Just A Bean

Reading/Writing fics and trying to escape to the multiverse! She/her 🏳️‍🌈

[lovehungrybean]

Masterlist

Wanda x reader

Safe and Sound

Summary: yn returns home to the twins and Her wife Wanda from a mission injured and Wanda gets frustrated with her recklessness.Includes fluff and angst.

Not yet; not ever

Summary: Yn and pregnant Wanda FaceTime whilst Yn is stuck on a mission.

You make me feel beautiful

Summary: Wanda feels insecure about her post pregnancy body, yn makes her feel more confident.

[ilovemarvel97]

PILLOWTALK

My Life With You Series

Elizabeth Olsen x G!P Singer Reader

Summary: Y/N release a new song that goes viral immediately.

Word Count: 9,398

Request: Yes

Warning: Fluff, Little Smut, (18+), Reader has a P.

Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist

---

---

The internet didn’t explode right away.

It cracked first.

Like a glass under pressure—silent, subtle fractures spreading before anyone realized it was about to shatter.

Y/N’s name had already been trending that morning. That wasn’t unusual anymore. Ever since her debut, everything she touched turned into noise—charts, headlines, speculation. But this… this was different.

Because at midnight, without warning, she dropped a new single.

“Pillowtalk.”

No teaser.

No countdown.

No explanation.

Just a black cover, her name, and the track.

---

Lizzie’s POV

Elizabeth woke up to the sound of her phone vibrating relentlessly against the nightstand. She groaned, burying her face deeper into the pillow—Y/N’s pillow, she noted absently, still faintly smelling like her—before blindly reaching for the phone.

“...what,” she mumbled, eyes barely open.

Notifications flooded her screen.

Mary-Kate: DID YOU HEAR IT??

Ashley: Lizzie. Call me. Now.

Trent: Uh… so is this about you or—

Unknown Number: “Pillowtalk?? Girl???”

Lizzie frowned.

“…what did she do now…”

She tapped one of the links. A music app opened, and the song started.

---

Climb on board…

We’ll go slow and high tempo…

Lizzie froze.

Her eyes snapped open.

“…oh no.”

---

Y/N’s POV

Across the city, Y/N was very much awake—pacing, phone in hand. Regret? No. Nerves? Definitely. She stared at the ceiling of her apartment, jaw tight as notifications rolled in faster than she could process. Streams skyrocketing. Fans losing their minds. Speculation threads already forming.

And then—

Lizzie ❤️ calling…

Y/N stopped pacing immediately. “…shit.” She answered.

“Hey—”

“Did you write a sex song about me?”

Straight to it.

Y/N blinked. “…good morning to you too?”

“Y/N.”

There it was—that tone. The one that made her both want to laugh and immediately behave. She exhaled, running a hand through her hair. “Okay, first of all—”

“—it’s very detailed,” Lizzie cut in.

“I—”

“Second of all, my entire family just woke me up.”

Y/N winced. “…okay, that part I’m sorry about.”

“Y/N.”

“…yes?”

A pause. Then, softer—dangerously softer: “…is it about me?”

Y/N leaned back against the wall, staring at nothing. There it was. The real question. Not teasing. Not playful. Something vulnerable underneath it. And suddenly, all the confidence she had at midnight? Gone.

“…you tell me,” she said quietly.

Lizzie huffed on the other end. “Don’t do that.”

“I’m serious,” Y/N replied, a small smile tugging at her lips despite herself. “You’ve been in my life long enough. You know how I write.”

Lizzie didn’t answer right away—because she did know. Y/N didn’t just write songs. She documented feelings. Moments. People. And this song—the intimacy, the tension, the want threaded through every line—

Her cheeks flushed. She pressed her lips together, pacing once before dragging a hand through her hair. “…you’re unbelievable,” Lizzie muttered, but there was no real bite to it now—just warmth, familiarity… recognition.

On the other end, Y/N smiled softly. Not nervous this time. Just… fond.

“You know,” Y/N said, voice quieter, steadier, “it’s about this girl I’ve been dating for over six months.”

Lizzie rolled her eyes immediately, even as her heart picked up. “Oh really? Tell me more,” she said dryly.

Y/N huffed a quiet laugh. “She’s kind of a menace. Steals my clothes. Judges my cooking. Wakes up grumpy if I’m not there—”

“I do not—”

“—and I’ve been in love with her for a while now.”

That stopped her.

Not because it was new—it wasn’t. Y/N had said it before, softly, late at night, half-asleep, pressed into her skin like a secret meant only for her. But this—hearing it now, wrapped inside a song the whole world was dissecting… it hit differently.

“…you’re really leaning into this, huh,” Lizzie murmured, quieter now.

Y/N smiled. “I mean, it’s not exactly breaking news.”

Lizzie let out a small breath, shoulders relaxing despite herself. “No,” she admitted. “…it’s not.”

A pause settled between them—comfortable, lived-in. Then Lizzie spoke again, quieter now. “…come over tonight.”

Y/N didn’t hesitate. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

There was a soft shift on the other end, like Y/N had straightened, like something in her had warmed at the invitation. “I’ll be there.”

Lizzie nodded to herself, even though she knew Y/N couldn’t see it. “…good.”

A beat. Then, softer—almost shy, but not quite: “And for the record…”

Y/N hummed. “Yeah?”

Lizzie’s lips curved, her heart steady now. “I really like the song.”

Y/N’s smile grew, slow and certain. “Good,” she said. “Because I wrote it thinking about you.”

Lizzie shook her head, huffing under her breath—but she was smiling. Of course she was. Because this wasn’t the beginning. It wasn’t some sudden confession. It was just them—six months in, already in love, and now, apparently… with a hit song to prove it.

---

Lizzie’s POV

The apartment felt quieter after the call ended. Not empty—never empty—but… full in a different way, like the air itself had shifted. I stared at my phone for a few seconds longer than necessary, Y/N’s contact still open, her last words lingering in my ears. Because I wrote it thinking about you.

God.

I dropped the phone onto the bed beside me and fell back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling. “…she’s insane,” I whispered, but my lips were already curving. Because this wasn’t new.

That was the thing. Anyone else listening to Pillowtalk would think it was some bold confession, some reckless, romantic reveal—but they didn’t hear her the way I did.

They didn’t know how she sounded at 2 a.m., voice low and soft, tangled up in me as she murmured I love you like it was the easiest thing in the world. They didn’t know how she looked at me when she thought I wasn’t paying attention.

They didn’t know the way she felt.

I did.

And somehow… that made the song feel even more intimate—not because it was the first time, but because it wasn’t. Because it was ours—just… louder now.

I turned my head, glancing at the nightstand—at her hoodie half hanging off the edge, at the faint imprint of where she’d slept last time she stayed over. My chest tightened, soft and warm. “…six months,” I murmured. It hadn’t felt like six months. It felt like something that had just… settled into place, like she had always been there and I just hadn’t noticed until suddenly I couldn’t imagine anything without her in it.

And now the entire world was trying to piece her together through a three-minute song.

I huffed, sitting up again and reaching for my phone. Big mistake. Notifications exploded across the screen the second it lit up, but curiosity got the better of me anyway. I tapped into Y/N’s page—and immediately, chaos. Comments flooding in faster than I could even read them.

“WHO IS THIS ABOUT???”

“SHE’S IN LOVE I CAN HEAR IT 😭”

“I VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE—PICK ME Y/N”

“WHOEVER SHE’S DATING IS LIVING MY DREAM”

“GIRL WHAT DID YOU DO TO HER???”

I snorted despite myself, scrolling—thread after thread, fans dissecting every lyric like it was a crime scene. Some were sweet, some unhinged, most were… thirsty. 

My eyes paused on one: 

“I wish I was the one she’s singing about.” Another: “The way she sings?? I’d fold instantly.”

I shook my head, lips pressing together to hide the smile creeping in. “…you have no idea,” I murmured.

But then—another comment.

“Have you SEEN her Calvin Klein shoot?? Whoever she’s with is GOD’S FAVORITE.”

I froze. Oh. That. That week.

I groaned, dropping my head back dramatically. “…don’t remind me.” I could still picture it perfectly—those photos, the way she looked at the camera, the comments that followed, the absolute feral energy her fans had unleashed. 

I had been so annoyed—not at her, never at her—but at… everything else. At the fact that everyone got to look. At the fact that people talked about her like she wasn’t—

Mine.

