House of Broken Hearts- Last Chapter
Paring: Wanda Maximoff and Reader
Warnings: Fluff (finally)
a/n: the last chapter is finally here. hope you enjoy it!
The mornings in the cabin are quiet. Gentle. Golden light spills in through gauzy curtains, brushing your face as you blink awake. For the first time in what feels like forever, there’s no panic in your chest when you open your eyes. There’s no scream trapped in your throat. Only warmth—and Wanda.
She’s curled into you, breath soft against your collarbone, one leg tangled over yours like she’s anchoring herself to you even in sleep. You wonder if she knows how much that grounds you. How every morning with her is like coming up for air after being underwater too long.
You don’t sleep on the floor anymore.
You didn’t realize how significant it was until it wasn’t. You still wake up sometimes in a cold sweat, your body tight with memories you can’t control. But now, you have Wanda’s voice calling you back. Her hands, gently coaxing yours to loosen. Her love, constant, patient, never fading.
This cabin—this life—it was a gift. Tony bought the land and surprised you with the paperwork, insisting it was the least he could do. At first, you didn’t want it. You didn’t think you deserved something that good. But he wouldn’t take no for an answer, and Wanda just smiled at you like she already saw your future blooming here.
You didn’t want to believe her. But then she started making it a home.
The walls were painted in warm colors. Soft rugs and shelves lined with books and candles filled the rooms. Wanda filled the space with comfort and magic—her magic. And you? You built her a greenhouse. Every seed planted was a promise: that you were staying. That you were healing. That this was yours. Together.
She cried the first time you brought her inside and showed her the tomatoes, the rosemary, the rows of basil you carefully tended just because she liked the way it made her pasta taste.
“You did all of this for me?” she asked, wiping a tear off her cheek.
And you told her, “Everything I do now is for you.”
She kissed you like it was the only answer she needed.
And she’s the one who gently encouraged you to try therapy.
You were terrified. You didn’t want to open those doors. Didn’t want to name the things you buried. But she held your hand and said, “You don’t have to do it for anyone else. Just do it for you. You deserve to heal.”
So you did. And it’s helped.
You’re not the person Hydra tried to break. You’re becoming someone new—stronger, softer. Someone who lets themself be held. Someone who wakes up next to the woman they love, every morning, in a house that feels like a forever.
And now it’s your birthday.
The house is buzzing with laughter and warmth. Tony and Steve are already bickering in the kitchen about who’s better at poker. Sam is spinning little Nathaniel around in the backyard while Clint tries to keep a cake from falling over. Natasha is leaning against the counter, smirking as she sips wine and throws you a wink when she sees how happy you are.
She made all your favorite dishes, insisting on doing it herself. She refuses to let you lift a finger. And you let her, mostly because she looks beautiful when she’s focused, her sleeves rolled up and her hair in a bun, humming to herself.
You’re holding a drink in your hand, but you’re not drinking it. You’re too busy looking at her.
She catches you staring and smiles. “What?”
You shrug, cheeks warm. “Nothing. Just… how did I get this lucky?”
She walks over and kisses your cheek. “You survived. That’s how.”
You’re just about to tell her how much she means to you when the sound hits. A deep, thunderous whump shakes the ground.
A S.H.I.E.L.D. helicarrier descends from the clouds, hovering low enough to send ripples through the pond behind your house. Everyone goes still. The warmth of the afternoon fades as fear claws at your spine. You stand frozen in the doorway, heart hammering, staring at the monstrous machine settling on your peaceful porch like a nightmare come to life.
But Wanda steps behind you, one hand on your back, grounding you.
“It’s okay,” she whispers. “I’m here. No matter what.”
You nod, but your throat is tight.
You meet Fury halfway across the lawn. He’s standing tall, coat whipping in the breeze, expression unreadable as always.
You stop a few feet away, spine straight, heart thundering.
“What are you doing here?” you ask.
He reaches into his coat and pulls out a file. “I owe you this.”
You take it slowly. The paper feels too heavy in your hands. You open it—and your breath catches.
You look up at him, lips parted, unable to speak.
“Take it as a birthday present,” he says gruffly.
He turns to leave, but pauses on the ramp. “One more thing.”
You blink, heart slamming in your chest as she steps out of the helicarrier, wind blowing through her hair. She looks real. She is real. She’s smiling.
And your feet move before your brain catches up.
You slam into her arms, both of you laughing and crying, and the words spill out, breathless:
“Fury cleared my name too,” she says, eyes shining. “I’m free.”
