile.

Now that her warmth isn’t anchoring you, the tremor in your hands is completely noticeable. You bring your other hand up to the corner of the plastic, trying to tear it, but your fingers refuse to cooperate.

Why are you failing at absolutely everything today?

The packet is gently removed from your hand before you can spiral any further. You glance up to find Wanda opening it for you, widening the plastic seam to make it easier for your fingers to reach inside. She hands it back to you with a reassuring smile.

“There we go,” she says softly. “These are always hard to open.”

You reach inside, pinching a grape-shaped gummy between your thumb and index finger before popping it into your mouth. You chew slowly, letting the soft elasticity ground you against the spinning room, though the candy remains completely flavorless on your tongue.

Wanda crouches down directly in front of you, resting her elbow on her knee and looking up at your face with a gentle smile. You quickly reach back into the plastic packet for another piece to avoid her locked gaze—an orange one this time. With every chew and swallow you manage, Wanda gives an almost imperceptible nod of approval.

By the time you reach the very last gummy, a strawberry, you can finally taste the sweet, fruity flavor. It’s heavily mixed with a sharp, lingering metallic taste. The throbbing pain in your inner cheek grows with every remaining bite, and the fingers you used to grip your shirt earlier ache intensely from how tightly you held them. The only sound in the office is the steady, quiet rhythm of your own breathing alongside Wanda’s.

You can see the sunlight in the room clearly again. But it also shines a harsh light on how you just behaved.

You quickly place the empty wrapper on your skirt before reaching to smooth down the left side of your shirt. Harsh lines from where it was in your clutches refuse to flatten completely, even as you run your hand down the fabric repeatedly. You let out a breath of frustration.

Giving up, you run your fingers through your hair, trying to find some semblance of the image you are meant to portray. You sit up rigidly once again, squaring your shoulders. Finally, you steal a glance at Wanda, who is still crouched in front of you.

She looks troubled as she watches you. Her eyebrows are furrowed, and her lips are set in a faint frown.

It's your fault.

You clear your throat. It feels like you haven't spoken in hours, even though you know it’s only been minutes.

“Let’s continue.” The confident edge in your voice is marred by a weak rasp that you try desperately to ignore.

Wanda gives you a long, unreadable stare before rising. It’s almost impressive that she was able to crouch like that in high heels.

“Okay,” she whispers, almost to herself. “Let’s continue.”

She walks around her desk before sitting back down, leaning back in her chair and observing you closely. “Why do you want to work at our company?”

You close your eyes briefly before opening them, keeping the heavy, panicked emotions at bay behind the fractured glass wall that is now messily covered in tape.

“I want to work at this company because…”

—

The remainder of the interview goes exactly as planned. There are no more curveball questions. Every prompt is strictly about the job or the firm. The questions are standard. Easy to answer.

But you know you aren't going to be offered the position. You won't get it because instead of the pristine image you were trained to portray, you had accidentally been yourself.

You’re left with Wanda’s final words before exiting her office.

“We’ll call you if you get the position.”

If you had done well, you feel like they would’ve given it to you right then. Or at least, Wanda wouldn’t have sounded so deeply conflicted.

At least you got to meet her, you think, desperately trying to find a single silver lining. You could only hope to carry yourself with the elegance and poise that she did.

A cold breeze hits the bare skin of your legs, snapping you back to reality. You look up, realizing you are standing on campus, and open the heavy door to the building of your first class.

You let out a slow sigh as you enter the crowded lecture room. You’ll have to repeat this entire exhausting cycle again next term.

—

You feel completely hollow as you step out of the restaurant breakroom, tying your apron tightly around your waist. Today has felt like twenty-five hours. And every single one of those hours was designed solely to drain you of what little energy you had left.

Angie appears right in front of you. You almost want to turn on your heel and walk away, because right now, your raw emotions can’t handle anyone being genuinely nice to you. But you can never ignore Angie—not when she’s been so good to you.

“Sweetie!” she calls out excitedly. “There was a last-minute reservation, and they specifically requested to sit in whatever section you’re assigned to.”

Maybe it’s one of the regular customers I had a longer conversation with, you think, trying to match her energy.

You nod at her, forcing an easy smile onto your face at her excitement.

“Get out there,” she says brightly, grabbing your shoulders and steering you directly toward the dining room doors. “I have you in section five. They’re already here, waiting for you.” She gives you a playful push forward.

You walk to the service bar and wash your hands thoroughly before turning around. Scanning the dimly lit dining room, you notice it’s hardly full yet. Most of the standard reservations won't arrive for another ten minutes. You take measured steps toward your section, mentally preparing to muster up a bright, welcoming smile.

Maybe the fruit snack actually helped. Your head isn’t pounding nearly as violently as it did before the interview.

You reach the corner booth where the ambient lighting is the dimmest. You are just about to greet the couple in front of you when you catch a terrifyingly familiar voice.

“Told you, Nat.” Wanda is leaning exceptionally close to her companion, whispering into her ear as if sharing a private secret.

The image is too familiar. The memory of those vibrant green eyes from a week ago flashes violently through your mind.

Nat? you think, your thoughts instantly racing.

Natasha Romanoff. The other half of the power couple. The CEO of Romanoff-Maximoff Global.

You meet her sharp eyes, which are already watching your approach closely.

“Yes, moya lyubov, you were right,” Natasha says, her gaze never wavering from your face.

You turn your head as Wanda sits upright. You desperately want to find somewhere to hide—anywhere no one will ever find you—after coming face-to-face with the exact person who just witnessed you at your absolute worst.

“Can I get the wine list, darling?” Wanda asks, offering you a bright smile.

The slight wrinkle of her nose as she smiles at you makes you pause, forcing yourself to finally get it together.

“Of course,” you respond politely, already turning on your heel to escape this deeply awkward situation.

“And darling?” Wanda calls out after you.

You turn back around, forcing a grimace that you desperately hope passes for a polite smile.

“We’ll see you at the office on Monday.” —

A/N: I really wanted the first interaction to be with Natasha because I've never written for Wanda before and wanted to stall it as long as possible 😂 but even though this is fiction, I couldn't rationalize why the CEO would be interviewing a possible intern. The CFO interviewing was already a stretch. Hopefully I wrote Wanda okay! Feedback is always appreciated 🥰

Also, thank you guys again for the feedback and interest on the first chapter 😊 it made writing the second chapter fun and something I looked forward to.

To the person in asks saying i love AO3 more for posting this chapter there hours earlier: NOT TRUE. i forgot i had a prior engagement when i was making this draft 😂

[westwriteswhatever]

Choosing You

Chapter 1: What is Success?

Pairing: WandaNat x Fem!Reader

Overall Summary: For two years, you've been working two jobs just to afford rent and tuition after leaving home at eighteen. Finally, after surviving community college, you're a junior in university. But with a mandatory internship required to graduate, you stumble into the corporate world of Romanoff-Maximoff Global, where you’re determined to keep your head down and struggle on your own, just as you have become accustomed to. How will Natasha Romanoff and Wanda Maximoff teach you how to choose yourself? 

Word Count (For this Chapter): 7k

Warnings (For this Chapter): Financial struggles, dash of religious trauma, mentions of a past relationship, dash of an ED, past emotional abuse, unsafe living environment

A/N: as you can probably tell by the warnings, this isn't like the usual fluffy one-shots that I post. Sorry! I don't delve very deep into the warnings mentioned in this chapter, but just so you're aware. You can also read this on AO3 if it's easier. Link in Masterlist. —

You open your eyes to the muffled sound of your phone alarm, hidden beneath the blankets. Rummaging through the sheets, you kill the sound before it wakes your roommates. It’s 4 a.m. You stare up at the ceiling. In the faint glare of the streetlight cutting through the curtains, you can barely make out the texture of the plaster. It feels like you only slept for a few minutes. It was dark when you fell asleep. It’s still dark now.

Exhaustion weighs you down, pinning you to the mattress. The only sound is your own breath—even, but resigned. Twenty-five minutes to get ready. A fifteen-minute bus ride. A ten-minute walk to the coffee shop. That leaves ten minutes to spare before your shift.

You turn your head and reach out. Cold air hits your forearm, raising goosebumps. You want to pull back into the warm safety of the sheets, but you keep moving.

Life won’t stop for a few more minutes of comfort.

Your fingertips find the notebook on your desk. Feeling the cover, you trace the indents where your pen pressed hard against the paper. The grooves grow shallower until they vanish completely. That must have been around midnight, when you grew too tired to write.

Today feels impossible. But you’ve felt that way for the past two years, and you’re still here.

With a heavy sigh, you push off the desk and the hard mattress to force yourself upright. The chill bites at your bare neck. Someone forgot to turn on the heat. The house is eerily quiet without the familiar rattle of the vents. You swing your legs out of bed, your feet hit the icy floorboards before sliding into your slippers. It feels like your body is creaking with every step. You unlock your door and step into the hall.

The hum of the refrigerator greets you. Across the hallway, a sliver of light glows under your roommate's door. Still awake. You step quietly into the shared bathroom, gingerly closing the door before flicking on the light.

The mirror doesn't lie. You look tired. The bags under your eyes are puffy. Your shoulders droop. Your lips rest in a flat, neutral line, lacking the energy to pull upward or down. You look away, focusing on your designated shelf of toiletries. It’s becoming harder to look at yourself. It’s not just the four hours of sleep. It’s not the coffee shop shift, followed by classes, followed by the restaurant shift. It’s not the homework waiting for you tonight, or the fact that you have to do it all again tomorrow.

It’s a soul-deep tiredness. A day off won’t fix it.

You chose this, you remind yourself, forced to look back at the glass. Choosing to struggle was your decision. The first real decision you ever made for yourself.

You brush your teeth and wash your face, praying the routine wakes you up. While applying moisturizer, you force your lips into a smile. You practice it over and over, tailoring it for a future customer because you can’t bear to actually smile at yourself. You turn to leave, but your reflection catches your hair.

Disarray.

You grab your brush, meticulously forcing every misplaced strand into place. It has to be perfect.

“When you go out looking like that, you’re embarrassing me and yourself.”

Your mother’s voice echoes in the quiet bathroom. It shouldn’t bother you anymore. You left. But the words stayed behind, hiding in your head, waiting to strike whenever your shirt is wrinkled, or a blemish appears on your cheek, or your posture begins to slouch.

You step out into the hall once you’re satisfied—or at least as satisfied as you can be.

Back in your room, you flick on the light. You’re still not used to this space, but you forgive yourself since it’s only been three months. It could be worse. The room holds just enough space for your single bed, a wooden desk, a chair, and a small cabinet for your clothes. It’s a far cry from your room back home.

Home. You shake your head. This is your home now. Your parents' house belongs to them. It was never truly yours.

You reach for the clothes you set out last night, folded neatly at the edge of the mattress. A simple black long-sleeve shirt and a pair of jeans. You slip them on, looking down. The denim hangs looser than before.

Did you forget to eat again yesterday? It would explain why you feel especially hollow today.

You step into your sneakers and lace them up. Your hands shake almost imperceptibly. It’s such a common sight by now that you don't even care. You slide the notebook into your backpack, sling it over your shoulder, and grab your phone.