I rolled onto my side, staring at my phone again. And yet… now? Now I was just smiling. Softly. Because the comments kept coming—

“WHO IS SHE AND HOW DID SHE PULL Y/N???”

“SHE MUST BE INSANE LEVELS OF LUCKY.”

“I’D NEVER SHUT UP IF Y/N WROTE THIS ABOUT ME.”

My chest warmed, a quiet, almost smug kind of warmth. “…yeah,” I whispered. Because they didn’t know. They didn’t know what it felt like to have Y/N’s hands on you, steady and sure. To hear her voice drop just for you. To be the one she *looked at* when the world wasn’t watching. They didn’t know how soft she could be—how gentle, how *hers* she was when it was just the two of us.

I locked my phone, bringing it down to rest against my chest. A small smile stayed on my lips. Because for all the noise—for all the speculation, for all the people wishing, hoping, imagining—

Y/N was mine.

Only mine.

And tonight?

I’d have her right here again. Not through a song, not through a screen—just…

Mine.

My phone buzzed again against my chest.

I groaned. “Please don’t be—”

Ashley.

Of course.

I unlocked it slowly this time, bracing myself.

Ashley:

So… we’re all just going to ignore the fact your girlfriend dropped the horniest love song of the year?

I snorted. Before I could even type back—another notification.

Mary-Kate:

Be serious for one second. Is this the same girl you’ve been secretly smiling at your phone about for six months?

“…I hate both of you,” I muttered under my breath, already typing.

Lizzie:

You’re both dramatic.

Three dots appeared instantly. Then—

Ashley:

That’s not a no.

Mary-Kate:

That’s VERY much not a no.

I pressed my lips together, fighting the smile that was trying to give me away—even though they couldn’t see me.

Lizzie:

You already know I’m dating her.

Ashley:

Dating is one thing.

Being the muse of THAT song is another.

I rolled my eyes, flopping back against the pillows again. God, they were relentless.

Mary-Kate:

Okay, jokes aside—

That made me pause.

Because Mary-Kate only said that when she actually meant something.

Another message came through.

Mary-Kate:

We need to meet her.

My fingers stilled over the screen.

Ashley:

Yeah. Before this whole thing goes public and suddenly she’s everywhere with you.

A small knot formed in my chest—not bad, just… real. Because they weren’t wrong. This—whatever this was turning into—It wasn’t going to stay quiet forever.

I sat up again, pulling my knees in slightly as I read the next message.

Mary-Kate:

If she’s important to you, Lizzie… we want to know her.

Ashley:

Also I need to see if she’s actually worthy of inspiring THAT song.

I huffed out a laugh at that, shaking my head.

“…you two are unbelievable.”

But my heart had softened. Because underneath the teasing—they cared about me. About who I was letting into my life.

And Y/N…

My gaze drifted briefly to the hoodie still draped over the chair. To the quiet presence of her that lingered everywhere.

“…she is,” I murmured.

More to myself than anything.

Then I looked back at my phone and typed.

Lizzie:

You’ll meet her.

A pause. Then I added—

Lizzie:

Soon.

The replies came instantly.

Ashley:

Oh my god it’s serious serious.

Mary-Kate:

Of course it is Ash! They’ve been dating for six months!

I laughed, shaking my head as I locked my phone again.

“Idiots,” I said fondly.

But the word soon lingered in my mind. Because tonight—

Tonight wasn’t about family. Or the public, or any of that. It was just us.

But after that?

After the song…

After everything it stirred up—things were changing.

And maybe—Just maybe—I was ready for them to.

---

At Night

Lizzie’s POV

By the time I got home, my head was full.

Meetings always did that—too many voices, too many opinions, too many versions of my future being laid out in neat little bullet points like it was something that could actually be controlled.

My PA had gone over scripts, scheduling conflicts, press timelines… the usual. I said yes to some things. Maybe to others. No to a few I already knew I didn’t want. But through all of it—there was this quiet pull in the back of my mind.

7 p.m.

I slipped my shoes off by the door, exhaling as the silence of my apartment wrapped around me again.

Finally.

Just me.

Well…

Me—and her, in all the little ways she seemed to exist here even when she wasn’t.

My phone buzzed in my hand. Right on cue.

Y/N ❤️:

Still alive? Or did your meetings kill you?

I smiled instantly, dropping my bag onto the chair.

Lizzie:

Barely. I think I signed my soul away to at least two projects.

The reply came fast.

Y/N ❤️:

Damn. Should I be jealous?

I scoffed, walking toward the kitchen.

Lizzie:

You wish.

Three dots.

Y/N ❤️:

I mean… I am the one getting you tonight, so I think I’m winning.

My cheeks warmed.

God.

I leaned against the counter, biting back a smile.

Lizzie:

Don’t get cocky.

Y/N ❤️:

Too late.

Another message followed right after.

Y/N ❤️:

I’ll be there around 7. Still at the studio right now.

I glanced at the time. Just past five. Two hours.

My chest did that annoying little thing again—tightening, but in a way that felt more like anticipation than anything else.

Lizzie:

Okay.

I hesitated. Then—

Lizzie:

Drive safe.

A pause. Longer this time.

Then—

Y/N ❤️:

I can’t wait to see you.

And with that I smiling stupidly. I stared at that for a second longer than necessary before locking my phone.

“…okay,” I murmured to myself.

Two hours. I pushed off the counter, looking around my apartment again.

Still clean.

Still… very obviously lived-in by two people, if anyone looked close enough.

I walked into the bedroom, opening my closet without really thinking about it.

My hand hovered over a few options.

Something casual?

Something comfortable?

Something that would absolutely get a reaction out of her?

I huffed a quiet laugh.

“…why am I like this?”

Because it mattered. Because she mattered.

I pulled out one of her shirts instead. Of course I did. Slipping it on, I caught my reflection in the mirror—hair a little messy from the day, her shirt falling just right on me.

My lips curved slightly.

“…yeah. That’ll do.”

I left the room, glancing at the clock again.

6:12 p.m.

Still time.

I tried to distract myself—turned on the TV, flipped through channels, didn’t actually watch anything. Checked my phone. Put it down. Picked it up again.

Scrolled. Locked it.

“…this is ridiculous,” I muttered.

But my leg wouldn’t stop bouncing. Because no matter how many times she’d been here—no matter how normal this should’ve felt by now—it didn’t. Not completely. There was always that little spark. That anticipation. That pull.

And tonight…

After the song.

After everything it stirred up—

It felt just a little more intense.

6:47 p.m.

I stood up.

Paced once.

Twice.

Then stopped in front of the door, like somehow that would make time move faster.

“…relax,” I told myself.

As if that was going to happen.

6:55.

The handle moved. I blinked.

“…wait—”

The door unlocked before I could even react, and then it opened—

And there she was.

Like she had just appeared.

Y/N stood there, slightly breathless, hair a little messy like she’d run a hand through it too many times, jacket still on—

And the second her eyes landed on me—

She smiled.

Wide.

Immediate.

Like it had been longer than three days. Like those three days had actually mattered.

My chest tightened.

“Hi—”

I didn’t even get to finish.

She stepped in, closing the door behind her without looking, already moving toward me—and then her arms were around me, pulling me in like she’d been waiting all day for this.

Like she needed it.

The height difference made it effortless. I barely had time to react before I was pressed against her, her warmth wrapping around me—her face burying into the side of my neck.

“Hey,” she murmured, voice soft, a little rough.

I exhaled, my hands coming up instantly, gripping onto her like I had something to prove.

“Hi,” I whispered back.

God. Three days. It wasn’t long. It shouldn’t have felt like this.

But it did.

She held me tighter, like she was making up for lost time. “Gosh, I missed you,” she mumbled against my skin.

And this time—I didn’t tease her.

“…I missed you too,” I admitted, quieter.

She stilled for half a second at that, like she felt it—really felt it—before pulling back just enough to look at me. Her eyes softened, something warm and a little undone flickering there. “Yeah?” she asked gently.

I nodded, not trusting myself to say it again without sounding… too much. But she already knew. She always did.

And then—she kissed me.

Not rushed. Not playful. Slow. Like she was grounding herself, like she was reminding herself I was actually here. My hand slid up to her jaw, holding her there as I leaned into it, letting it linger just a little longer than usual.

When we finally pulled back, my forehead rested briefly against hers. “…you’re early,” I murmured softly.