You look back at Fury, stunned. “Thank you.”
He nods once, then disappears into the carrier. You turn back to Sharon and take her hand, pulling her toward the house.
Inside, everyone is already cheering.
She’s wrapped in hugs and warmth and laughter. Clint hands her a plate. Tony salutes her with a drink. Natasha pulls her into a rare embrace.
And then she turns to Wanda.
“I’m glad you made it,” Wanda says softly.
They hug. And something clicks.
You watch them for a moment, your brow furrowed.
“…Wait,” you say, stepping between them. “You knew?”
Wanda just smiles. And Sharon leans in with a grin. “She’s the reason I’m here.”
You don’t know what to say.
Hard. Fierce. Full of everything.
And when you pull back, forehead pressed to hers, you whisper:
“I know,” she breathes. “I love you too.”
And then the night goes on—with laughter, with music, with dancing. You sit beside Wanda, fingers laced, her head on your shoulder as the stars come out. There’s a bonfire crackling, stories being told, and you just keep thinking:
This is what it means to live again.
The porch glows golden in the warm afternoon light, the air tinged with the soft scent of lemon balm and sun-warmed wood. You’re nestled between Natasha and Sharon on the old rocking bench, all of you barefoot, lounging in mismatched chairs, nursing mugs of coffee—or what started as coffee and may or may not have had something “extra” slipped into it by Natasha when no one was looking.
Sharon raises an eyebrow at you over the rim of her cup. “Okay, so tell me again—how many times has Clint caught you two making out in his kitchen?”
You scoff, laughing, cheeks instantly burning. “That was one time.”
“Two,” Natasha corrects, grinning into her drink. “And one was definitely on the counter. I remember because Laura nearly dropped a plate.”
You groan, dropping your head back against the chair. “You two are the worst.”
“We’re the best,” Sharon counters, nudging your leg with hers. “Admit it. Who else gets to remind you how disgustingly in love you are every day?”
You grin despite yourself, eyes rolling. “Okay, but to be fair, I’ve earned it. I’ve been through hell. I deserve some disgustingly in love moments.”
“That you do,” Natasha murmurs, a touch more serious. She bumps her shoulder lightly into yours. “You really do.”
You’re all quiet for a moment, and it’s not uncomfortable. It’s the kind of silence that only comes with people who’ve seen you at your worst and never left. Then Sharon says, “I’ve missed this. The three of us. It feels like—like we got something back.”
“We did,” you say softly. “We really did.”
Sharon glances sideways, playful again. “Still doesn’t mean you’re off the hook. I want the full update. How’s life as a woodland wife?”
You snort. “Peaceful. Domestic. Wanda’s taken over the entire house. I barely got to choose the doormat.”
Natasha laughs. “Sounds about right. Let me guess—flowers on every surface?”
“Candles too. And color-coded blankets. I don’t even know how you color-code blankets.”
Sharon grins. “She’s nesting. She’s marking her territory.”
“She doesn’t need to,” you say, and it’s meant to be sarcastic, light. But then you hear it.
Wanda’s laugh. Light and full and carefree. Floating through the screen door with the sound of Clint’s kids yelling something about marshmallows. You don’t even mean to react to it—but your chest tightens, and your throat goes soft. Your smile falters as you look toward the house, watching her with Laura near the fireplace, gently brushing hair from Lila’s face like she’s been doing it forever.
You blink once, then again.
Then, barely a whisper: “I want to marry her.”
Natasha and Sharon both still. The teasing dies instantly—not because they’re shocked, not exactly. But because they hear the shift in your voice. The way it comes from somewhere deep inside, like it’s been sitting there for a long time, just waiting for you to notice.
Natasha turns first, eyes softening. “You serious?”
You nod slowly, watching Wanda press a kiss to Nathaniel’s head as she lifts him into her lap. “I didn’t know until just now. I mean, I’ve felt it. But… hearing her laugh like that. Seeing her with the kids. I just—God, I want that. I want her. I want to build everything with her.”
Sharon’s lips part, her eyes watering. She sets her cup down gently and leans in, nudging your knee with hers again. “You’re gonna make me cry, and I’m not even drunk yet.”
You laugh through your own tears. “I’m not fixed. I’m still scared half the time. But for the first time, it doesn’t feel like I need to be perfect. I just want to start the rest of my life with her.”