Stepping into the hall, you pull the door shut and lock it with your key. Your housemates seem like good people, but good people have disappointed you before. Plus, with ten other people sharing the house, you aren’t taking chances.

The floorboards creak beneath your sneakers. You take measured steps, trying not to break the silence. Pulling the heavy front door open, you step outside, and listen for the click of the automatic lock behind you.

You check the time. The bus should arrive the moment you hit the corner. The late autumn chill bites at your skin, shocking some of the exhaustion out of your system. You blink rapidly, forcing yourself awake.

The bus arrives promptly. Only two other passengers are aboard—faces you’ve started to recognize. Taking your usual seat near the front, you rest your backpack on your lap and lean your head back. You watch the streetlights pass in a blur, bracing yourself for the first challenge of the day.

—

The streets are still quiet as you walk the ten minutes to the coffee shop, where warm lights greet you against the backdrop of darkness. You greet your two coworkers warmly, falling into the familiar chatter and complaints about how tired you all are.

Gathering your hair, you pull it into a ponytail. You check the tie meticulously, ensuring no stray strands hang loose. You comb your fingers through the ends before smoothing a hand down the front of your shirt and grabbing your apron off the coat hooks.

Glancing up, you find your coworkers watching you with mild amusement.

“You’re always so careful about your appearance," one of them says. "Girl, you’re pretty, don’t stress so much.”

It would stress me more if I weren't careful, you think.

“I have to make sure I look good. It’s not for me, I’m doing it for you two,” you say with a practiced laugh. “Gotta maximize the tips.”

They laugh along with you as you head toward the front counters where opening tasks await. Your smile slowly fades the moment they look away. As they talk about recent pop culture events, you just nod whenever they look to you for an opinion.

—

You’re three coffees in by the time the morning rush ends. Your brain is running on caffeine, adrenaline, and the pure need to survive. The three of you lean against the back counters with exaggerated exhaustion.

You only have fifteen minutes left of your shift. The rush to your classes is always tight, but you’ve been making it work.

A phone chimes. One of your coworkers pulls it out, checking the screen. “Ugh,” they groan. “Luke just said he’s going to be an hour late for his shift.”

Cold panic pricks at your chest. Luke is your replacement.

Both of them turn to you, expectation heavy in their eyes. “Can you please stay until he gets here?”

You can’t. The gap between your shift and your first lecture is already cutting it close. Staying forty-five minutes past your time means accepting that you will walk into the lecture room in the middle of the class. It means everyone turning to look at you.

“Yeah, of course,” you respond, the words leaving your mouth before you can even think to stop them.

They cheer beside you, patting your back. You smile along with them as if it’s no sweat.

Internally, you fight to breathe. You ignore the way your heart rate spikes, your breath turning quick and shallow. The sheer physical strength required to keep the fake smile on your face grows heavier by the second.

This feeling has been happening more often lately. It hits whenever you think about pending assignments, your rent, your tuition, or even what you’re going to eat.

But it isn’t anxiety. It can’t be.

Your parents always told you anxiety was impossible—a made-up excuse. They said you just needed to be mentally stronger. Your ex-boyfriend had said the exact same thing. You just need to get over it.

He had told you to ignore most of the problems you confided in him with, and back then, you listened. He was the last real relationship you had been in, and his words still carried a heavy weight you were desperately working to outrun.

He was also the last relationship you had before you finally realized that romance wasn’t strictly exclusive to a man and a woman—no matter how deeply your parents had convinced you of it your entire life.

Yet, somehow, a part of you still believed them despite everything. You still worry your own mental fortitude is the real problem.

So, you ignore it. You ignore it even when your hands shake as you pour a latte. You ignore it when your voice wavers against the violent drumming of your pulse in your throat. You ignore it because you have no other choice. You have to continue.

—

It feels like ages before Luke finally arrives with an apologetic smile. You assure him it’s fine, grab your backpack from the breakroom, and bid your coworkers goodbye.

A frantic sprint pays off. You hit the curb just as the bus pulls up.

Boarding, you tap your foot anxiously against the floor. You pull your hair loose, shaking it out and combing your fingers through the strands to recreate the perfection from hours ago. It’s a clumsy, difficult task. Your hands still refuse to listen to orders. You won't have time to change clothes in the campus bathroom today. The scent of espresso and steamed milk will follow you until your restaurant shift tonight.

For a split second, you consider skipping. No. You shake your head, disgusted by the thought. You haven’t taken shortcuts yet. You didn't work countless grueling hours to pay for tuition for this term just to skip. You have to succeed.

Though lately, the definition of success has begun to waver. What does it even mean anymore? Getting the degree? Landing a job? Getting married?

The bus brakes at the university. Pushing up from your seat, you sling your backpack over one shoulder, thank the driver with a warm smile, and sprint toward your lecture hall.

You ease the heavy door open, praying none of the hundred students notice you. A few heads turn briefly before pivoting back to the board. You slip into a seat in the very back row, closest to the exit. Dropping your bag, you pull out your notebook.

Look up toward the projector screen, your eyes lock with the professor's instead. He glares at you with a heavy, disapproving expression before looking away. You bite the inside of your cheek, hard, and pick up your pen.

The sound of quiet whispers and light giggles drifts up from the row below. A small group of students are conversing with bowed heads, trying to hide bright, genuine smiles.

It’s been a long time since you actually enjoyed school. A long time since you weren’t just going through the motions.

Watching one of the students clap their friend on the shoulder, a sudden flood of memory hits you. The sterile hallways of your old high school flash in your mind. Two familiar people stand on either side of you.

Yelena and Kate.

Kate has her arm slung over your shoulder, leaning in close to whisper a joke about Yelena, knowing full well she can hear her. Yelena flicks Kate’s forehead in retaliation, and the three of you burst into laughter.

Your second year of high school feels like another lifetime. The memories with the two of them are like a dream. You would be lying if you said you didn’t think about them. You miss Kate tripping over her own shoes, and Yelena making sure she never lived it down for the rest of the day. You miss being in the middle of it all, pulling Kate off the floor and telling Yelena to play nice, only to secretly laugh about it with her later.

You smile wryly despite yourself, the professor's voice fading into background static as you drift deeper into your own mind. Every single memory with the two of them was happy.

Except one.

On the day the three of you graduated, the air was full of laughter and flying caps. You hugged them tightly as they chattered endlessly about the future. Kate had paused, turning to look at you, asking why you hadn’t been chiming in.

Behind your practiced smile, you were suffocating.

They didn’t know your parents hadn’t shown up to watch you cross the stage. They didn’t know you had left your house key sitting on the empty kitchen table that morning. They didn't know every single thing you owned was packed into the trunk of your car—the same car you were scheduled to sell tomorrow just to afford the deposit and first month's rent on a cramped apartment.

They didn't know you weren’t going to university with them.

It was always assumed the three of you would go to the same university. You were supposed to survive the crowded dorms for the first two years, then find an apartment together for the remaining two. That was the original plan.

But things changed. Or maybe they didn’t. Maybe it was always going to end up exactly like this.

Instead of telling them the truth, you told Kate you were just tired from staying up late from excitement. You hid your hands inside the long sleeves of your graduation gown—concealing the white bandages where rough cardboard boxes had dried and cracked your skin during the midnight move.

How could you tell them it felt like you were falling apart? Not when they were smiling so happily. Not when you knew exactly what they would do if they found out. They would offer to help financially.

But you were the one who made the decision to leave home. You chose to forfeit your parents' financial support. You made the decision to go to community college because it was more affordable. You made the choice to struggle, and you had to live with it.

Accepting their help would make the sacrifice meaningless. Letting them worry, letting them give you an easy way out, would only make you waver. And you couldn't afford to waver.

The sound of students rising from their chairs breaks you out of your memories. A few give you small smiles as they pass.

Other students had tried to talk to you over the past few weeks, tried to build a friendship, but it always felt impossible. You were good at the polite smiles, the fake laughter, blending into conversations with effortless ease. But you never felt that same deep familiarity and comfort you had shared with Yelena and Kate. Friendships after them had only disappointed you, leaving quiet scars that still stung to this day.

Instead of lingering for small talk, you gather your things and walk toward the crowded food hall. You scan the racks of snacks, eventually picking up two granola bars that happen to be on a promotional deal.

A burst of bright laughter and a fiercely familiar accent make you freeze mid-breath.

In your peripheral vision, you catch a flash of brown hair and blonde hair walking shoulder-to-shoulder. You whip your head around, your eyes desperately scanning the space, but the image vanishes. There are only a dozen unfamiliar strangers moving past in a dense crowd.

—

You are finally called into your advisor appointment after sitting in the waiting area far past the scheduled time. The finance department feels almost sterile, defined by grey, windowless walls and a total lack of decor.

You walk through the door of the office, where you’re greeted with a professional smile.

“Good afternoon, take a seat,” Mrs. Stewart says warmly. “How was class today?”

I barely heard a single word, you think, already dreading the hours you’ll have to spend reviewing the lecture slides later tonight.

“It was good,” you respond, offering a perfectly tailored, polite smile.

“Wonderful,” she says, pulling up your academic record on her monitor. “You did exceptionally well during your time in community college, so I knew you wouldn’t have too much trouble adjusting here.”

You nod along as she squints at the glowing screen.

“Since you’re officially a junior, I think you should start considering your capstone internship," Mrs. Stewart says, pulling up your academic record.

"As a finance major, it's a mandatory graduation requirement," she explains, leaning back in her chair. "You'll need to secure a position within the financial sector and complete a full term of field experience and complete assignments pertaining to it before you can receive your degree. It basically bridges your university classes with the professional world."

A mandatory internship.

To Mrs. Stewart, it's a standard academic milestone. To you, it sounds like an execution sentence. That means a massive chunk of your week will be consumed by a rigid schedule—time you desperately need for the jobs that actually pay your rent.

Her tone shifts, dropping into something quieter, almost conspiratorial. “Honestly, the job market isn’t at its best right now, so it might be a bit of a challenge. But keep your chin up. Knowing you and your work ethic, you’ll find something.”

Somehow, that blind faith makes you feel infinitely worse.

“Thank you, I’ll look into the listings tonight,” you say, forcing another flawless smile to your lips while your stomach bottoms out.

—

What are you going to do?

You sit with your head buried in your hands, your elbows resting heavily on the desk in front of you as the professor drones on in the background. You’ve already accepted that you'll have to double the work tonight just to review what you missed during your first class and now this one.

But the lectures aren't the real problem. This mandatory internship is going to be the end of you.

You had hoped to push it off until your final year, but realistically, Mrs. Stewart was right. It’s better to complete it now, before the advanced courses demand your absolute, undivided attention. The real crisis is the math. While a quick search shows plenty of available internships, the vast majority are unpaid. At least, the ones open to students without prior relevant experience are.

You can't use your family’s connections. That was never an option. But how are you supposed to find a paying role when every listing requires a relevant background? You’ve spent the last two years grinding in customer service just to stay afloat. You can't exactly drop everything and take on a full-term, unpaid role just to check a box for the university.

But then, you can’t graduate.

You groan internally, tilting your head back to stare blankly at the ceiling tiles. Frustration tightens like a vice in your chest. You drop your head back down, focusing on the scuffed wooden desk, and force a slow breath out through your nose. The panic dissipates slightly with every exhale.