Y/N smiled faintly. “Couldn’t stay away.”

That did something to my chest. Of course it did.

Her gaze dropped slightly—and she paused. “…is that my shirt?” she asked.

I glanced down, then back up at her, completely unapologetic. “Maybe.”

Her smile returned, softer this time. “…looks better on you.”

I rolled my eyes, but I didn’t move—didn’t step away. Because after three days, this—this was exactly where I wanted to be.

Her smile lingered for a second longer before she finally shifted, like she’d just remembered something. “Oh—” Y/N pulled back slightly, one arm still loosely around my waist as she lifted the other.

A takeout bag.

I blinked. “…you brought food?”

She raised a brow, a hint of amusement slipping into her expression. “You just noticed?”

I glanced down at it, then back up at her, a little sheepish. “I was… distracted.”

Y/N huffed a soft laugh. “Yeah, I could tell.” She gently nudged the bag toward me. “Figured you wouldn’t have eaten properly,” she added, tone casual—but there was that underlying care she didn’t even try to hide anymore.

My chest warmed. “…I had a meeting,” I defended weakly.

“Exactly,” she said, like that proved her point.

I rolled my eyes, but took the bag from her anyway, peeking inside. The smell hit immediately. “…oh my god.”

Y/N watched my reaction, clearly pleased with herself. “Yeah?”

I looked up at her, genuinely impressed. “You got my favorite.”

“I know.”

Of course she did.

I shook my head, smiling as I walked toward the kitchen, setting the bag down on the counter. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” she cut in easily, shrugging off her jacket.

I turned back just in time to see her toss it over the chair, already making herself at home like she always did—like this place was just as much hers as it was mine. And honestly? It kind of was.

“You eat yet?” I asked, opening the containers.

Y/N shook her head, leaning casually against the counter across from me. “Not really.”

I paused, glancing up at her. “Then we’re sharing.”

She smirked. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

I grabbed two sets of chopsticks, handing one to her as I nudged the food between us. We stayed by the counter at first, eating straight from the containers like we always did when neither of us felt like being proper—comfortable, easy, familiar.

But it didn’t take long before the silence shifted—subtle, but noticeable. Because there was something sitting between us. Unsaid.

I glanced at her, catching the way she was focused on her food a little too much. “…so,” I started casually, leaning my hip against the counter. “The song.”

Y/N’s chopsticks paused mid-air for a second. Then she resumed eating like nothing happened. “Mm,” she hummed. “What about it?”

I narrowed my eyes slightly. “You really just dropped that,” I said. “No warning. No heads-up. Nothing.”

She glanced up at me, already reading the tone behind it. “I wanted it to be a surprise,” she said simply.

I blinked. “…a surprise?”

A small smile tugged at her lips. “Yeah.”

“For who?” I asked, half incredulous.

“For everyone,” she replied—then her eyes softened slightly when they met mine. “For you, too.”

That… did something to me. But still—

“You couldn’t have, I don’t know, mentioned it?” I pressed, though there wasn’t real anger behind it. “Like, ‘hey Lizzie, I’m about to release a very—very—specific song’?”

Y/N huffed a quiet laugh, scratching the back of her neck. “Okay, yeah… maybe I should’ve.”

I raised a brow. “Maybe?”

She exhaled, her expression shifting—more serious now. “I didn’t think it would hit like this,” she admitted. “The reactions. The speculation… all of it.” Her gaze flickered over my face, searching. “And I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” she added quietly. “So if it did, I—”

“Hey.”

I didn’t even let her finish. My chopsticks clattered softly onto the counter as I stepped forward, closing the small distance between us.

She looked up, slightly caught off guard.

I didn’t say anything else—just moved.

One second I was standing in front of her—the next, I was settling onto her lap, turning slightly so I was facing her properly.

Her hands instinctively came to my waist, steadying me.

“Liz—”

“I liked it,” I said immediately.

She blinked.

“…what?”

“I liked the song,” I repeated, softer this time, my hands resting lightly on her shoulders. “A lot.”

Something in her expression shifted—like tension she hadn’t even realized she was holding started to ease.

“You did?” she asked, almost careful.

I nodded, a small smile pulling at my lips.

“Yeah.”

Her thumbs brushed absently against my sides, grounding, but there was still a hint of uncertainty in her eyes.

“…it didn’t freak you out?” she asked.

I shook my head.

“No.”

A pause. Then, quieter—“It’s not the first time you’ve said those things to me,” I added. “It’s just… the first time the world heard it too.”

Y/N watched me for a second, really watched me.

“…and you’re okay with that?” she asked.

I held her gaze.

There was still that carefulness in her eyes—like she was bracing for something, like she didn’t want to push too far.

God.

She really didn’t get it sometimes.

My hands slid up slightly on her shoulders, grounding myself before I spoke.

“I love you too,” I said softly.

The words landed between us—familiar, but still heavy in the best way. Her breath caught just a little.

And I didn’t look away.

“I’ve loved you,” I continued, quieter but steadier now. “This doesn’t change that.”

Her eyes searched mine, like she was making sure—really making sure.

So I gave her more.

“And I don’t care if the world knows about us,” I added.

That did it.

I felt the shift in her hands immediately—tightening just slightly at my waist, like something in her had finally settled.

“Lizzie…” she murmured.

“I mean it,” I said, brushing my thumb lightly along her shoulder. “Yeah, it’s a lot. And yeah, people are going to talk and speculate and be… insane.”

That pulled the faintest smile from her.

“But they already are,” I added softly. “And none of that changes what this is.”

I leaned in just a little closer.

“What we are.”

Her gaze dropped briefly to my lips, then back up again. Something warm. Something certain.

“…you sure?” she asked, almost like she needed to hear it one more time.

I smiled.

“Yeah.”

A small pause.

Then, a little teasing—because I couldn’t help it:

“Besides,” I murmured, “if you’re going to write songs like that about me…”

Her lips twitched.

“…kind of hard to stay a secret.”

She let out a quiet breath, somewhere between a laugh and something more emotional.

“Fair point,” she said.

But then her expression softened again, deeper this time.

More real.

Her hand came up, brushing lightly against my cheek.

“…I meant what I said too,” she murmured.

“I know.”

And I did.

Because I could feel it—

In the way she held me.

In the way she looked at me.

In everything she didn’t even have to say anymore.

Her forehead rested briefly against mine.

“…you’re really okay with this?” she asked one last time.

I didn’t hesitate.

“I’m okay with you.”

That was the answer. That had always been the answer. And whatever came with it—the world, the noise, the attention—

None of it mattered as much as this.

As her.

Y/N smiled then. Not the confident, teasing smile the world knew. Something softer. Something only I got to see.

“…come here,” she murmured.

I was already there.

Her lips were already on mine before I could say anything else.

This time, it wasn’t slow. It wasn’t careful.

It deepened almost immediately—like something that had been building all day, all week, all three days apart finally snapping into place.

I inhaled sharply against her, my hands sliding up into her hair as hers tightened at my waist, pulling me closer—closer—until there was barely any space left between us.

“Y/N…” I breathed, but it came out softer than I intended.

She answered by tilting her head, kissing me deeper, more certain—like she didn’t want to stop now that she had me again.

And I didn’t want her to.

God, I didn’t.

My fingers curled slightly in her hair, holding her there as I leaned into it, completely giving in to the warmth, the familiarity, the pull of her.

Her hands shifted—one pressing firmer against my lower back, grounding me, keeping me right where she wanted me.

And somewhere in the middle of it, I start to grind down on her lap.

It wasn’t intentional. Not really. Just instinct. Just the way my body reacted to hers—

The way I shifted on her lap, closer, seeking more without even thinking about it.

A soft, breathless sound slipped out of me before I could stop it.  The sound was barely more than a ghost, but in the quiet of the kitchen, it felt deafening.

Y/N let out a low, rough groan against my mouth, and I felt it everywhere—vibrating through my chest, settling deep in my stomach. It was raw, unfiltered want. The kind of sound that never belonged in public, never belonged to the polished version of us the world saw.

Hearing it now, after everything today, made something in my blood spark.

I didn’t pull away. I leaned into it.

My hands tightened in her hair, and I started to move—slow, deliberate. A gentle roll of my hips, pressing myself down into the heat of her lap, testing, teasing.