Natasha reaches out, squeezing your hand. “Then you should. You both deserve that happiness. And if you need someone to help plan a lowkey, top-secret proposal, you know where to find us.”
“You’ll help me pick a ring, right?” you ask, glancing between them.
Sharon smirks. “Only if you let me make an obnoxious toast at the wedding.”
From inside, Wanda’s voice lifts again—something gentle and sing-song, telling Cooper not to jump on the couch. And you think, that’s my future right there. Chaos and comfort and soft hands cleaning fingerprints off glass and kissing away every bad dream.
And she has no idea what’s coming.
And it’s going to be everything.
The next few days pass in a blur of quiet plotting.
You try to act normal—which, in hindsight, might’ve been your first mistake. Because if there’s one thing Wanda Maximoff is painfully good at, it’s sensing when something’s off.
It starts the day after the porch confession. You sneak off with Sharon and Natasha under the pretense of “getting supplies” from town—your first lie in months, and it burns a little as you tell it. Wanda just blinks at you with a smile, handing you a list of things she needs for dinner, and says, “Drive safe.”
The second you’re in the car, Sharon throws her legs up on the dash and grins. “Okay, so tell us—do you want classic elegance or dramatic sapphic meltdown?”
“I mean,” Natasha muses, eyes flicking to you in the rearview mirror, “those are basically the same thing.”
You groan. “Can we please just focus on the ring? I’m already losing my mind.”
Sharon looks over her shoulder at you, playful and soft. “You’re nervous.”
“Of course I’m nervous!” you hiss. “This is Wanda. This is Wanda. What if it’s too soon? What if I do it wrong? What if—”
“What if she cries because she’s so happy, says yes in .02 seconds, and kisses you until you forget how to breathe?” Natasha cuts in flatly.
She shrugs. “Just being realistic.”
You spend hours at the tiny jewelry shop tucked into the corner of town. Natasha quietly negotiates a discount behind your back. Sharon talks you out of three rings (“Too big.” “Too flashy.” “That looks like something Tony would wear to a gala.”) until you find the one. A delicate gold band with two tiny garnets on either side of a perfectly cut emerald—deep green like Wanda’s eyes when she’s calm, glowing, full of love.
You hold it like it might break.
And then you say, “She’s gonna be my wife,” and your voice cracks.
Back at the cabin, Wanda narrows her eyes.
“I know you’re hiding something,” she says one night while brushing her teeth, pointing her toothbrush at you like a weapon.
You look up from your seat on the edge of the tub and blink. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
She squints. “You’re being weird.”
She leans forward, foam in the corner of her mouth. “Suspiciously weird.”
You laugh, and it’s just enough to distract her—just enough to kiss her shoulder and dodge the questions. But her eyes linger on you when you slip into bed, curious and soft and a little too knowing.
The days pass like golden hours strung together by thread. Wanda’s decorating the house with the kind of obsessive precision that makes you grin. Every curtain, every throw pillow, every framed photo—it’s home because of her. And every time she looks at you like you hung the stars, your chest aches with the sheer weight of how much you love her.
One morning, you find her dancing barefoot in the kitchen with Nathaniel in her arms, the sunlight painting them both in gold. She’s singing softly under her breath, twirling him like he’s the most important thing in the world.
You freeze in the doorway.
You already bought the ring. It’s hidden in the bookshelf behind a copy of The Velveteen Rabbit. You haven’t picked the exact moment yet.
But watching her like this—this might be it.
Then she looks over and catches you staring, and you see it—that slight tilt of her head, the knowing smile.
“You’re up early,” she says gently, still rocking.
She walks over, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Me either.”
Your arms wrap around both her and Nathaniel without thinking, pulling them close. The boy giggles, Wanda smiles into your neck, and suddenly the moment is too perfect to interrupt.
Meanwhile, Natasha and Sharon are living for the drama.
They whisper behind closed doors, try not to smirk when Wanda walks in, and somehow rope Steve into keeping you “busy” while they set up the backyard just in case you go for a surprise proposal under the stars.
Tony sends you a text that just says:
“If you’re proposing, do it right. Fireworks. Champagne. I expect tears.”
You send him back a middle finger emoji and a heart.
One night, Wanda stands at the sink washing dishes while you dry beside her. The house smells like lemon and basil. You brush your shoulder against hers.
“You’re quiet tonight,” she says.
You glance at her. “Just thinking.”
You look at her profile—how the porch light softens her freckles, how her lips press together when she’s trying not to smile. You shake your head gently and whisper, “About forever.”