It’s okay. You’ve made it work so far, and this will be no different. At least, that’s the lie you use to convince yourself.

There is a lingering, heavy static in your chest that refuses to leave, no matter how steadily you breathe.

Peeling back the plastic wrapper of a granola bar, you take a small bite. You chew slowly, trying to savor it, even though your tongue can barely register the taste. Pulling out your phone, you check your shift schedule for the restaurant.

The moment this lecture ends, you will have to sprint back to the house, change out of your coffee-stained clothes, and step into your second uniform. A crisp white collared shirt and clean black slacks.

You’ll have to go through the exhausting task of looking perfect. Even though internally, you know it’s an impossible task that you’ll always continue to deplete yourself doing.

—

You step onto the sidewalk right in front of the house. In the daylight, the full reality of the place is clear. Maybe it would be better if it stayed in the dark.

The wood exterior looks completely worn down, splintered and rotting in some areas. The front porch features two raggedy couches on either side of the entrance, where your roommates typically congregate to smoke cigarettes and weed. Your very first thought upon seeing the house months ago was, “This is definitely a crackhouse.”

To the right, you can see your bedroom window. You had gotten somewhat lucky—living on the middle floor with one of the larger spaces. Though, that isn’t saying much.

You keep your curtains tightly drawn most of the time. You had learned your lesson early on while studying one afternoon. You had left the blinds open to let in the natural light, only to look up and find a homeless man staring straight at you from the sidewalk. The curtains hadn't been opened since.

You punch the code into the keypad, listening for the lock to release before pushing the heavy frame forward. The floorboards creak beneath your sneakers. Glancing to your left into the common room, you're relieved to find it completely empty. From the central staircase, the muffled echo of an upstairs roommate showering rains down through the ceiling.

The kitchen door leading to the basement is slightly ajar. You know this without even looking, signaled by the violent shouting echoing up from the couple living downstairs. It had terrified you during your first week, but now, their screaming matches are almost expected.

Pulling your bedroom key out of your pocket, you unlock the door and push it open. Your unmade bed awaits you. You drop your backpack next to your desk chair and quickly peel off your clothes. Even though you are just heading to another shift, getting the coffee-scented fabric off your skin is an instant relief.

You mist a light body spray over your torso before pulling on your restaurant attire. You carefully smooth down the crisp white shirt. Lacking a proper closet, you had hung it meticulously over what you believe used to be an old metal candle holder on the wall.

Gathering your hair, you tie it into a high ponytail with the elastic on your wrist. It feels like an exhausting echo of this morning, save for the change in uniform.

After sliding your wallet into your pocket, you pat the fabric of your black slacks to ensure you have everything, then exit your room and lock the door behind you. You reach for the front door handle but freeze. Turning on your heel, you step into the middle-floor bathroom instead.

You smooth your hair down in the glass, sweeping the front strands to the side so they won’t obscure your vision. You secure them tightly with a bobby pin, ensuring nothing can move.

Perfect.

Satisfied, you slip out the front door and walk quickly toward the bus stop.

—

The ambience of the restaurant is always a bit romantic. The lights are dimmed low, classical music plays quietly in the background, and fresh flowers center every table. It’s a higher-end establishment located just off campus—a favorite spot for local couples celebrating date nights and special occasions.

You’re greeted by your manager, Angie, the moment you step out of the breakroom.

“Hey, honey. Raring to go?” she asks, offering a warm smile.

Angie is always bright and charming. Save for the first time you met her.

It‘s a total 180 from the initial encounter with the middle-aged woman. Months ago, when you had first visited the university town to secure housing, you had stumbled upon this very dining room after a Help Wanted sign caught your eye. She had interviewed you on the spot, watching you closely with a sharp, skeptical eye.

When you honestly admitted you had absolutely no fine-dining experience, she had leaned in close, giving you a long, hard stare. The silence between you felt thick enough to choke on. You were already mentally planning which streets you’d walk down next to find a different job when she suddenly leaned back, a smirk pulling at her lips. She told you to meet her here the following week for onboarding.

When you confessed you hadn't even found a place to live yet, Angie was the one who told you about a vacancy at a shared house nearby. Because of her, you were moved in within five days.

You would never tell her outright, but she had saved you that day. You had been feeling entirely helpless, staring down listings for housing that were far past anything you could afford. She’d tease you endlessly if you ever confessed all this to her. But you have a feeling she already knows, especially when she gives you her signature side-glance and a half-smirk.

“Always,” you respond, mirroring her smile.

She clasps her hand over your shoulder with a reassuring squeeze as you tie your apron around your waist. She pauses for a beat, pressing the pads of her fingers carefully against your shoulder and the prominent ridge of your collarbone.

Sensing the unspoken observation, you quickly fall back into your routine, smoothing your hands over your clothes and combing your fingers through the ends of your ponytail. Angie sighs quietly, releasing your shoulder only to reach up and gently brush a stray hair out of your eyes.

“Knock 'em dead, sweetie,” she says, her voice playful but filled with an overwhelming warmth.

You give her your first real smile of the day, your eyes crinkling at the corners. “They’d call the cops on us if I did that.”

She rolls her eyes. “Okay, smartie. Knock ‘em alive.”

“Yeah, because that sounds normal.”

She playfully pushes you toward the swinging kitchen doors. “I can’t deal with you,” she says, trying and failing to hold back a laugh. “You’re in section three. Shoo.”

You quickly wash your hands at the service bar, greeting the bartender and the floor staff. Turning around, you survey the dining room as it slowly begins to fill.

The host catches your eye, nodding to let you know the first reservation for your section has arrived. You step forward, ready to greet them, when the wooden panels of the dining room wall suddenly warp and lean sideways.

Your step falters. You blink rapidly, forcing the violent wave of lightheadedness back down.

Maybe I should’ve eaten the second granola bar instead of rationing it, you think, steadying yourself. But you dismiss the thought just as quickly. You’ve gone through much worse periods of food scarcity than this. You'll get through tonight just fine.

Thankfully, the universe is kind to your section. Your first reservation is a couple celebrating their twentieth wedding anniversary. Despite the static in your head, you go all out for them—bringing special decorative accents to their table and arranging a complimentary dessert with a message wishing them a happy anniversary meticulously piped in chocolate.

Most of your guests tonight are here for date nights. Watching their warm smiles across the crisp white linen and their clasped hands over the candlelight always brings your mood up, casting a faint glow over your own exhaustion.

Soft chatter fills the dining room. Scanning the floor, you check for any tables needing water refills or another round of drinks. You spot a booth to your far left with empty wine glasses and step forward to refill them with the open bottle resting between them. You’re almost halfway there when your vision suddenly blurs, the edges darkening as the room begins to fade. The ambient classical music cuts out, replaced by a sharp, piercing shrill frequency ringing in your ears.

Your feet tangle beneath you. Stumbling hard, you manage to steady yourself without too much commotion. You pause, blinking rapidly until your vision clears, desperately praying no one noticed. Gratefully, the surrounding tables continue to chat, completely lost in their own private worlds. You scan the room one more time just to be absolutely sure you're safe.

That’s when you catch two pairs of sharp green eyes watching you intently from the shadows. They are seated far in the back corner of the dining room. The low, romantic lighting makes it impossible to make out any of their other features, but their locked gaze stays fixed on you as you force your legs to move forward. You swallow past the lump in your throat, tear your eyes away, and focus on refilling the wine glasses at your designated table. You can still feel the weight of their stare burning into your back, but you push it to the back of your mind. You have a job to finish.

The table converses with you about their day. While you genuinely try to absorb every single detail, it is a losing battle when it takes your entire universe of effort just to stay upright. Still, you finish the interaction with a reliable go-to joke that always makes couples laugh, departing the booth with warm chuckles trailing behind you.

You risk a glance back at the table in the far corner.

They are still watching you. Through the dim light, you can barely make out the silhouette of one woman leaning toward the other, whispering something directly into her ear.

Cold dread twists in your stomach. Maybe they're making fun of you for almost eating it.

You quickly walk back toward the service bar, your cheeks burning hot at the humiliating possibility.

—

The remaining hours pass by in a blur. You don’t let your eyes drift back toward that far corner table for the rest of the night, keeping your focus solely on your section.

Before you know it, the dinner rush is over. You're wiping down tables and folding linens alongside the rest of the floor staff, trading stories about high-maintenance customers. One of the hosts chimes in about a table that sent their cocktails back twice, only to declare the third round absolutely perfect—even though the bartender had made it the exact same way every time.

It’s in quiet moments like this, sharing tired laughs in the dim dining room, when you actually feel like a normal university student.

You are grabbing your phone and wallet from the breakroom lockers when Angie's head peeks past the doorframe. She gives you a sly grin, sliding fully into view with a plastic takeout bag in hand.

She pushes the handles toward you. “One of the kitchen guys made a mistake on an order earlier. It’s fettuccine alfredo. It’d make me feel a lot better if you took it, since it’ll just be thrown away otherwise.”

You smooth a hand down the front of your crisp white shirt, biting the inside of your lip. Your stomach is hollow. You’re definitely hungry. But eating it would mean you'd have to go for a long walk afterward to burn it off.

Angie’s pleading eyes make the decision for you.

“Okay,” you respond softly, securing the loops of the bag in your hand.

Angie smiles gently, reaching up to brush a stray strand of hair out of your eyes. She looks at you for a quiet beat with an expression you can’t quite decipher, before her face shifts back to her familiar, playful smirk. “Thanks for doing me that favor. See you tomorrow night, sweetie.”

She walks away before you even get the chance to respond. Pocketing your belongings, you push through the back exit. The night air hits your cheeks, cool and crisp, and the full weight of the day finally begins to settle into your bones.

The lingering lightheadedness has remained for your entire shift—it's there even now. But somehow, looking down at the heavy container of pasta, you feel a tiny bit better. You walk toward the bus stop, only noticing halfway there that the box is piping hot against your palm.

—

It’s late by the time you arrive back in your room. The house is uncharacteristically quiet tonight, with most of your roommates out—some drinking with friends, others grinding through late night part-time jobs.

You unpack the takeout container, placing it on the wooden desk and quietly thanking Angie for remembering to slip a plastic fork into the bag. You pause. Peeling off your pristine white uniform shirt, you hang it carefully back over the candleholder. You pull the long-sleeve black shirt back on. You already know you’ll be forced to go for a long walk the moment you finish this meal, so it doesn't matter if the fabric gets even dirtier.

You pry open the lid of the takeout box. The smell is heavenly—a perfect mix of rich, savory cream that makes you feel lightheaded all over again, this time from pure anticipation. You dig your fork in, taking slow, measured bites despite the overwhelming hollow hunger in your stomach.

“Are you an animal? Eat slowly. Properly.”

You instantly yank your elbows off the desk at the memory of the voice, sitting up rigidly straight in your chair.

The rich taste of the pasta slowly fades into background static, until you are simply eating for sustenance again. You reach down and pull your laptop out from one of the desk drawers. You’re wasting too much time.

Booting up the screen, you open a browser window to search for internship opportunities in finance, ensuring the filters are strictly locked so that only paid positions appear. In a separate tab, you pull up your resume. You scan the lines meticulously, confirming that every detail is updated, every heading aligned, and the format completely flawless.