Y/N hands, steady on my waist just seconds ago, suddenly gripped harder. Fingers digging into the fabric of the shirt—her shirt—that I was wearing.

“Lizzie,” she rasped.

Her voice cracked just slightly as she pulled back an inch, her forehead still resting against mine. Her breathing was uneven, her eyes dark and completely locked onto me.

I didn’t stop.

If anything, I slowed down, making every movement count. Every shift of my hips more intentional, more precise.

And then I felt it.

That firm, growing pressure beneath me—impossible to miss, impossible to misunderstand. The heat of her, even through the denim, sending a sharp, electric feeling straight through me.

My lips curved before I could stop them.

Not soft. Not shy.

A smirk.

Because I knew exactly what I was doing to her.

“Oh…” I whispered, letting it trail into a quiet hum as I shifted again, deliberately chasing that friction. “Is that for me?”

Her eyes fluttered shut, her jaw tightening like she was trying to hold herself together—and failing.

Another groan slipped out of her, deeper this time.

“You know it is,” she managed, her hands sliding from my waist down to my hips, guiding me—or maybe just holding on. “God, Lizzie… you’re going to be the death of me.”

I let out a quiet, breathy chuckle, the sound brushing right against her lips.

Leaning in, I nipped lightly at her jaw before murmuring into her ear, “Good. Because after that song… I think you owe me.”

I pressed down once more—slow, firm—feeling the way her breath hitched, the way her whole body reacted under me.

The rest of the world could keep talking, guessing, analyzing. Right here, in this dim kitchen—there was only one thing that mattered.

And I was sitting right on top of it.

The heat in the kitchen had become too much—too consuming, too intense to stay contained against the counter. I barely remember how we moved, only that I didn’t let her go for more than a second before we ended up in the living room, collapsing together onto the couch.

The change of space didn’t cool anything down. It made it worse.

The kiss deepened instantly—hungrier, more desperate—like the three days apart had left something aching under my skin that only she could fix. My hands moved over her without thinking, tracing the lines of her body through her clothes, relearning, needing more.

Too much fabric.

I grabbed the hem of her shirt and pulled it up, the motion urgent, wordless. She understood immediately, breaking the kiss just long enough to lift her arms so I could drag it over her head and toss it somewhere behind me.

The second her skin was bare, she was back on me—her mouth crashing into mine with a force that made my head spin.

Then it was my turn.

Her hands found the bottom of the oversized shirt I was wearing—her shirt—and tugged it up and off. The moment it cleared my head, our skin met, and—

God.

It was like fire.

I let out a shaky breath as I settled back into her lap, straddling her, my chest rising and falling against hers. Without the layers between us, everything felt sharper. Every movement, every shift of my hips—

I felt her.

Firm. Heavy. Pressing through the denim of her jeans. Familiar.

My lips curved slightly despite how unsteady my breathing had become.

“You’re so desperate for me tonight,” I murmured against her mouth, the smirk slipping back into place even as my voice came out softer than I intended.

Her hands slid down to the small of my back, pulling me closer—flush against her.

“Can you blame me?” she breathed. “I spent twelve hours in a booth singing about exactly this. Having the real thing is… a lot better.”

Then she moved.

Her hips tilted up, pressing against me in a way that made my head fall back, a sharp gasp tearing out of my throat before I could stop it. The directness of it—the way she reacted to me so openly, so unapologetically—it sent a rush straight through me.

My hands moved on instinct, fumbling slightly in my haste as I reached for the button of her jeans. I popped it open, dragging the zipper down, the sound loud in the otherwise quiet room.

She exhaled—long, shaky—as she was released from the constraint of the denim, the tension eased.

And I felt it. Her cock, already slick and aching, sprang free, pulsing against my stomach. My eyes dropped, my breath catching as I took her in, my hand moving almost automatically, wrapping around her—warm. Soft. Alive under my touch.

I tightened my grip, drawing a slow, deliberate stroke that pulled a broken sound from her.

“Lizzie…” she warned, her head dropping on my shoulder, her voice strained.

“I’ve got you,” I murmured, my voice dropping—lower, steadier, something possessive threading through it without effort. I shifted slightly, moving in a way that teased both of us, letting the contact build just enough to make her react again.

“I’ve got you,” I repeated softly, closer this time, my lips brushing near her ear. “And I’m not going anywhere.” The “soon” I’d promised earlier—everything waiting outside this moment—felt impossibly far away. Right now, none of that existed. No public. No expectations. No noise. Just her beneath me—and the undeniable, electric reality of us.

The air felt thick—heavy with the scent of us, with everything that had been building since that song dropped at midnight.

I didn’t slow my hand.

I kept that same steady rhythm—firm, knowing—and I felt the exact moment her composure started to crack. She leaned into me, her hips lifting instinctively into my touch, like she couldn’t help it anymore. Our kiss turned messy—desperate, teeth catching, breath mixing—until she pulled away, like she needed air just as much as she needed more of me.

Then her face was in my neck.

Her breath hit hot and uneven against my skin, and I shivered as she started moving—slowly, deliberately—her lips dragging along my jaw, then down my throat. Every small bite, every soft press of her tongue after, pulled sharp, shaky breaths out of me before I could stop them.

“Don’t stop,” she murmured against my skin.

I felt it more than I heard it.

“God, Lizzie… don’t stop.”

I wasn’t going to. My grip tightened, my thumb sweeping over the crown of Y/N’s cock, catching the beads of moisture gathering there. I watched her—really watched her—the way her eyes rolled back, the tension in her arms as she braced herself against the couch.

It did something to me.Seeing her like that. Undone. Because of me.

But she wasn’t the only one losing control.

Her hands moved over me, sliding up my sides, fingers spreading over my ribs like she was feeling everything—my breath, my heartbeat. Then higher, thumbs brushing just beneath my breasts before her mouth followed.

I gasped softly, my head tipping back as she moved lower, her kisses turning slower, heavier, more deliberate along my collarbone. My fingers tightened in her hair, holding her there without even thinking.

And when Y/N reached my chest—She didn’t hesitate. The moment her mouth closed around my nipple, her tongue moving in a way that sent a sharp, direct pulse straight through me—I gasped, my hips jerking forward on instinct.

The movement pressed me harder against the base of Y/N’s pulsing length, the friction sudden and overwhelming, and for a second it was almost too much.

But I didn’t stop. If anything, I sped up. My hand moved faster, more urgent now, feeling the way she was swelling, the way everything in her was starting to give.

I could feel it—the way she was winding up again, every small break in her control finally collapsing into something much sharper, much heavier. And I held onto it. Pushing her right to the edge.

The room felt smaller, like everything had narrowed down to just us—the sound of our breathing, heavy and uneven, and the soft brush of skin against skin.

I barely had time to think before her hands moved to the clasp of my bra. Even with the slight tremor in her fingers, she was sure, steady. A quick flick—and it gave way, the lace loosening and falling from me. Y/N pulled back just enough to reach for the clasp of my bra, her fingers sure and steady despite the slight tremor of adrenaline. With a deft flick, she released it, letting the lace fall away.

A sharp, cut-off gasp slipped from my lips.

Y/N’s mouth was on me immediately—warm, firm, claiming—while her hand cupped the other one. The sensation hit all at once, overwhelming and grounding at the same time, like the only thing keeping me tethered while everything else blurred.

My hand never stopped. Still wrapped around her, still moving—firm, slick—feeling every pulse, every shift in her as she reacted. My other hand stayed tangled in her hair, holding her there, silently urging her not to stop.

“God, you’re so good to me,” she groaned against my skin. I felt it more than I heard it, the vibration running straight through me. She pulled back just enough to look at me, her eyes dark—heavy with something deeper than just want.

“Lizzie, you’re perfect. Everything about you.”

The smirk I’d been holding onto slipped away. All I could do was look at her, breathless, my chest rising and falling as I felt the way she harder and harder beneath me—the tension building in her thighs, her breathing turning sharp, uneven. Her cock starting to throb in my hand.

“Lizzie… I’m close,” she rasped, her voice breaking. “I’m so close.”

I didn’t answer. I just tightened my grip. My hand moved faster, more focused, every movement deliberate as I pushed her closer. My thumb brushed the crown focusing there, and her head fell back to my shoulder, a deep, raw sound tearing from her.

Then suddenly—

She surged forward, pulling me into a kiss that stole whatever breath I had left.