She turns her head, eyes shining like she knows.
You dry the last plate. You kiss her temple.
And in your heart, the words are already forming.
You’ve never been good at planning things. Not in the way Wanda is—organized lists, hand-drawn room sketches, color-coded grocery runs. But this? This had to be yours. Not perfect. Just honest.
The farm is quiet when the sun begins to set, the kind of quiet that comes after long days and full hearts. You hear the faint sound of Clint’s tractor rumbling down the path in the distance, a lullaby of rural life. There’s a breeze in the air, warm and clean, stirring the wheat fields and brushing through the leaves of the apple tree by the fence.
You’ve chosen the small clearing near the back pasture—close enough to the house, but far enough that it feels like your own little world. You spent the whole afternoon setting it up. A picnic blanket. Pillows. A basket filled with all Wanda’s favorites—homemade bread, fresh berries, soft cheese, honeycomb from the neighbor’s hive. Her favorite wine, chilled just right. A candle in the middle flickering against the coming dusk. You even snuck some flowers from Laura’s garden—clumsy in your hands, but perfect in their simplicity.
Wanda’s been gone most of the day, running errands with Laura in town. You told her you were staying back to fix up the greenhouse. A half-truth. The greenhouse could wait.
Now you sit on the edge of the blanket, fidgeting with the ring box in your palm. Small. Velvet. It’s been in your pocket for weeks. You were waiting for the right time, and somehow, tonight whispered now.
Then, you hear her voice.
“Hey,” Wanda calls softly from behind, stepping through the gate in her soft sundress, sandals in her hand, her hair down and wild from the breeze. Her eyes land on the picnic, the lanterns, the table set for two. She stops in her tracks.
You swallow, suddenly shy. “Surprise?”
Her laugh is stunned, breathy. “You made me dinner?”
“I made you a picnic,” you correct, standing up to greet her. “Which is, in my opinion, far more romantic.”
She walks closer, eyes flicking across every detail—the candlelight, the wine, the blanket, the pillows, the field behind you catching the last light of golden hour.
“You’re full of surprises lately,” she murmurs as she takes your hand.
You press a kiss to her knuckles. “I just wanted tonight to be about us. No team. No missions. No ghosts.”
Her smile falters, just for a moment, and she nods.
The two of you sit. Share food. Laugh over the way you slightly burned the bread. You talk about nothing and everything—the garden, the stubborn rooster Clint gave you, the way Nathaniel keeps sneaking cookies from the pantry. And it feels… whole. Real. Like something you never thought you’d get to have.
At some point, Wanda leans back, propping herself on her elbows, eyes tracing the stars above.
“Do you ever think about how lucky we are?” she whispers.
You turn to her, heart catching in your throat. “All the time.”
She looks at you then. Her expression softens, vulnerable and open. “I used to dream about a life like this. Waking up next to you. Cooking together. Laughing about grocery lists. I thought… maybe I’d never get it. Not after everything.”
You reach for her hand. “I used to think I didn’t deserve it.”
Wanda shifts closer, her forehead gently pressing to yours. “But here we are.”
You kiss her then. Soft. Certain. Just enough to make her sigh into your mouth like she’s been waiting for it all night.
And when you pull back, your heart starts to race.
You slip your hand into your pocket.
“I have something to ask you,” you whisper.
Wanda’s smile is immediate. Playful. “Oh?”
You nod, opening your palm to reveal the small velvet box.
And just like that—she freezes.
Her eyes widen. Her breath hitches.
You kneel on the blanket, the stars above like a thousand silent witnesses, and your breath trembles as you take the small velvet box out of your pocket. Wanda’s laughter fades into stillness. She freezes, her hand half-raised to her mouth, her eyes wide with a kind of awe that makes your heart ache.
You don’t open the box right away. You just hold it in your palm and look up at her, swallowing the lump rising in your throat.
“I didn’t know I was going to make it out.”
Your voice is rough, honest, broken open.
“There were nights in that cell where I was sure I was going to die. And I was… okay with it, almost. Because I didn’t think I deserved to live. Not after everything I’d done. Not after what they turned me into.”
Wanda’s eyes are already glassy, her hands trembling where they rest in her lap.
“But then,” you say, your voice cracking, “I would think of you. And I’d remember your laugh. I’d remember the way you smelled after a shower, or how your nose scrunches when you concentrate. I’d remember how you held me like I wasn’t broken, even before I really believed it.”