You scroll through the listings between slow bites of pasta. Every single role requires some sort of prior finance experience, exactly as you expected. Refusing to let the dread stop you, you open each listing in a separate tab, pulling up the application portals one by one. It’s going to take an immense amount of luck, but expanding your net increases your odds.

You meticulously apply for every single open position, uploading your resume and drafting tailored cover letters on the side.

The pasta is long gone, the container cold on your desk, by the time you finally finish the task. Closing the last tab, you lean back heavily in your wooden chair with a long, slow sigh.

It’s already close to midnight, but you force yourself back onto your feet. Pulling your heavy jacket sleeves over your arms, you turn your back on the room and head toward the front door.

Realistically, you shouldn’t be walking outside this late. But the nagging thought of letting the heavy food sit in your stomach compels your legs to move.

You walk to the end of the block, following a line of flickering streetlights that are permanently dimmed by years of grime and residue coating the glass covers. You turn the corner at the end of the pavement, knowing the familiar glow of the corner store awaits you just ahead. It has quickly become a landmark in your new life—a place you routinely visit whenever you need a quick, cheap bite to eat to survive the week.

There is just one massive caveat. One of your roommates who lives downstairs, Matt, often works the night shift there.

He calls out a greeting before you can even think about spinning on your heel and walking straight back out. Matt isn't a bad guy by any means, but he has twelve years on you, and his friendliness always feels heavy. Call it a woman's intuition, but the way he routinely knocks on your bedroom door to ask to hang out, or texts you outside the house group chat, points to one undeniable reality.

He likes you. And right now, you don't have the energy to manage his expectations.

You try to duck into one of the narrow aisles to grab a pack of granola bars to hold you over for the next few days, but your escape is cut short when Matt calls out to you.

“Hey! You’re out late,” Matt says, leaning heavily over the checkout counter.

Your lips force themselves into a smile that feels more like a pained grimace, though he doesn't seem to notice the strain.

“Yeah, late night. Just grabbing some snacks real quick,” you respond, keeping your voice tight and fast.

He leans even closer, bridging the distance across the counter. “I knocked on your door earlier. You didn’t answer.” A sharp flicker of annoyance passes over his easy smile before he smooths it back down.

“I was out. Had work tonight,” you reply lightly, desperately trying to keep the conversation casual.

“I didn’t say when I knocked,” he says smoothly. He offers a lazy grin, but his cold eyes tell you something else entirely.

You freeze, locking eyes with his cold stare for a heavy, suffocating second before forcing a breathless chuckle.

“You’re right, my bad," you say, smoothing the tension over. "I was just out pretty much all day.”

Taking a deliberate step back toward the exit, you tighten your jacket around your chest. “I think I’m just going to head back. I’m way more tired than I thought.”

You pivot toward the glass door, but his voice hooks you before you can push it open.

“Hey, I’m sorry," Matt calls out, his tone suddenly softening into something defensive. "Okay? I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Turning back, you slap your flawlessly practiced smile onto your face one last time today.

“No worries, I’m not uncomfortable. Just tired. I’ll see you later.”

You shove the heavy door open and slip out into the midnight air before he can get another syllable out.

You take quick, urgent strides back to the house, cutting your walk short. Ducking inside, you slip into your bedroom and click the lock securely into place. You check the handle twice, tugging against the frame to make sure it’s truly locked.

Patting your pocket, you pull out your phone to check the time. You have just enough time to shower before Matt's shift at the corner store typically ends. Quickly gathering a fresh change of clothes, you slip into the hall and step into the bathroom, desperate to let the steam wash away the crushing pressures of the day and the lingering chill of his stare.

—

You sit on your wooden desk chair, your hair still slightly damp from the shower. The laptop screen glows in front of you, the lecture slides from your first class open and waiting to be reviewed.

Tilting your head back, you stare up at the ceiling. It feels like if you close your eyes for even a single second, you will instantly crash into sleep. Your eyes frantically trace the textures of the plaster as if the physical focus can force you to stay awake just a little longer.

You press your pen into the notebook adjacent to your laptop. You wonder how many minutes of sleep you’ll actually get tonight. Forcing your focus forward, your eyes scan the first slide on the screen.

You fix your posture, sitting up rigidly straight, without a second thought.

—

The days pass by quickly—but not quickly enough at the same time. You wish the exhaustion would fade with the calendar pages, but it only seems to accrue. It’s a currency you have no desire to hold.

Coffee shop. Class. Eat a snack if you have the time. Another class. The dinner shift at the restaurant.

Practiced smiles, laughs with no heart, blurring vision, and sudden missteps.

Avoiding conversations. Avoiding Matt. Avoiding the absolute fact that this lifestyle was killing you.

Over and over again.

It has been five days since you sent out that mass wave of applications to countless companies and organizations. You had gotten a few emails back with initial sparks of interest—only to receive a follow-up a few hours later stating they had misread your file, and that your experience level was ultimately unsatisfactory.

It is one of those rare days where everything actually goes smoothly. People show up for their shifts on time, allowing you to walk into class right as the lecture begins. Frozen pre-made meals happen to be on sale at the store. Your notes are clear and concise for all your courses. The dinner shift passes without a single hitch—except for the few times your vision blurs. But it always clears up.

Now, you lie in bed, genuinely happy that you’ll be getting at least five hours of sleep tonight. It’s a quiet luxury you rarely get to experience. The covers are pulled tight around your chin as the headlights of passing cars flash rhythmically against your bedroom walls.

The vent rattles softly, distributing warm air throughout the small room. You close your eyes, feeling a profound wave of gratitude that tonight, you won’t be cold.

—

You open your eyes to the muffled buzz of your phone alarm, hidden beneath the blankets. Rummaging through the sheets, you kill the sound before it can wake your roommates. It’s 4 a.m. You stare up at the ceiling. In the faint glare of the streetlight cutting through the curtains, you can barely make out the texture of the plaster.

It feels like any other day.

You tap on your phone screen to cast a faint light across the dark room. Your email app displays a singular, glowing red notification.

Tapping the icon, you find a new response waiting in your inbox from one of the final companies on your list.

Please choose an available date for an in-person interview. — Romanoff-Maximoff Global

—

A/N: Hi readers 👋 honestly speaking, while I love how this opening turned out, I know that this story is going to be a long haul. Meaning, it’s a big commitment and I’m kind of stubborn, so if I truly decide to do it, I’ll have to see it through. Also, down the line I'm probably going to have to find a writer to beta read this which kind of stresses me out. So, if you enjoyed it, feedback is appreciated! It might give me the push to commit to this story.

If I do decide to move forward with it, I'll make a separate masterlist sometime.

Thank you as always for reading! ❤️

[izbiz3737]

Back to main Masterlist

Pairing: Zora x blind!teen!reader

Summary: after accidentally stumbling onto Duncan Kincaid's boat, you find yourself stuck on a terrible boat trip to a dangerous island with Zora and her team. Can you learn to trust them with your life and escape?

Word count: ≈2500

Warnings: use of Y/N like once, mention of death of a character (Bobby, unnamed) and completely through sound

Reading time: ≈15 mins

Type: Oneshot

a/n - this will have a part 2 at some point 🫶🏼

You didn’t really notice the floor changing at first. Not properly.

Maybe it felt a little different under your shoes—less solid, less familiar—but not enough to question it. Not right away.

It was the movement that gave it away.

A sudden shift beneath your feet, sharp enough to throw you forward, your balance slipping before you could catch it.

Your hand shot out instantly, catching something cold. Damp. Unsteady. The ground wasn’t still. It was moving.

Zora had noticed you earlier.

Curled up near the edge of the deck, quiet, out of the way. She’d assumed you were just another one of Duncan Kincaid’s crew—young, maybe new, keeping your head down.

Now, watching you stumble along the side of the boat, one hand dragging along the wall for guidance, she knew that wasn’t right.

You weren’t moving like someone who belonged here. Too careful. Too unsure.

Her arms fold across her chest as she steps directly into your path, eyebrow raising slightly. You don’t react. Don’t slow. Don’t even look up.

Zora tilts her head, watching you get closer. “So we’ve got a rude kid sneaking on board,” she mutters under her breath.

You keep going. Right into her.

Your hands brush against something solid—warm, fabric under your fingers as they slide upward, searching without hesitation. Zora stiffens slightly. That’s… not normal.

Then you jump at the sound of her clearing her throat, your grip tightening instinctively.

“Yeah, hi,” she says, voice edged with confusion. “How long were you planning to pretend I wasn’t here?”

It still hasn’t clicked.

“What do you mean?” you ask, breath uneven—then the boat lurches again, harder this time. You grab onto her fully, both hands clutching at her arms to steady yourself. “Where am I?”

That’s when it hits her. Not the question. The way you asked it.

Zora’s expression shifts, something sharper replacing the initial irritation as she looks at you properly now—really looks.

Your gaze isn’t unfocused. It’s… not landing anywhere at all. “You don’t know where you are,” she says slowly.

The boat lurches again as your hands clench tighter around her.

“Why are we moving?”

Zora huffs out a quiet breath, still watching you carefully now.

“You’re on a boat,” she says, a little slower this time.

Her hand moves—subtle, deliberate—resting against your arm. Not grabbing. Just… there. Grounding.

“Where are you going?” you ask, your grip not loosening.

“An island.” A pause. “Not exactly the safest trip.”

Another beat. She studies you properly now. The way your eyes don’t track her. The way your focus shifts just slightly past where she’s standing.

Zora’s jaw tightens, just a fraction. “You can’t see, can you?”

Your head tilts slightly, like you’re trying to place her voice more than her face.

“…No.”

There’s no hesitation in the answer. No embarrassment. Just fact. Zora exhales through her nose, something in her posture shifting—less guarded, more… aware. “Right,” she mutters, more to herself than you.

Another wave rocks the boat, harder this time. Your grip tightens again. That decides it.

“Okay,” she says, firmer now. “You’re not staying out here.”

Her hand slides from your arm to your back—steady, guiding without forcing.

“Careful. Step forward. Small step.”

She waits. Lets you move first. Then adjusts with you.

“I’ve got you,” she adds, quieter now, as she starts leading you toward the cockpit.

The shift from open air to the enclosed cockpit is immediate. The sounds change first—wind dulling, footsteps sharper, voices clearer. Everything feels closer. Tighter. Zora’s hand stays steady at your back, guiding but not pushing. “Step up,” she says quietly.

You feel for it with your foot, finding the small ledge before stepping up into the space. Your fingers brush along the doorway as you pass through, grounding yourself. Voices pause. Not completely. But enough.

“…who’s that?” someone asks.

You stiffen slightly at the attention, shoulders drawing in without thinking. Zora doesn’t let go. If anything, her hand presses a little more firmly against your back—subtle, but there. “This,” she says, tone dry but edged with something protective now, “is apparently not one of Duncan’s crew.”

There’s a beat of silence. “What do you mean ‘not one of—’” another voice cuts in, sharper.

“They don’t know where they are,” Zora interrupts, glancing briefly toward the others before looking back at you. “And before you ask—no, they didn’t sneak around us for fun.”

Another pause. Heavier this time. “…seriously?” someone mutters.

You shift your weight slightly, fingers curling into the fabric of your sleeve. “I didn’t mean to be here,” you say quietly. “I thought I was still on the dock.”