And I felt it. Her whole body tensed, a sharp shudder running through her as a hot, heavy release coated my fingers as she came in my hand—hot, overwhelming, the force of it making her go weak against me. She collapsed into me, arms wrapping tight, almost desperate, her face pressed into my shoulder as she rode it out.

I held her there, my own breathing uneven, my heart pounding against hers. For a moment, neither of us moved. Just that—our hearts racing, bodies pressed together.

Then she shifted.

Before I could react, her arms hooked under my thighs and she flipped us in one smooth motion. A breathless laugh escaped me as I landed back against the couch, her body now above mine.

Y/N reached for her bra, tossing it aside like it didn’t matter anymore, her hands already moving to the waistband of my jeans. I looked up at her—and the look in her eyes made my breath catch again.

Bright. Focused. Dangerous in a way I knew meant I was in trouble.

“My turn,” she whispered, her smile slow, certain.

My breath hitched as I felt her tug at my jeans, my heart already racing for what came next.

---

Next Morning

The next morning came softly—warm, quiet.

And then—

Ding dong.

I groaned, my face still buried somewhere warm and familiar. “…no,” I mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

Ding dong.

I shifted slightly—and that’s when I realized.

I wasn’t in bed.

I was… on the couch.

More specifically—on Y/N.

My eyes blinked open slowly, adjusting to the soft morning light spilling through the windows. Y/N was still asleep beneath me, completely still except for the steady rise and fall of her chest. One arm was wrapped securely around my back, the other resting loosely at my side, like even in her sleep she hadn’t wanted to let me go.

And we were—

Oh.

Right.

Naked.

I huffed a quiet, sleepy laugh, my lips curving as I took her in. “…you’re going to have the worst back pain,” I murmured softly. Because somehow, at some point, we’d ended up here—half tangled, half collapsed—falling asleep in the middle of everything. There was a blanket thrown over us, barely covering anything, like one of us had tried… and then given up halfway.

I didn’t remember when. Or how. I must’ve passed out.

But still—she’d held onto me. Even like this.

My fingers lifted, brushing gently through her hair, slow and careful. God. She looked peaceful. Soft in a way the world never got to see.

Ding dong.

I groaned again, dropping my forehead lightly against her shoulder. “…whoever that is, I hate them.”

The bell rang again. Persistent. Annoying. Very much not going away.

I sighed, reluctantly pushing myself up—careful not to wake her as I slipped out of her arms. She shifted slightly at the loss, brow furrowing just a little, but didn’t wake. “Sorry,” I whispered, pressing a quick kiss to her shoulder.

Then I stood.

And immediately paused.

“…oh my god.”

The living room was a mess. Clothes everywhere—on the floor, on the couch, half hanging off the table. And—

I pressed my lips together, trying, and failing, not to smile. Used condoms. Two on the floor, one definitely on the coffee table, wrappers scattered around like we hadn’t even tried to be discreet.

“…wow,” I muttered under my breath.

I shook my head, heat creeping up my neck despite everything. “…okay.”

Grabbing a robe quickly, I slipped it on and tied it tight before making my way to the door, running a hand through my hair in a half-hearted attempt to look presentable.

Ding dong.

“I’m coming!” I called, still a little hoarse. I reached for the handle, pulling the door open—and froze.

“…oh my god.”

There she was. Mary-Kate. Standing on my doorstep like she hadn’t just flown across the country on a mission, looking way too pleased with herself.

Her eyes flicked over me instantly—taking in the robe, the messy hair, the very obvious context. Her lips curved. “Well,” she said casually. “Good morning.” She leaned slightly to peek past me into the apartment. “…I came to meet your girlfriend,” she added, far too calm.

I just stared at her.

“…you said soon,” she continued, completely unapologetic. “I interpreted that as immediately.”

I blinked once. Twice. Then glanced back over my shoulder—at the very naked, very asleep singer currently on my couch, and the very incriminating state of my living room—then back at her.

“…you have got to be kidding me.”

Mary-Kate’s smile only grew. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

I immediately stepped out just enough to block the doorway. “No,” I said quickly. “No, it’s not. You can’t just—show up like this—”

“Lizzie,” Mary-Kate cut in, already trying to peek around me again, “you’re wearing a robe at”—she checked her phone—“eight in the morning.” She tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing just enough to take in the details. “…and your hair looks like that.”

I deadpanned. “Thank you.”

Her smirk turned sharper. “So she’s here.”

I crossed my arms. “That is not the point.”

“That is exactly the point.”

She leaned a little closer, lowering her voice just enough to make it worse. “…I can smell it.”

I froze. “…you can—what?”

Mary-Kate waved a hand vaguely. “Not literally. Just—” she gestured toward me, then past me—“the vibe.”

I stared at her. “…you’re insane.”

“Move,” she said simply.

“No.”

“Lizzie.”

“No.”

A beat.

Then Mary-Kate spoke again, calm as ever—“Is she naked?”

I choked. “Okay—nope—conversation over.”

Her eyes lit up. “Oh my god, she is.”

I pressed my lips together, trying very hard not to laugh and scream at the same time. “You are not coming in here right now,” I said, lowering my voice. “She’s asleep.”

That made her pause. A small shift. Because despite everything—she wasn’t completely heartless.

“…I flew all the way here,” Mary-Kate said, softer this time—but still stubborn.

“And you’ll survive waiting five minutes,” I shot back.

She studied me for a second. Then, unexpectedly—she smiled. Small. Knowing.

“…you really like her,” she said.

I didn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”

No deflection. No teasing. Just—yeah.

Her expression softened, just for a second. “…okay,” she said, holding her hands up slightly. “I’ll behave.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You don’t know how to behave.”

“That’s fair,” she admitted.

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. “…give me a minute.”

She nodded—reluctantly.

I stepped back inside, closing the door just enough to leave them outside, then leaned against it for half a second. “…oh my god,” I whispered to myself.

Then I pushed off and turned—and immediately softened. Because there she was. Still on the couch. Still asleep. Barely shifted from where I left her, except now one arm was stretched out where I had been, like she’d reached for me even in her sleep.

My chest tightened.

“…hey,” I murmured quietly, walking back over. I crouched beside Y/N, brushing my fingers gently through her hair again.

She stirred this time—brows furrowing slightly before her eyes blinked open, slow and heavy with sleep. “…Lizzie?” she mumbled, voice rough.

“Hi.”

She squinted up at me, clearly still half asleep. “…what time is it?”

“Too early,” I said.

That earned a faint, sleepy huff from her. Then her gaze focused a little more. “…why are you dressed?”

I smiled despite myself. “Because—”

I didn’t get to finish.

Her hand caught my wrist, tugging me forward before I could react. A soft yelp left me as I lost my balance, landing right back on top of her, the blanket shifting around us. “Y/N—” I started, but it came out more breath than protest. She was already smiling—sleepy, warm, dangerous in that quiet way of hers.

“Mm,” she hummed, eyes still half-lidded as her hands settled at my waist. “You left.”

“I was gone for like—two minutes,” I said, but my voice softened automatically as she pulled me closer.

“Too long,” she murmured.

Her fingers brushed the edge of my robe, slowly, like she was rediscovering me all over again. My breath caught slightly.

“Y/N…” I warned, though there wasn’t much strength behind it.

She looked up at me, a small smirk tugging at her lips.

“What?”

Her hands slid a little higher, pushing the robe open just enough to expose my shoulder. “You are not supposed to wear this yet,” she added, quieter now.

My breath hitched as her lips brushed just under my ear—soft at first, then a light nip that sent a sharp shiver down my spine. I bit my lip instantly, trying to keep quiet, but it barely helped.

“Y/N…” I whispered, already losing a bit of my resolve.

She hummed against my skin, clearly pleased with herself, her voice dropping as she murmured teasingly into my ear—“Thought you liked it when I take my time…”

That did it.

I turned my head, catching her lips in a kiss that was anything but slow this time—harder, needier, like the night before hadn’t been nearly enough. Her hands moved instinctively, sliding along my sides, pushing the robe further open—and then one of them lifted, settling against my chest—

“Wait—”

I caught her wrist gently but firmly, breaking the kiss just enough to breathe.

She frowned slightly, confused, still close enough that I could feel her breath against my lips. “…why?”

I let out a shaky exhale, pressing my forehead lightly against hers. “Because,” I said, trying—and failing—to sound unaffected, “my sister is outside.”