You open the box. The ring is simple. A quiet kind of beautiful—just like her.
“I didn’t survive because I was strong,” you whisper. “I survived because I wanted to come home to you. Because some part of me believed—needed to believe—that you’d still be there. And you were.”
She covers her mouth again, her shoulders shaking.
“I know I don’t say all this often,” you continue. “Sometimes it’s hard for me to get the words out. I get caught in my own head. I shut down. I disappear. But please know… everything I do—every breath I take now—is because you stayed. Because you waited. Because you loved me, even when I was impossible to love.”
A tear falls from your cheek, unashamed.
“I want you to know how grateful I am. For every second you didn’t give up. For every time you held me through the nightmares. For every look that told me I was still worth something.”
You reach for her hand and gently slide the ring onto her finger. Your hands shake. Hers are warm and damp with tears.
“I love you, Wanda Maximoff. More than I’ll ever be able to explain. And I want to spend my life trying.”
Your voice drops, soft and sure.
She launches herself into your arms, sobbing into your shoulder, her whole body shaking with the force of it.
You hold her like she’s the very air you breathe.
Then you feel her nod against your neck, again and again, her voice muffled and cracked.
You laugh through your own tears, wrapping her tighter in your arms. When you finally pull back, you see her looking at the ring like it’s been forged from stardust, like it holds the whole universe in a single, fragile promise.
You wipe a tear from her cheek and kiss her. Deep and slow. The kind of kiss that says we made it.
And as the night settles around you, soft and sacred, Wanda lies back on the blanket and pulls you down beside her.
You lie beside her under the stars, her fingers tracing lazy shapes over your stomach, your ring sparkling with every flicker of moonlight. The night feels suspended in time—like nothing outside this blanket and her heartbeat exists. Her breath is steady now, calm, and every now and then she glances at her hand like she still doesn’t believe it’s real.
You watch her in silence for a while, memorizing the softness in her expression, the way her eyes crinkle when she smiles.
Wanda shifts closer, head tucked beneath your chin, lips brushing your collarbone.
“This is what you’ve been up to?” she murmurs, half-laughing, her voice rich with affection. “Sneaking around. Planning romantic ambushes. I should’ve known.”
You smirk, brushing your fingers through her hair. “I’ll do anything to get you to say yes to me.”
She laughs again, soft and genuine, that sound that used to feel like a dream when you were deep in the dark. “You didn’t need a picnic. I would’ve said yes if you’d asked me with a blade of grass.”
You hum. “I didn’t want ‘yes’ with a blade of grass. I wanted this. Just us. Away from everything. You deserve magic, Wanda.”
“You are magic,” she whispers, looking up at you, tears in her eyes again—but these ones are soft, overflowing, not with pain but with wonder.
You lie like that for a while—no more words, just your fingers tracing the back of her hand, the crickets chirping somewhere in the distance, and her breath against your skin.
At one point, she reaches for a strawberry from the basket, pops it into your mouth and laughs when juice runs down your chin.
You pretend to be offended. “Rude. I’m supposed to be the seductive one here.”
Wanda grins. “Babe, you cried during your proposal.”
You roll over and pin her gently, grinning. “And you loved every second.”
She pulls you down into another kiss that tastes like strawberries and laughter and promises kept. Her hand finds the ring again as if to remind herself it’s really there, that you’re really hers.
Eventually, the blanket gets a little cold and the wind brushes soft over your shoulders. You sit up, brushing the crumbs off your hands, and Wanda leans her head against your shoulder.
“Do you think…” she begins quietly, “you’ll ever want to have kids? With me?”
You glance sideways, surprised by the question—but not scared. Not anymore.
You think of how she is with Clint’s kids. The warmth in her eyes. The quiet patience. The way she makes the world safer just by holding your hand.
You nod slowly. “Honey, I would love to have mini versions of you running around our house.”
She smiles so brightly it steals the breath from your lungs.
“But until then,” you say, tilting your head to kiss her forehead, “it’s just us. And this. And our greenhouse.”
She laughs. “And the chickens.”
“Don’t forget the chickens.”
You both laugh so hard you nearly knock over the wine glasses, and Wanda catches them with a flick of red. You both pause, then collapse into each other again.
It feels like life has finally begun. Not the life you ran from. Not the one built out of ashes and scars. But the one you chose.
And tonight, under the stars and the glow of forever, you allow yourself to believe:
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