That earns a reaction. A soft curse under someone’s breath. Movement—boots against the floor, closer now, then stopping just short of you.

“You boarded without realizing?” the same voice asks. Not unkind. Just trying to understand.

You nod faintly, then hesitate. “I didn’t know it was a boat.”

Silence again. Zora exhales through her nose, slow. “Yeah. That’s what I said.”

There’s a shuffle of movement, quieter this time—less abrupt, more careful. Someone pulls a chair back. Another leans against a surface, arms crossing.

You can feel them looking at you. You don’t know how many. Don’t know where. Zora seems to pick up on that immediately. “Easy,” she says, not to you—to them. “You’re crowding.”

“We’re not—”

“You are.” It’s flat. Final.

The space shifts again. Subtly, but enough that you can breathe a little easier.

Zora’s hand moves from your back to your arm, guiding you a step further inside. “Sit,” she says, gentler now.

You hesitate for half a second before reaching out, hands brushing the edge of a seat. You lower yourself carefully, shoulders still tense.

There’s a quieter voice this time. “Hey… what’s your name?”

You give it after a moment, voice small but steady enough. “Y/N.”

“Alright,” they say. “I’m—” They introduce themself, tone softening as they do. Not pushing. Just… there.

Zora, Duncan, Henry, Martin. A family of names that didn't quiet stick — Delgado's, you think.

Another follows. Then another. Names, one by one. Not overwhelming. Just enough for you to start placing voices.

Zora stays closest. You can tell without seeing—her presence is solid, anchored right beside you.

“You hungry?” someone asks after a second.

Your stomach twists at the question. “I’m okay.”

Zora’s gaze flicks to you immediately. She doesn’t call it out. Not yet. But she notices.

“Right,” the same voice says, a little uncertain.

There’s a beat. Then the boat jolts. Harder than before.

It’s sudden enough that your balance goes instantly, your hand slipping off the edge of the seat as your body pitches sideways, but you don’t hit the floor.

Zora catches you before you can.

One arm braces across your shoulders, the other steadying your side, pulling you back upright in one quick, controlled movement. “I’ve got you,” she says immediately.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Certain. Your hand instinctively grabs onto her sleeve, fingers tightening. Your breathing spikes for a second before you manage to steady it.

“Easy,” she adds, quieter now. “It’s just the waves.”

You nod faintly, even if she can’t see it properly. Your grip doesn’t loosen straight away. Across the room, someone exhales. “Sea’s getting worse.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” another mutters.

Zora doesn’t move away from you. Doesn’t make a big deal out of it either.

Her arm stays where it is for a second longer than necessary, just until your shoulders settle, until your grip eases slightly.

Then—only then—does she shift, but not far. Close enough that if the boat moves again, she can catch you just as quickly.

“Alright,” she says, glancing toward the others. “New rule.”

There’s a pause.

“They don’t go anywhere on this boat alone.”

You blink slightly, head tilting just a fraction in her direction. Someone lets out a quiet breath. “Zora—”

“I’m serious.”

It’s not harsh. But it’s not up for debate either. A beat. “…okay,” someone agrees.

Zora nods once, satisfied, before her attention drops back to you. Her voice softens again, just slightly. “We’ll figure this out,” she says.

Not a promise thrown out lightly. Something steadier than that. And for the first time since the floor started moving beneath your feet, you almost believe it.

________________________________________

The first thing you notice is the sound. Not voices. Not the engine. Something deeper.

A heavy shift in the water—like something massive moving just beneath the surface. The boat tilts slightly, then corrects itself. You still.

“…did you feel that?” someone asks.

Zora’s hand finds your shoulder instantly. Not tight. But there. “Stay here.”

The engine revs louder. Then “Go, go, go—!”

Everything explodes at once.

The boat jerks forward so hard it throws you sideways, your hand scrambling for something to grab. You barely catch the edge of the seat before you’re sliding—

Zora’s there again. One arm around you, steadying you before you can hit the floor. “I’ve got you,” she says quickly, already moving you back.

“What’s happening?” you ask, voice unsteady.

No one answers you directly.

“Spinosaurus—port side!”

“And the Mosasaur’s back—!”

The words don’t mean much to you. The sounds do.

A massive crash against the hull—loud enough to make you flinch, the entire boat shuddering beneath you.

Water slams against the sides. Something huge moves outside, close enough that you can hear it. Too close.

Your hand tightens around Zora’s sleeve. “Zora—”

“I’m here,” she cuts in immediately.

Another violent jolt throws the boat sideways. You feel yourself lifting slightly before dropping again as it slams back down. Someone shouts. Footsteps pound across the deck.

“We need that sample—now!”

Zora hesitates. You feel it. Just for a second.

Then her grip on you shifts—guiding you down, pressing your hand onto something solid. “Stay low. Don’t move.”

“Where are you going?” you ask quickly, panic creeping in.

“I’ll be right back.”

Too quick. Too practiced. Your grip tightens. “Zora—”

“I’ll be right back,” she repeats, softer this time. Then she’s gone.

The space feels colder without her immediately beside you. Everything gets louder. The engine screaming. Water crashing. Voices overlapping.

“Careful—!”

“I’ve got it—just hold it steady—!”

Another slam hits the boat, harder this time. You gasp as the floor tilts sharply, your shoulder hitting the side of something solid.

Outside, there’s a sound—low, enormous, like something breaking through the surface. Then a scream. Cut off. Abrupt.

Silence follows it for half a second too long. Your stomach drops. “What—what was that?”

No one answers.

“Zora!” someone yells instead. “Now—!”

More movement. More chaos.

The boat lurches again, and this time you don’t manage to stay steady—you slide, hands scrambling uselessly against the floor.

Before you can fall properly, arms catch you again. Stronger this time. Faster.

“I’ve got you,” Zora says, breath a little uneven now.

You grab onto her immediately. “Don’t leave—”

“I’m not,” she says, firmer now. Closer. “Not again.”

Another impact rocks the boat, but she doesn’t let go of you this time. One arm stays locked around your shoulders, keeping you anchored against her.

“Did you get it?” someone calls.

“Yeah,” Zora shoots back.

“Then get inside—now!”

The boat surges forward again, faster than before. The engine roars, straining. Behind it—something follows. You can hear it. Massive. Fast. Closing.

Your fingers curl tighter into Zora’s shirt. “It’s still there.”

“I know.”

There’s no panic in her voice. Just focus. Another crash—water spraying hard enough that you feel it against your skin. The boat jolts violently, nearly throwing both of you off balance.

Zora’s grip tightens instantly, pulling you closer against her side. “Stay with me,” she says.

You nod. The sounds start to shift after that. Less impact. More distance.

The engine still roars—but whatever was chasing you… isn’t as close anymore. Gradually, the movement steadies. Not completely. But enough.

Your breathing is still uneven, your grip still tight on her shirt. Zora doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t rush to move.

She just… stays there for a second. Making sure you’re still steady. Still upright. Still there. Then, quieter, “It’s okay,” she says.

Not entirely true. But close enough for now. And this time she doesn’t let go.

People are still yelling. Zora's hand taps your arm as the boat continues to lurch forward, wind whipping. “I need you to trust me, okay?”

“What– what's happening?”

“The boat won't steer or slow down. It's going to crash in a cliff not far from the shore.” She rushes out. “We need to jump off.”

“But–”

Zora cuts you off. “Don't let go of me,” she mutters, guiding you out of the cockpit.

Her hand grabs yours tightly as she counts down from three before a weight is dragging you down, freezing water surrounding you.

The cold hits like a shock.

It steals the air from your lungs before you can even react, your body locking up as the water closes over your head. Everything is noise.

Rushing. Roaring. Pressure pressing in from all sides. You don’t know which way is up—can’t tell if you’re sinking or spinning or—

Your hand tightens instinctively. Fabric. Zora. You cling to it.

Something pulls—hard—and your body follows, dragged through the water as your lungs burn almost instantly. You try to kick, to help, but it’s messy. Uncoordinated.

You can’t breathe. Panic spikes, sharp and immediate. Then, You break the surface.

Air hits your lungs in a harsh, choking gasp, water spilling from your mouth as you cough. Your grip doesn’t loosen. If anything, it tightens.

“I’ve got you,” Zora’s voice cuts through everything. Closer than before. Right there. “Breathe. Just breathe.”

Your chest heaves, breaths coming too fast, uneven. The water still moves around you, waves hitting harder than you expect, knocking into your side. “I can’t—” you choke.

“You can,” she says immediately. Firmer this time. “You are.”

One of her arms shifts—strong around your back now, keeping you above the water without you having to fight for it.

“Hold onto me,” she adds, like you’d let go.

You nod, even though it doesn’t matter. Your fingers twist tighter into her shirt anyway. Around you, there’s shouting again. Distant. Scattered.

“Over here!”

“Swim—!”

The words blur together. None of it matters. Not really. Because Zora’s still there. Her grip doesn’t slip. Doesn’t falter.

A wave hits, harder this time, and your body jerks with it—but she steadies you instantly, pulling you back in.

“Stay with me,” she says again. And you do. Because you don’t have anything else to hold onto.

[a-spes]

[a-spes]

when the urge to write is strong, but the writer block is stronger 😩

[a-spes]

didnt expect to see u on my notifs this morning 🥹🤨

hi there 👋

(i hope it is a good thing?)

[izbiz3737]

Pairing: Zora x teen!reader

Summary: After a traumatic experience in Jurassic World, you're requested to go on a trip to Ile Saint Hubert. Zora finds out you're much younger than the others think you are.

Warnings: brief mention of blood, trauma

Word count: ≈1200

Request by: none

Reading time: ≈5 minutes

Type: Oneshot

a/n - first time writing for Zora! Enjoy and leave feedback 🫶🏻

The sound of a deep roar still rattles your bones as it rolls through the jungle. Once, it would've frozen you in place, but you barely blink at it anymore.

It's just a distant warning noise.

“Its not hunting.” You tell the group quietly. “Its territory.”

Zora glances at you.

She wasn't used to people talking about dinosaurs like that. Like they understood them. Like they knew the creatures.

Like they were calm enough to have heard that sound before.

“You sure?” Duncan Kincaid asks, rifle locked on the treeline.

You hum. “Yeah. Just a rex marking it's area. If it was hunting, we'd already here movement.”

Zora stares at you for a moment again, her aim dropping slightly from the jungle to the floor. “'Just a rex,' they say.”

“You say that like you've met them,” Loomis adds.

You shrug, already moving ahead into the brush. “Something like that, I guess.”

“Kid knows what they're doing,” Duncan mutters to the rest of the group.

“Its not a kid.” Martin Krebs replied as they start following you.

The jungle is dense, leaves hanging at head height for the taller men. Your feet sink into the mud, every few steps revealing a new dinosaur footprint.

Duncan pulls to the side, crouching to check a large footprint in the mud. “Its fresh.”

“Couple hours,” you add quietly.

“You know your stuff, kid,” Zora replies, her hand hovering over your shoulder.

“Again, they're not a kid.” Martin interrupts.

Footsteps get closer, heavy, knowing. The jungle is silent now. It was big.

“Hold,” Zora says. She noticed too. The sudden wrongness in the forest, the low vibrations of the floor under heavy feet.