A pause.

Y/N blinked. “…your sister.”

“Mm-hm.”

Another pause.

Then her eyes closed briefly as she groaned under her breath. “…that is incredibly bad timing.”

I laughed softly, still a little breathless. “You think?”

She opened her eyes again, looking at me—really looking—like she was debating whether or not it was worth ignoring that fact. “…we have five minutes,” she said slowly.

I raised a brow. “Y/N.”

“I’m just saying—”

“No.”

She huffed, but there was a faint smile tugging at her lips. “…fine.”

I leaned in, pressing a quick, softer kiss to her mouth—gentler this time. “Later,” I murmured.

Her expression shifted instantly at that. “…yeah?” she asked.

I smiled. “Yeah.”

That seemed to satisfy her.

For now.

I pushed myself up with a quiet exhale, forcing my brain to actually function. “Okay—move,” I muttered, already stepping off her.

Y/N let out a soft, reluctant groan as I left her, but she didn’t argue this time. Instead, she ran a hand through her hair and sat up, blinking away the last of her sleep.

I grabbed the nearest thing—a shirt from the floor—and started picking up whatever I could reach. “…condoms,” I muttered under my breath, scooping up the very obvious evidence from the table and floor. “Great. Fantastic. Love that for me.”

Y/N snorted softly behind me. “Hey,” she said, voice still rough, “that’s teamwork.”

I shot her a look over my shoulder. “You’re helping.”

“I am helping,” she said, already leaning down to grab her boxers from the floor.

I huffed but didn’t argue, tossing wrappers into the trash as fast as I could. Behind me, I heard the soft rustle of fabric as she pulled on her boxers, then reached for the rest of her clothes—her bra, her shirt, her jeans—moving quickly but without that earlier rush. Now it was… focused. Real.

“We have, like, two minutes,” I said, glancing at the door.

“We’re fine,” she replied, way too calm for someone about to meet my sister for the first time.

“Easy for you to say.”

She smirked faintly. “I’m charming.”

I rolled my eyes, grabbing the last of the mess before backing toward the hallway. “Bathroom,” I pointed.

“Got it.”

I disappeared into my room while she headed the other way.

---

A few minutes later, I stepped out, now fully dressed, hair quickly fixed, trying to look like I hadn’t just—well. Everything.

At the same time, the bathroom door opened. Y/N walked out, running a hand through her hair one last time, looking… annoyingly put together for someone who had been asleep on my couch five minutes ago.

She glanced at me immediately. “…do I look okay?” she asked.

I didn’t even hesitate.

I stepped closer, reaching up slightly before leaning in and pressing a quick, soft kiss to her lips. “You look perfect,” I murmured.

Her shoulders relaxed just a fraction at that. “…good.”

I smiled faintly, then grabbed the perfume from the table, spraying it quickly. “Okay,” I said, more to myself than anything. “We’re doing this.”

Y/N nodded once. “Yeah.”

I took a breath, reaching for the door. And then—I opened it.

Mary-Kate was still there. Waiting. Watching.

And the second she saw us, her expression shifted—curious, assessing, and just a little too amused.

I glanced back at Y/N briefly, then stepped aside.

“Alright,” I said. “You wanted to meet her.”

A small pause.

Then—

“This is Y/N.”

I stepped aside, giving her a clear view.

For a split second, everything went… still.

Y/N, standing just behind me, lifted her hand in a small, polite wave—calm, composed, like she wasn’t standing in front of my sister for the first time after… all of that. “Hi,” she said simply.

Mary-Kate didn’t wave back.

She just looked at her—up, down, then back up again. A slow, impressed hum left her.

“…okay,” she said, tilting her head slightly. “You’re hotter in person.”

“—Mary-Kate,” I snapped immediately.

Y/N blinked, clearly caught off guard—and then, just slightly, she blushed. Actually *blushed*. Which somehow made it worse.

Mary-Kate let out a quiet breath through her nose, clearly amused—but at least she didn’t push it further. “What?” she said, glancing at me. “I’m just being honest.”

“You’re being inappropriate,” I shot back.

Y/N cleared her throat softly, lowering her hand with a small, slightly awkward smile. “…hi,” she said again, a little more unsure this time.

Mary-Kate stepped forward then, shifting gears. “Hi,” she replied calmly this time, extending her hand. “I’m Mary-Kate.”

Y/N took it immediately, grateful for the normal interaction. “Nice to meet you.”

There was a brief pause. A weird one. Not uncomfortable exactly—but new. Everyone taking each other in.

I cleared my throat, stepping in before Mary-Kate could say anything else that would make this worse. “…so,” I said, forcing a small smile, “how about breakfast?”

That seemed to break the tension just enough. Mary-Kate shrugged. “I flew here. I’ll take food.”

“Great,” I said quickly, already turning toward the kitchen—and, without thinking, reaching back to grab Y/N’s hand and pull her along with me.

The second we were out of direct view, I let out a quiet breath. “…oh my god.”

Y/N chuckled softly beside me. “That went well.”

I shot her a look. “Did it?”

She smiled, relaxed despite everything. “I’m still alive, so yeah.”

I huffed a laugh, moving around the kitchen to grab plates. Then, out of nowhere—

“You know,” Y/N said casually, leaning against the counter, “you really do look like her.”

I paused. “…what?”

She gestured vaguely toward the living room. “Your sister. You look like twins.”

I stared at her for a second—then laughed. “Okay, first of all—rude. And second, she has her own twin.”

She grinned. “I’m serious.”

I shook my head, still smiling as I turned back to the counter. But then—I glanced at her again, a thought clicking into place.

“…wait,” I said slowly, narrowing my eyes. “Is that why you blushed?”

Y/N blinked. “What?”

“Earlier,” I pressed, pointing slightly. “At the door. When she said…” I stopped myself, rolling my eyes. “When she said you were hotter in person.”

She immediately lifted her hands in defense. “No—no,” she said quickly. “That’s not—”

I raised a brow.

“I was just caught off guard,” she added, a little more carefully this time.

I studied her for a second. “…uh-huh.”

“I was,” she insisted, softer now.

Then she stepped closer—and just like that, the teasing faded a little.

“Yeah, you look alike,” she said, voice quieter. “But…” Her eyes met mine. “…you’re different.”

Something in my chest shifted. “How?” I asked, before I could stop myself.

Y/N smiled—small, but real. “You’re you.”

Simple. But the way she said it—like it meant everything.

“…smooth,” I muttered, but there was no bite to it.

She huffed a quiet laugh. “I mean it.”

I looked at her for a second longer, then shook my head, turning back to the counter to hide the way I was smiling. “Yeah, yeah,” I murmured. “Help me before she comes in here and starts judging my cooking.”

Y/N pushed off the counter immediately. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” she said, stepping beside me.

And just like that—it felt normal again.

Well.

As normal as it could be—with my sister in the other room, and the girl I loved standing right next to me.

---

Everything… actually went well.

Surprisingly well.

There were a few teasing comments—mostly from Mary-Kate—but nothing Y/N couldn’t handle. In fact, she handled it better than I expected. Calm, easy, just the right amount of charm without trying too hard.

Mary-Kate warmed up to her quickly. That quiet, observant way she had? Y/N met it with the same kind of steady presence, and somewhere between breakfast and coffee, they just… clicked. Mary-Kate, of course, still tested her a little. Pushing. Waiting to see if Y/N would crack.

She didn’t.

And by the time they were both laughing over something stupid I’d said—completely at my expense, obviously—I realized something.

Y/N fit.

Not perfectly. Not instantly. But naturally.

Like she wasn’t forcing her way into my world—she was just… stepping into it.

---

Later, after MK left—after the apartment finally went quiet again—my phone buzzed.

I glanced down.

A message from Mary-Kate.

Mary-Kate:

Y/N is approved! I really like her.

I smiled before I could stop myself. Then—another message came through.

Ashley:

So you’re telling me you met her WITHOUT ME?

A second one, almost immediately—

Ashley:

I’m offended.

…another.

Ashley:

Actually no, I’m jealous.

I huffed out a quiet laugh. Of course she was.

Mary-Kate:

You were busy.

The reply came instantly.

Ashley:

That’s not the point and you know it.

I shook my head, locking my phone. “…unbelievable.”