Your stomach tightens. You open your mouth to reply—

The trees explode. Branches snap with a sound like gunfire as something giant crashes through the foliage.

“Run!” Duncan commands, the group scatters.

You peel left, zigzagging through the trees. Don't run straight, you remind yourself. They're faster straight.

Your feet pound through mud, the spray coating your legs and even your face. Branches tear at your clothes and face, ripping fabric and skin alike.

The T-rex's heavy footsteps slam behind you, the sound bringing back things you thought you'd buried deep, trees crashing around you.

You don't look back. Everything is too familiar. Younger footsteps pounding through woods, trees being torn down around you. Only then, you were supposed to be safe. Here? You knew what you were coming into.

Too familiar. Your chest tightens as memories flash through your mind.

Distant roars that got closer. The screams of visitors. Roars of pain from the dinosaurs unlucky enough to get caught. The vibrations close around you. The sound of sharp, long teeth piercing through the glass ball that you'd been in, hot, rancid breath filling it. The tannoys announcing ferry departure and evacuation.

You shove the thoughts down and keep running. The ground suddenly slopes downward.

Your foot slips. You stumble hard, your body rolling down the dirt and wet leaves before slamming you into a solid rock.

Pain shoots through your leg, sharp and insistent as you scramble upright. Damnit. A warm sensation trickles slowly down your eyebrow.

The large shadow moves out from the trees, stepping into view.

For a moment, all you can hear is slow, warm, heavy breathing against you. It's head lowers, nostrils flaring.

You slide down the wall, crouching. Don't move, don't move, don't move. You tell yourself, despite the way your hands are shaking and your breath is coming heavy and there's a burning in the back of your throat.

Don't run. Predators chase, you remind yourself. But the memory makes your chest feel tight, one beady eye focusing on you.

For the first time since that day at Jurassic World, you feel small again.

Your breath comes harder, tears mixing with the blood down your cheeks. Then—

“Hey!” a woman's voice echoes, shouting. Zora stands up the slope, rifle raised. The rex lifts it's large head, turning it's gaze to her. The rifle cracks.

The rex huffs, a deep rumble vibrating through the ground. For a moment its eye flicks back to you—small, crouched against the rock. Then it turns.

Slowly, heavily, its body shifts toward Zora. She doesn’t run.

She backs away instead, careful, deliberate steps uphill.

“C’mon,” she mutters under her breath. “That’s it.”

The rex follows a few paces, curious more than aggressive now, head swinging as it watches her move through the trees.

Another shot cracks through the air. The sound echoes deeper into the jungle.

The rex snorts, irritated, and finally turns away, crashing through the brush in the opposite direction.

The jungle slowly breathes again. Zora lowers the rifle and waits.

One second. Two.

Then she moves down the slope toward you. “You alright?”

You don’t answer.

Your hands are still shaking where they press against the dirt. Blood runs warm down your eyebrow, mixing with the tears you hadn’t noticed falling.

Zora crouches in front of you, close enough that you can see the tension easing from her shoulders now that the rex is gone.

“Hey.” Her voice is quieter now. “Look at me.”

It takes a second, but your eyes lift.

For a moment she just studies your face—the blood, the panic you’re trying to hide, the way your chest is still rising too fast. “You’ve dealt with these things before,” she says.

Your throat tightens. “Yeah.”

A beat passes. “Where?”

Your gaze drops to the mud. “…Jurassic World.”

Zora’s expression shifts, something understanding settling behind her eyes. “That’ll do it.”

She glances up the slope, listening to the jungle for another second before looking back at you.

Then she holds out a hand. “C’mon.”

You hesitate, but take it. She pulls you to your feet easily, her grip steady when your injured leg wobbles slightly.

“Next time,” she says, brushing some dirt from your sleeve, “you stay behind me.”

It isn’t a suggestion.

Her hand rests briefly on your shoulder before she guides you up the slope. “How old are you really?”

“...Sixteen.”

Her hand settles briefly on the back of your waist, guiding you forward. “Stick close.”

It’s not a suggestion, but for once, you listen.

She supports you as you limp slightly back towards the others. “C'mon. We'll settle at the top of this slope for the night.”

You nod slightly.

Duncan and Zora set up the area and secure a perimeter while Henry Loomis cleans the cut on your eyebrow and takes a look at your ankle. “Mild swelling. Just twisted, at worst.”

Zora's first on lookout. You can't sleep regardless. She sits with you, quiet. “You didn't mention how young you were.”

“Krebs offered a ton of money. Didn't say we'd be coming someplace like this. Said he had a scientist and a shooter, wanted someone with hands-on experience.” you reply, leg elevated slightly on someone's bag.

“Mm. Jurassic World, huh? Musta been scary.”

You hum, resting against her.

Finally, you fall asleep, the sound of her heartbeat in your ear, arm around your back. “I'll look after you, kid. You'll get home safe,” she murmurs.

[a-spes]

[theagifs]

[a-spes]

finally found a mcu roleplay that seemed decent, only to learn the admin is a pedo 💔

so now i am thinking about trying to create mine, because i miss it so much

[imtiredmama]

Craveless

Pairing: Dark!Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader

Summary: You´re in an alternate universe where a woman you've never seen before keeps acting like she knows your whole life... It's getting creepy how accurate she is.

A/n: Did I get any better at writing while away? Nope, I got worse! Enjoy my deprived mind.

Warning: Crazy Wanda, kidnapping, stalker behavior, mind manipulation, slipped a tiny bit of mommy Wanda in there, some sweet family feels too, and a happy ending (damn, who am I?)

Wordcount: 3k

Rays of sunlight stream through the sheer curtains of the farm’s bedroom. The early sun warming the sheets as a streak of light glitters against the old alarm clock, the one you insisted Wanda keep, and directly into her eyes. Blinking sleepily, Wanda pats against the weight on top of her until her fingers find their target.

She hides her pleased grin in the head of hair resting against her chest when she feels you stir as her fingers course through the path she’s memorized by heart.

Your hair lies mused and sleep-ruffled, pieces sticking up every which way. She smooths them over with the palm of her hand while she runs her nose through the halo of your hair, breathing you in. The smell of you settles a weight in her chest that she can’t quite place.

Birds chirp and sing just outside of the ajar window, but Wanda pays them little mind, her ears trained to your breathing as you wake. The telltale whine of wakefulness earns a sympathetic chuckle, as it does every morning. Then comes her favorite part of the day, the moment you truly wake up.

She’s never told you this, but you have a pattern.

Every morning, since… well, Wanda can’t exactly remember, but since forever, you always do the same thing. And as your eyes connect to Wanda with a tilt of your head and a disgustingly loving smile, tethering on a smirk, Wanda is pleased to be correct in her prediction yet another day.  

However, when you open your mouth, the usual sleepy “hi” doesn’t come. Instead, a wave of nausea settles in the pit of Wanda’s stomach as you speak,

“You’ve given up on me, haven’t you?”

Wanda wants to protest, but the words won’t come. Her tongue is leaden, the surroundings change and morph, it’s all wrong.

She needs to dig her claws into you and make you understand that she’ll never let you leave, but her fingers are cracked and misplaced. You´re flickering, your face obscured as you fade away from her. She tries to piece you together again with the strength of her bare hands, but you’re gone before she can blink.

It’s just the ceiling now, but it’s not the warmly lit cream color of the farm. It’s gray and metallic.

There is no weight on her chest.

There never was.

She knows she’s close. She can feel you here, the pull of you dragging her into this alternate.

She just needs to find you.

She won’t ever let you slip away again.

You’ll understand, she’ll make sure of it.

────୨ৎ────

Pallets of water crash onto the concrete outside of the gas station like the strike of a match. Sizzling with its own weight, exploding into smaller drops, and scurrying along the ground until gathering mass. It’s seeped into the seat of your poor bike, leaving the gray fabric to turn three shades darker out there in the gloom.

You had originally put a bag over it when you turned in for your shift a few hours ago, but the wind had it out for you and swept it away just as the heavy rain that had been brewing over the sky all night picked up in intensity. All you can do now is look at it with sorrow through the gas station´s floor-to-ceiling windows, knowing it will take days for it to dry, and you’re bound to walk around with a damp ass for the foreseeable future.

The obnoxiously loud bell system of the sliding doors snaps you out of your stupor as it rings out inside the small shitbox you have the honor of calling your workplace. You´re halfway through your customary greeting before your eyes land on what could only be described as the humanoid version of a drowned rat. It’s a woman in her early twenties with her dark hair soaked through and dripping onto the floor.

Thicker droplets formed a union on her eyebrows, dividing into ribbons and sliding down her cheeks until finally leaping faithfully from the woman’s chin and joining their fellow droplet soldiers in the puddle beneath her expensive-looking boots.

She’s shivering, her lips an odd shade of purple as her head snaps toward you. She doesn’t return your greeting. Instead, she just stands there. It’s almost inhuman how still she is, her eyes the only sign of life as they dart all over you.

If you looked hard enough, you could almost swear you saw a flicker of something, like a red shadow passing over her iris. The squeak of your shoes as you shift from leg to leg does little to diffuse the tension that settles like a thick blanket between the two of you.

There’s a strange rattling sound. It sounds pained, like an animal before its last breath. It takes you a long time before you realize she’s talking, but it’s as if it’s not her voice. Uneasiness travels down your spine as she just keeps staring, mumbling the same phrase repeatedly.

Then it’s not mumbling anymore. Her body straightens, eyes focused square with your own, and pronunciation clear, “I found you, dekta.” As soon as the words have left her mouth, she's gone again, disappearing into the bursts of rain she came from.

Perfect, a crazy lady is just what you needed at the end of your graveyard shift.

Long after she disappears, you stand there staring at the puddle left behind her. It might be the only evidence that she was ever there to begin with if she comes back and decides you’re public enemy number one.

Your job is too shitty to invest in a proper security system. You’re pretty sure the cameras haven’t worked since you started over three years ago. The puddle seeps against the vinyl flooring, spreading out to the drops leading toward the door. There are two distinct muddy shoe prints in the middle of it, the water dark and murky as it swirls close by.

You have no choice but to shake off the sour, acid-like feeling in your stomach as you watch the clock that's hanging half-hazardly on the wall opposite the counter where you stand. It’s only an hour until you’re free, so all you can do is pray she doesn’t come back before your shift ends as you go to get a bucket. Typical, you even have to clean the only evidence that could catch your killer.

God, you hate your life.

You're halfway home when the feeling of unease returns. Luckily, the woman never came back, and you managed to close up by 3 am without much incident. However, there is this sense of dread that you haven’t been able to shake since you unshackled your bike and took off.

It started as a prickle of aggravation. Sliding against the back of your neck like a kiss of breath. The lampposts slide by, the street changes, the world moves on, yet you can still feel it. Something is wrong. You could swear the sidewalk closes in, the lamps shine brighter, the air thicker. The feeling of eyes is heavier now, too, weighing down on the back of your bike as you can’t seem to pedal fast enough in the crappy weather.

You’re so focused on the feeling of being watched that you don’t even realize that the rattling noise that’s been plaguing you for the past ten minutes was your bike chain. In fact, you have no idea about it until it pops off, leaving you to panic as you swerve into the car lane.

Luckily, the street was empty, or at least it was supposed to be.

All you can see is light, strong, and unrelenting. The small semblance of control you still had of your bike is long gone as you brace for impact, leaving yourself and your bike to tumble to the ground.

You hear tires screech to a halt, the rain drumming against your skin where you lie waiting for the inevitable. Yet, it doesn't come. Instead, you hear a car door, followed by the most soothing voice you could imagine.

“Oh my god! Are you okay?!” Even if she is a little loud.

Steps run toward you, almost imitating the sound of the rain as it continues to pitter-patter against your pathetic frame.

You mule it over for a second, she hadn’t even hit you, but between the lack of control from your chain popping off and the startle of the headlights, you ended up like a flat pancake on the wet pavement.

Water seeps through your clothes, leaving them to stick to your bare skin, sending chills down your body as the cold follows shortly after.

Yeah, you really wish the crazy lady had just killed you right about now.

The woman crouches next to you, helping you to your feet and lifting your bike off the ground. It’s not until you’re standing with both feet firmly planted that you have a chance to get a look at her.

The first thing you notice is that she’s beautiful, like beyond this world type of beauty. Then a much more puzzling thought plagues you: there is something eerily familiar about her. The way her eyes crinkle as she smiles politely, how her hands slide against your arms as she attempts to warm you up, even down to her heady perfume. It’s like a trigger, awakening a feeling of longing you haven’t entertained in years.

It’s not until warm hands take a hold of your face that you realize she’s been talking to you, “Are you okay, honey? That was quite the fall, oh god, I didn’t hit you, did I?”

Genuine distress splashes across the woman’s face as she frowns. Her hands continue their frenzy to warm you up as you both stand there, out in the rain. You split your attention between them. One is back to running up and down the length of your arm. The pressure is on the verge of being too rough, but she seems to understand the delicate balance that would comfort you the most. Her other hand stays rooted to your face, fingers dragging back and forth across the apple of your cheek.

Not wanting to leave her hanging with her worry, you find your voice despite how starstruck she’s left you, “No, no, I'm okay. It’s just my bike,” you gesture over to where your bike is now leaning against her very fancy car. You feel a little bad about it. “The chain jumped off.”

The woman’s eyes never leave your face, even as she hums her understanding.

“God, you’re freezing, what are you doing biking around on a night like this?” You get the feeling that the question is rhetorical as she continues to fuss and gently reprimands you. You don’t have the heart to tell her that not everyone has a fancy car to cruise around in. Instead, you gently apologize under your breath, you don’t know for what exactly, but it feels like you're supposed to.

It seems enough to snap her out of her motherly stress, and she releases you with a hint of regret in her eyes that you don’t notice as she redirects her attention to your bike and then back at you. Seemingly making a choice, she nods with a huff before she has your bike in the back of her car faster than you can blink.

A hand reaches out to the back of your soaked shirt as she gently guides you toward the passenger side of her car, “Come on, darling, let me at least drive you home.”

You want to insist that it’s fine and you can walk home from here, most definitely leaving out the part where it will take you at least an hour to walk, lest she smite you with a glare. However, you don’t even get the chance. The door is already closing on your face as you turn toward her.

The hand you have placed against the door handle goes limp when the woman enters the car on the opposite side. You look down in confusion, your fingers feel like cement as they barely twitch with your mind’s wish to move. Panic builds slowly as you look over to the redhead, her beautiful green eyes now speckled with the same red as that woman at the gas station.

You try to talk, but no sound comes.

Wanda leans over you, fastening your seatbelt as you struggle internally.

Her palms glide against your hair and face, cooing at you the way you would a scared kitten, “Don’t be scared, baby, you know mommy would never hurt you. I just have to make you understand, you know that, don’t you, pretty girl?”

You frown, or try to, but a tiredness seeps into you, leaving you to slump against the car seat as she leans back to her own seat.

Slowly, the world fades to black, the last thing you feel are soft lips against your forehead.

────୨ৎ────

After everything that happened with her boys, Wanda never thought she would get another chance at happiness. But when the walls came crumbling down around her, she had a dream.

It was horrifyingly simplistic in nature.

She saw herself feeding a horse, with a simple farm resting on the outskirts of the field. Yet, Wanda had her doubts that it was this that caused the serene feeling of love and peace that resided in her heart in that moment. Then there was a sound. A sound she would know anywhere. She had turned then, ignoring the horse’s huff of annoyance as she took the carrot she had been holding with her.

There you were, two small giggling boys following you as her twins trailed behind you with glee in their steps while you pretended you couldn’t see them. They were younger, but they were most definitely her boys. They could be no older than five, she was sure of it.

And you, she would never forget you in that moment. How the evening sun glistened against you, your hair gently swaying in the breeze, and a smile you were trying to hide shining brighter than anything else. She knew in that moment that you were her happy ending.

And this time, nothing would stop her from getting it.

So, she went out searching.

It took her two years, every universe just seemingly off, until one day she found you.

Wanda had wanted to wait, to make you understand slowly. Make you fall in love with her as she is now. She couldn’t bare it if you had the same reaction that her boys did. But when she saw you through the eyes of one of her pawns…

Her perfect girl.

You looked miserable at that awful job. You hadn’t even seemed all that surprised by the woman who you must have thought was mad. Wanda dreaded to think of what morons you had to deal with on a daily basis. A beautiful girl like you shouldn’t work in the dead of night with all the dangerous people out and lurking.

So, she replanned. And now, with your presence beside her, your innocent mind open to her. She knew she had made the right choice.

She knows you’re in there. You need a little push, that’s all. And so she does, she pushes and prods, laying the maze of your mind out like a map while she searches. It doesn’t matter what it is: a memory, a dream, a glimpse into an alternate universe. Wanda knows you’re in there, her beautiful girl.

You don’t even struggle against her, merely going limp in the passenger seat. She knew you wouldn’t. Her pretty girl is far too smart for such stupidity.

It doesn’t take long until she finds it. She leans over to you then, placing a gentle kiss on your forehead and ensuring your seatbelt is fastened properly before she starts the car and takes off.

────୨ৎ────

Warmth surrounds you as you wake slowly, a steady heartbeat hammering softly beneath your cheek. You burrow closer with a whine, not yet ready to depart from the comforting hold that belongs to the source of sweet, heady vanilla that wraps around your little bubble.

Your suffering is met with a soft chuckle. It floats somewhere above you, a puff of breath colliding with your forehead. Fingers scratch against the nape of your neck as you blink blearily, finally relenting and ready to start the day.

You can feel someone watching you, but it’s comforting in a sense. Less like a predator watching its prey and more like a protector. There is no telling what exactly they're protecting you from, but it’s nice either way.

When your eyes finally flutter open, you´re met with sleepy green eyes. There are small crowfeet wrinkles at full display as the woman above you smiles so sweetly down to where you rest atop her. You can’t help but copy her smile with a tilt of your head, feeling whole in a way you can’t remember ever having felt before.

You whisper your greeting as if it’s second nature, and maybe it is.

“Hi, Wanda.”

[a-spes]

Could you write a Maria Hill fic? Set in a motel room after a rough mission, her and reader have a silent bond that never goes beyond wordless actions...before becoming something more 😏

hii,

i really, really sorry i had not answered your request sooner. i hope you are still around to read this 💛

so, i can write a maria hill fic' without a problem, since i would love to write more about her character!

but, i do not take smut requests.

so either i can write what you sent me without the last part, or you can send me another plot to write, as you prefer <3

[marvelselfinserts]

Could u do an very angsty with happy ending where the avengers are omega verse and thay have soulmates that is choosen before their born(they don’t know who they are until they meet and feel the connection) and not everyone in this world is as reader who is in the avengers is human so she doesn’t understand everything about their world but tries. Reader goes out with with people but only really sex and as reader is nats soulmate overtime nat starts to get more and more sick because they get sick and can die from soulmate rejection and in the end reader and Nat end up together and you can decide the rest.( sorry if this was confusing and can reader be a girl)

Soulmates

Alpha!Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader [A/N] No update yesterday, sorry, I got home from London on Saturday then spent the night with my bestie before going to work yesterday 😅 Back with a new fic today though - hopefully I've understood you lovely anon, thank you for the request 😘 Hope you enjoy! ❤️

 “But how did you know?” Natasha had asked, in that curious tone that only a child can manage.

“You can just tell,” Melina had replied patiently. “It’s hard to explain but you just… Know.”

“What if I don’t have one?”

“Every alpha has a soulmate Natasha, even you. You’ll cross paths with them someday and you’ll just know it’s them. Wait and see.”

It wasn’t until Natasha had met you that she’d understood exactly what Melina was talking about. She’d always assumed it was bullshit, that whole ‘you can just feel it’. There must be an actual way to tell who your soulmate is. But Natasha had realised Melina was telling the truth. There was just this feeling that she’d finally found the person she was supposed to be with. It was instantaneous. For a moment Natasha’s heart had soared, knowing she’d finally found you, her soulmate. Only for it to come crashing down.

You didn’t understand the concept of soulmates. You weren’t from her world. You’d travelled across the multiverse, escaping your dying planet and finding refuge in theirs. Everyone had assumed you had the power to travel the multiverse but you didn’t. You’d been one of the few survivors of your home planet and they’d used the last of their power to transfer you to this universe. Now you were stuck there, taken in by the Avengers whilst they gathered more information.

Learning about your universe had been fascinating but it appeared that your experience of the world was very different to theirs. Alphas, omega, soulmates, none of that existed where you were from. How was Natasha supposed to explain to you that you were her soulmate? And that she couldn’t prove it to you, she was just basing this on an extreme feeling that she had.

Her plan had been to spend time with you and eventually warm you to the idea. Not wanting to overwhelm you, Natasha had gently brought up the concept of soulmates and had been surprised by your reaction. “Soulmates? So no one actually gets to choose who they want to be with? They’re just forced to be with each other?”

Natasha can hear the hint of disdain in your voice and cringes. “Well, no, there’s a choice,” She says. “But… Why would you choose anyone else? When you’ve found your soulmate?”

“Well, what if you don’t like them? Or you’re already dating someone else? Or someone says they’re your soulmate but they’re actually an abusive piece of shit?”

“No one abuses their soulmate.” Natasha remembers a stern matron from the Red Room, who showed no remorse if the girls in her care were injured or even killed during training. How terrifying she had seemed – Natasha had been certain she had no heart until she’d caught a glimpse of her with her own soulmate. The matron’s entire demeanour had softened, like she was a completely different person. It was one of the few things that had got her through the Red Room – the belief that no matter how hard they tried to turn her into a killer, her soulmate would be able to break through all of that and see her.

“It just seems a bit… Archaic. You know?” You roll your eyes and smile. “Do you know who your soulmate is?”

After a moment’s hesitation she smiles and shakes her head “No… No, I don’t know who they are yet.”

Given that had baffled you; Natasha hadn’t gone on to explain the other details of soulmates. Soulmate Rejection was too big to put on your shoulders. You seemed to think the concept of soulmates was in some way controlling. How would you react if Natasha told you that you had to get together or she’d grow so ill that she’d eventually pass away? Natasha could just picture your face. No, she wouldn’t put that on you. You’d have to figure out you were her soulmate on your own.