But I was smiling. Of course I was. I looked up from my phone—and there she was. Y/N, sprawled comfortably on my couch like she belonged there, scrolling through something on her own phone, completely unaware of the messages I’d just gotten.

My chest softened.

“…hey,” I said.

She glanced up immediately. “Yeah?”

I shook my head, smile still lingering. “Nothing.”

She narrowed her eyes slightly. “You’re smiling.”

“Am I not allowed to smile?”

“Not like that,” she said, already suspicious.

I laughed, shaking my head. “Just—come here.”

She didn’t question it—just got up and walked over, settling beside me like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Which, at this point—It was.

---

Outside our little bubble, though—the world hadn’t slowed down.

Pillowtalk kept climbing. Streams rising, charts updating, the buzz getting louder. It hit Billboard.

And the speculation? It only got worse.

Fans digging through interviews, clips resurfacing, every glance, every interaction, every *moment* being picked apart.

“WHO IS SHE???”

“SHE HAS TO BE SOMEONE FAMOUS.”

And all the while—we stayed quiet. Stayed in this space that was still ours, for a little while longer.

---

Until few weeks later—we were spotted.

Just a simple moment. A walk, a laugh, a hand that lingered a little too long.

And suddenly—we were everywhere. Viral.

But that?

That’s a story for another day.

---

Leave your comments!

[kjiscrawlingbackformore]

Lilies in the Valley: Buried

Mom!Jackie Taylor x Reader (post!rescue au)

Masterlist | Previous Part

Summary: Marrying Jackie Taylor was the best thing that ever happened to you. And it seemed to only get better with the additions of your babies. Yet the mystery of Jackie’s past seems to burrow its way into the life she’s built.

A/N: I blacked out and finished this chapter. I’m no joke v excited to roll out all the mysteries of this au✨

You knew it was bad when the only solution you could think of was to call Charlie. You sighed as you stared at your phone sitting silently on your desk. Not that Charlie was ever a bad option.

Charlie was great. You’ve known Charlie for years. She’s been one of your business partner for a while. She too inherited land and decided to make something of it. What started as business turned into friendship. And now you tend to write to each other with an occasional phone call here and there…but over the few months it’s become more occasional.

Charlie knew about your wife and kids. Really Charlie knows about your whole life. It’s easier to tell someone who isn’t connected to the web of your life about things in it.

And it’s hard to explain but…there’s something about her. It’s easy to overshare. She always had a way of making you feel…seen. Because of it…though you’re not proud of it…you told her about Jackie’s somewhat mysterious past.

Not in a gossiping way but more of well…more of a second opinion. You loved your friends and family but bless them—they’re a bit useless. Almost as useless as you felt in these waters.

Charlie was helpful because she seemed to have this deep understanding about what as big as Jackie’s trauma does to the brain and body. Hell she ran a center helping people who experience trauma.

Before you decided to go off the deep end. You wanted to ask Charlie what she thought. You want to help Jackie but you don’t know how. And more than that you don’t want to go too far where Jackie would feel…well betrayed.

You stared at the phone in your hand for a long time before finally pressing the number. It rang twice before Charlie’s voice, warm and steady, came through the line.

“Hey, stranger,” she teased. “I was wondering when I’d hear from you again. How’s the ranch? Kids? Jackie?”

Hearing her name out loud made your throat tighten. “The ranch is fine. Kids are good. Jackie’s… we’re managing.” You rubbed at your temple, wishing the words didn’t sound so hollow.

There was a pause. Not judgmental, not impatient —just Charlie letting the silence open, like she always did when she knew you weren’t saying everything.

Finally, you exhaled. “Listen, I need some advice. Jackie’s been… she’s been having a hard time. Nightmares, panic, just—things I don’t always know how to handle. I want to help her, but I don’t want to push too far. I don’t want her to feel like I’m… prying, or worse, betraying her trust.”

Charlie hummed softly, thoughtful. “That’s a tightrope,” she said. “With trauma that deep, sometimes the person doesn’t even know what they need. And it’s not your job to fix it all. You’re not supposed to bulldoze your way in. What you can do is be the anchor. The one who doesn’t flinch, doesn’t run when it gets ugly.”

Her words cut straight to your chest. “I try. God, I try. But last night, she—” You stopped, catching yourself. The image of Jackie’s pale face, her scream, the way your eye still throbbed from the punch—it burned on the back of your tongue. “She was so scared. And I don’t know how much longer she can keep carrying this without it… breaking her.”

There was another quiet pause, and then Charlie’s voice softened, low, almost protective. “She’s stronger than you think. But she’s also haunted. People don’t walk away from… certain kinds of survival without ghosts. And the worst thing you can do is pretend those ghosts aren’t there.”

You frowned, sitting straighter. “You say that like you know.”

Charlie chuckled faintly, but it didn’t sound amused. “I’ve seen it, that’s all. Up close. People who’ve been through…that…it’s like they’re navigating the wilderness.” She cleared her throat. “Just—don’t try to solve her past. That’s hers. What you can do is remind her there’s a future worth holding onto. That she’s not alone in the dark anymore.”

Her words lodged in you like a splinter — sharp but true. You pressed your hand against your still-stinging eye and let out a shaky laugh. “Not sure I’m much good at being the anchor right now. But I’ll try.”

“You’re better at it than you think,” Charlie said gently. “Jackie’s still here, isn’t she? Still fighting. That’s something.”

And though you didn’t know it, her voice carried the weight of someone who understood Jackie’s ghosts in a way you couldn’t yet imagine.

Charlie let the silence linger, then her voice softened again. “You know… maybe you should bring Jackie out here sometime. To the center.”

Your stomach tightened. The wellness center. You’d sent Charlie crates of fresh vegetables, milk, and honey from the ranch for years, but you’d never actually visited yourself. You pictured Jackie walking through those grounds, surrounded by strangers, asked to bare open wounds she barely admitted to you. The thought made your chest seize.

“I don’t know if she’d go for that,” you admitted. “I don’t even know if that’s… fair to her. Or good for her.”

Charlie didn’t push, just chuckled softly, the sound steadying. “Fair. Then how about you just come? You’re overdue anyway. Didn’t you promise me a calf and a few milking goats ages ago?”

Despite yourself, you smiled. “You don’t forget anything, do you?”

“Not when it comes to livestock bribes,” she teased. Then her tone dipped back into something gentler. “Seriously. Come for a visit. See the place. If you think it might help later… well, at least you’ll know.”

There was something in the way she said it, like she wasn’t talking about “help” in the abstract, but something she had lived through herself. Her voice carried a weight, a certainty that felt… familiar. You frowned, almost asking her what she meant, but stopped yourself. Charlie had always been good at speaking about trauma like she’d seen it up close. Maybe that was just the work she did.

You leaned back against the wall, staring at the darkened window, Ranger’s shadow moving faintly in the yard outside. The bruise under your eye throbbed again, a reminder of Jackie’s nightmares, of how close everything felt to unraveling.

“Yeah,” you said at last, though your voice carried hesitation. “I’ll… think about it.”

“That’s all I’m asking,” Charlie said warmly. “No pressure.”

But as you ended the call, unease curled low in your chest. Charlie’s words rang too sharp, too personal. And for the first time, you wondered if she saw more of Jackie’s pain than Jackie herself had ever allowed you to.

The school bell shrilled and soon the yard spilled over with kids, backpacks bouncing, sneakers skidding over the blacktop. You spotted Josh immediately—he came barreling toward you, curls wild, face split in a grin so wide it nearly blinded you.

“Mom! Mom! Look, look, look!” He skidded to a stop in front of you, already yanking a folded piece of paper from his backpack. He shoved it into your hands with all the urgency of a treasure map.

You crouched down, careful of your still-throbbing eye, and smoothed the crinkled paper open. The drawing was simple but earnest: stick-figure Josh with a soccer ball, his arms stretched wide, and beside him, a taller figure with long hair tied back—Jackie, no mistaking it. Both of them smiling, the sun beaming down in a bright yellow corner.

“Do you think it’ll cheer Mommy up?” Josh asked, eyes wide with hope. His voice carried a carefulness, like he knew something was wrong but couldn’t quite name it.

Your throat tightened. “Oh, buddy… I think she’s going to love it,” you said softly, pulling him into a hug.

He leaned against you only a moment before bouncing back, full of restless energy again, chattering about soccer practice and how he wanted to teach Ranger to play goalie. But the picture burned in your hands, bright crayon colors pressed into the paper with such earnest force.