Easier said than done, of course. Although the illness hadn’t taken hold of her immediately, seeing you go on a date with someone had physically hurt in a way she couldn’t explain. Like a dull ache in her chest. You’ve been in this universe for eight months now; it makes sense that you want to start dating. Seeing you with someone else was one of the most difficult experiences Natasha had ever had to deal with though. It had taken everything in her not to go feral, to snarl, to hold you in her own arms, and insist you were hers. Especially since you were going out with some boring boy of all people.

Natasha is waiting for you when you get back and you sit with her in the living room, everyone else having already gone to bed. “Does everyone have a soulmate?”

Natasha shakes her head, pleased that you haven’t shut down the idea of soulmates completely. “No, not everyone. Every alpha has one, usually an omega but sometimes a beta.”

“Could your soulmate be an alpha?”

“It’s not impossible but very rare,” Natasha watches as you hug your knees to your chest, resisting the urge to reach over and touch you. “How was your date anyway?”

“Nothing special.”

“So you won’t see him again then?” Natasha asks, unable to keep the glimmer of hope out of her voice.

“Oh, no. One date was enough. Especially since… Well, I went back to his place and there was… Nothing up about him if you catch my drift.”

“Oh! You put out on the first date?”

Your firm, irritated look quickly shuts her up and she wishes she hadn’t said anything. “I’m not really looking for anything serious right now so yeah. I ‘put out’.”

“I… I didn’t mean it like that, I’m sorry.”

You take pity on her, “Don’t worry about it. I suppose my attitude must seem strange to someone waiting to meet their literal soulmate.”

Your words are light and teasing but Natasha’s cheeks still turn pink. What she wouldn’t give to hold you properly, to kiss your cheek, to inhale the scent of your shampoo. If only she could tell you. Every day that goes past is making it harder and harder not to just tell you.

“What if an alpha never meets their soulmate?” You ask Natasha. “What happens?”

Natasha’s hope always soars whenever you ask her questions about soulmates. Your curiosity makes her think you could come round to the idea one day. “Soulmates are fated to meet at some point.”

“Really? What if your soulmate lives in Australia though? Or even outer space.”

Natasha avoids your gaze “They’d meet at some point. I don’t know how it works but an alpha is always destined to cross paths with their soulmate at least once.”

“That can’t be possible though, surely? What if your soulmate, I don’t know, died before you got to meet them?”

Natasha thinks about it for a moment, “I actually don’t know. I guess… It must happen. Maybe you get a new soulmate if that happens.”

You smile “Doesn’t that rather defeat the point of a soulmate though?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well to me the concept of a soulmate is that there’s one person in the entire universe who is yours. If they die and you get assigned a new one then what was the point?”

“You’re frying my head with this. Every alpha has a soulmate, assigned to them before birth. I’ve never heard of anyone whose soulmate died before they had chance to meet them. It’s just fate.”

“Is it fate if that person is assigned to them before birth?”

This conversation is stressing Natasha out though she’s not entirely sure why. “I don’t- I don’t know-”

You grin and nudge her foot teasingly before standing up “Just food for thought. Anyway, I’m heading to bed. Night Nat.”

After that you don’t ask her any more questions about soulmates. Both of you still hang out – Natasha’s been helping you pass the time by teaching you some basic Avengers drills and she loves every second that she spends with you. How can you not feel what she feels? It’s obvious to her that you’re perfect for each other yet you don’t seem to realise.

Natasha’s illness begins to set in the following week when you go on a date every night of the week. It soon becomes clear that you’re not interested in actually staying with anybody, you just want sex. Which is fine of course – Natasha still cringes when she remembers the way she’d incredulously asked about you putting out on a first date. It’s only a problem because it’s literally beginning to kill her.

Natasha’s never known anyone to go through Soulmate Rejection before so she didn’t know what to expect. It quickly seeps into her bones, making her feel weak. Just getting out of bed takes more and more effort as each day goes by. At first being near you would make the illness a little better but eventually it stopped working. If you continued to unknowingly reject her, Natasha would surely perish.

“Are you feeling okay?” You ask one morning in the gym. “You’re looking a little pale.”

Truthfully Natasha feels like she’s been hit by a truck. Her head feels like it’s full of cotton wool, every muscle and bone in her body aches, there are bags beneath her eyes. It feels even worse than she could’ve possibly imagined. That physical pain she’d felt when she saw you go on that first date gets even worse with every new date that you go on, even causing her to double over one day.

It’s Yelena who realises what’s going on “You need to tell her.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Natasha mumbles.

“Everyone else is going to figure out you’re going through Soulmate Rejection soon. And how do you think she’ll feel if she realises she’s the reason you’re on the brink of death?”

“It might not kill me. We don’t know that it definitely will.”

“Natasha-”

“Do not tell her Yelena,” Natasha says in the firmest voice she can manage, letting out a weak cough. “I won’t put that on her. It’s not fair.”

“Natasha, please-”

“Just leave it Yelena. Don’t get involved.”

Yelena does her best to respect Natasha’s wishes but it gets even harder when Natasha deteriorates so much that she ends up in the medbay. The medical staff work round the clock but are baffled when they find nothing physically wrong with her. None of them realises it’s Soulmate Rejection – it happens so rarely that it doesn’t even cross their minds. Yelena sits by Natasha’s bedside, dabbing her hot forehead with a damp cloth, trying to keep her as comfortable as possible.

“Y/N’s asking about you,” Yelena says.

“I don’t want her to see me like this.”

“Natasha, you might not have long left. Do you really want to keep your soulmate away from you?”

“Will you keep an eye on her for me? Just make sure she’s okay. All those dates she goes on, I worry about her…”

“You’re such a martyr,” Yelena says irritably, but she can’t help taking her older sister’s hand in hers. “Please let me tell her. She deserves to know.”

“I always thought my soulmate would just know they were mine,” Natasha says. “That they would feel the same connection that I felt. Do you really think she can’t feel it?”

“Maybe she can,” Yelena says. “But she knows you’re waiting for your soulmate. Why would she say anything? Why would she date you if she thought she was going to get hurt when your ‘soulmate’ came along later down the line?”

Natasha says nothing. Yelena asks again if she can tell you and she still says no. It makes Yelena want to scream but she doesn’t dare go against her sister’s wishes.

In the middle of the night Natasha realises that she doesn’t have long left. That the Soulmate Rejection has taken its toll and she’s grown too weak to hold on anymore. Natasha tries to find some peace – she’s told Yelena everything that she wanted to. Asked her to keep an eye on you. If only Natasha could’ve kissed you, just once. Every night she’s imagined your lips against hers and it makes her heart ache even more with longing.

Even if Natasha hadn’t felt that physical pull to you she would’ve known you were her soulmate. It wasn’t just your looks – you were beautiful, everyone thought so, not just Natasha. That wasn’t just what Natasha loved about you though. You were curious, finding everything about their universe fascinating. You felt the loss of your home planet deeply, never taking for granted the sacrifice that they’d made for you. Natasha could see in training how determined you were. Many nights Natasha had stayed up long after she felt exhausted just so she could talk to you. There was nothing about you that Natasha didn’t love. You were perfect.

Natasha closes her eyes, almost looking forward to dying just so the pain will finally go away. Not seeing you has definitely made her worse. A part of Natasha knows she’s being stubborn. There may have been some truth to what Yelena said. You had spoken to her often about soulmates, maybe you thought Natasha was waiting for hers, not realising it was you. But if you didn’t feel anything for her and you got with her just so Natasha would survive… Well, Natasha would rather die. Death would be better than living with a soulmate who felt trapped.

Just as Natasha begins to think she’s slipping away she feels a hand in hers, anchoring her to this world. She groans softly, “Let me go.”

“But I still have questions.”

Her eyes open as she hears your voice. You’re sat next to her bed, your hand in hers. Is it really you or a cruel trick of Natasha’s imagination? Either way, Natasha decides she will do her best to hang on. If you’re here, she wants to be here too, “Questions?”

“How do you know when you’ve found your soulmate?”

Natasha smiles weakly at you “That’s easy. You just know.”

“But how?”

“You can just feel it. It’s hard to explain. It’s unlike anything you’ll ever experience.”

“So you do know what it’s like to meet your soulmate? You’ve met yours?”

Natasha sighs and nods “Yes. I met mine.”

“What happened?”

“She didn’t realise she was my soulmate.”

You squeeze her hand “Yeah? You didn’t wanna tell her?”

“How could I? She didn’t believe in soulmates.”

Neither of you says anything for a long moment. Natasha’s breathing is laboured; it has been for the past couple of days. Every breath feels like a huge effort. Natasha can’t even lift her head from the pillow anymore, she’s too weak. Eventually you meet her gaze “I’ve been doing my own research about this whole… Soulmate thing. It’s such an insane concept to me. Soulmates was a term used in my reality but we didn’t know if it was real or not. You all seem so convinced it’s true though. Well, you’re not convinced, you know it’s true.”

Natasha doesn’t reply, happy to just listen to the sound of your voice. You squeeze her hand again “I read about what happens if your soulmate rejects you. You never told me about that.”

“It’s rare.”

“But not impossible. For an alpha to be rejected by their soulmate, whether knowingly or unintentionally. And then the alpha gets sick. Is that correct?”

“I suppose so. I’ve never known it to happen to anybody.”

“Nat…”

“I kept thinking about what you said. About how nobody gets to choose. And I would want my soulmate to choose their partner. I wouldn’t want them to feel like they were stuck with me.”

“It’s not a fair choice if they don’t have all the information to make an informed choice.”

“Y/N-”

Your voice cracks, “Please. Is it me, Nat?”

“Y/N, I… I can’t…”

“Because all those late night talks, the way your fingers would brush against mine, the electricity, the spark… I felt drawn to you almost immediately. Only to find out there were soulmates and you were still waiting for yours. And I just figured, how could it be me? How could it have been decided before you were born that it would be me? I’m not even from this planet, let alone this universe… How could anyone have possibly predicted that?”

“I don’t know,” Natasha says quietly. “Fate is just weird sometimes I guess.”

“Well who am I to argue with fate?”

Natasha’s breath falters completely when you lean down and kiss her. Finally, after all these months, you’re finally kissing her. Just like that feeling when she’d first laid eyes on you, it’s nothing like she could’ve ever imagined. Better than anything she’d ever predicted. Your lips feel so sweet against hers. She wishes she had the energy to reach out and wrap her arms around you.

When you pull away, you lean your forehead against hers “You should’ve told me.”

“I didn’t want to burden you.”

“Being with you isn’t a burden Nat. Not to me.”

Natasha can already feel herself getting stronger. Like the fairytale ‘Sleeping Beauty’, your kiss seems to have revived her. Not instantly, she still feels wretched but she has a little bit of strength now – seems you’re the only remedy she needs. “Stay with me?”

“I’m not going anywhere. Not until you’re back on your feet.” You press a kiss to her knuckles. “I’m yours.”

Natasha closes her eyes again, reassured that you’re not going anywhere. If you hadn’t chosen to visit her tonight, it would’ve been too late. Natasha knows that. She knows that she was slipping away, that it was going to be her final night. But you’d chosen tonight. Almost as if it were fate. Now Natasha will live. And with her soulmate by her side, it will be worth it.