Josh had noticed. Maybe not the details, maybe not the nightmares, but enough. Enough to want to fix it.

You folded the drawing carefully, tucking it into your jacket pocket as you took his hand. “Let’s go home,” you said, masking the heaviness in your chest with a smile. “I bet Mommy’s going to be so proud of this.”

Josh beamed and started skipping beside you, his small hand swinging in yours, while you tried not to think about how the weight of Jackie’s shadows had already begun to seep into the bright corners of your children’s world.

By the time you pulled up to the house, Josh was practically vibrating with anticipation, clutching the folded drawing like it was a secret weapon. He sprinted inside the moment the door opened, calling for Jackie at the top of his lungs.

She appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel, her expression tired but softening as soon as she saw him. Josh shoved the picture at her without preamble.

“Look, Mommy! I made it for you! It’s us playing soccer! Do you like it?”

Jackie froze, blinking down at the drawing. Her hand trembled slightly as she held it, the colors bright against her pale fingers. You saw the exact moment her composure cracked, her eyes shimmered, lashes wetting as her throat worked to keep steady. When she finally spoke, her voice broke on the edges.

“Oh, sweetheart… it’s beautiful,” she whispered, pulling him close to kiss the top of his head. “You and me, huh? That’s my favorite thing.”

Josh giggled, practically bouncing again. “Can we practice? Pleeease?”

Jackie nodded, swallowing hard, and smoothed her hand over his hair. “Yeah, buddy. Of course. Just… give Mommy a minute, okay?”

“Okay!” Josh chirped, already bounding toward the back door to find the ball.

When she lifted her gaze to you, it nearly knocked the breath from your chest. Her eyes were brimming, cheeks flushed, lips trembling as she tried to hold it together. And in that silent plea, you moved instinctively—crossing the space to wrap your arms tight around her.

Jackie melted against you, her shoulders sagging as the sob she’d been holding finally broke free. She sighed into your collarbone, shaky and embarrassed. “This is so dumb,” she murmured thickly. “I’m crying over a drawing.”

You pressed a kiss to her damp temple, holding her tighter. “A very cute drawing,” you said softly. “Made from love. Worthy of a cry.”

She laughed wetly, somewhere between a sniffle and a sigh, and you felt her chest loosen just a fraction against yours.

Jackie lingered in your arms a moment longer, her forehead tucked beneath your chin, her breath shaky but finally steadying. You rubbed small circles into her back, wishing you could anchor her here forever, in this quiet moment where nothing hurt.

Then the sound of sneakers squeaking on tile broke the spell. Josh peeked back around the corner, soccer ball tucked under one arm, a curious grin on his face. “Are you guys done hugging?” he asked, his voice full of innocent impatience.

Jackie gave a startled laugh, hastily swiping at her damp cheeks with the heel of her hand. “Almost, buddy,” she said, her voice still wobbly but lighter now.

You caught his eye and winked. “Give us thirty more seconds. Hug tax.”

Josh rolled his eyes dramatically but grinned, bouncing the ball once. “Fine. But then it’s practice time.”

Jackie managed a watery laugh, tugging you in closer for one last squeeze before she stepped back. Her cheeks were still pink, but there was a spark in her eyes now…it was fragile, but real.

“Okay,” she said, taking a deep breath and straightening her shoulders. “Let’s go play some soccer.”

Josh whooped, running outside, and Jackie turned back to you briefly, whispering just for you: “I love you”

Josh was already in the yard by the time you and Jackie stepped outside, the ball at his feet and his little body buzzing with pent-up energy. Ranger barked excitedly from the porch, pacing back and forth as though he wanted in on the game too.

“Alright, coach,” Jackie called, wiping her face one last time with the sleeve of her shirt before jogging down the steps. “What’s the drill?”

Josh puffed his chest out, grinning. “Passing practice! You and me against Mommy!”

You raised your brows. “Wait, so I’m the bad guy here?”

“Obviously,” he said with absolute certainty.

Jackie laughed, crouching down to ruffle his hair. “Smart strategy. She’s got the longest legs—hardest defender.”

“Flattery won’t save you, Jacks,” you teased, hands on your hips. “I play dirty.”

The game began with Josh dribbling sloppily around the grass, Jackie guiding him gently, calling out little tips between her own bursts of laughter. Every time he managed to pass the ball to her, he would shout, “Teamwork!” and Jackie would beam as though it was the greatest word she’d ever heard.

You lunged dramatically, letting Josh juke around you while Jackie shielded him. She was rusty, you could tell, her footing wasn’t quite as sharp, her breath came quicker, but none of that mattered. Her smile stretched wider with every kick, her cheeks pink, eyes shining in a way you hadn’t seen in days.

“Goal!” Josh shouted when he finally kicked the ball past your foot and straight into Ranger, who caught it in his mouth and bolted.

The three of you dissolved into laughter, Jackie bending over with her hands on her knees, shoulders shaking. Josh chased after the dog, shrieking with delight.

When Jackie straightened again, she caught your gaze across the yard. For a split second, the world stilled. Her expression softened into something grateful, vulnerable, the kind of look that said she was clinging to this moment with everything she had.

You gave her a small nod, like a silent promise: More of this. We’ll make more of this.

And Jackie smiled, a little breathless but real, before jogging after her son.

Josh was still panting with pride when you herded him back toward the porch, cheeks flushed, hair sticking up at odd angles. Jackie was glowing in that way only her kids could make her glow—eyes crinkled, laughter soft and easy. You were just about to suggest rinsing off the grass-stained knees when Ranger’s ears perked at the sound of a car pulling into the drive.

Lily burst out of your mom’s sedan a moment later, bounding up the steps with her backpack swinging and her braid bouncing. “Mommy! Guess what? Guess what!”

Jackie’s smile brightened automatically, arms opening. “What, baby?”

Lily nearly tackled her, words tumbling over themselves in excitement. “Gramma took me to the craft store and we made mmmm candles, and and and then she showed me hoooow…..to roll grape leaves, AND MOMMY she she said she’s gonna teach me more recipes—like the ones momma ate when she were little!”

Jackie froze for the briefest second. The brightness in her eyes flickered. Just a hairline crack, but you caught it—the way her shoulders stiffened, the way her throat worked around a swallow before she could force out a thin, “That sounds… so special, Lil.”

Lily, oblivious, chattered on, tugging Jackie’s hand as she rattled off more details, while Jackie nodded and smiled, but it wasn’t the same smile from ten minutes ago. It was tight around the edges, her eyes glassy with something she was trying hard to blink back.

You knew that smile. You knew what it meant.

Your mom waved from the car, giving you a thumbs up before pulling away, completely unaware of the way Jackie hugged Lily a little too tightly, her voice just the slightest bit unsteady when she said, “I’m glad you had fun, sweetheart.”

Josh didn’t notice. Lily didn’t either. But you did.

And your chest ached, watching the light that had burned so brightly in the yard only moments ago dim into something heavier, something Jackie couldn’t quite keep from seeping through the cracks.

The house had finally gone quiet. Josh and Lily tucked in, Ranger sprawled out like a sentry by their door. You were rinsing the last mug in the sink when you heard it, a soft shuffle behind you. Jackie, barefoot, hair loose, eyes still a little glassy from earlier.

She leaned against the counter, arms folded tight across her chest like she was holding herself together. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, her voice broke the silence, low and uneven.

“You know what’s funny?” Jackie’s laugh was sharp, brittle. “I watched Lily today with your mom and all I could think was—my mom should’ve been there for me like that. She never… she never looked at me the way your mom looks at her.”

You set the mug down carefully, drying your hands slow, giving her space.

Jackie rubbed at her arms, eyes darting toward the window like she couldn’t bear your gaze. “I used to tell myself it didn’t matter. That I didn’t care. But seeing Lily—seeing your mom love her so easily—it’s like… it’s proof. Proof that it could’ve been different. That maybe I wasn’t the problem. And that’s…” She broke off, shaking her head.

“Jackie,” you whispered, but she kept going.

“I feel like I’m sixteen again,” she admitted, voice trembling. “Like I’m back in high school, playing this stupid role, being perfect Jackie, the one everyone thought had it all together. Pretending I was fine when I was falling apart. And now—now I’ve got the life I thought I wanted. You. The kids. This house. And sometimes it feels so far away from me I can’t even… reach it.”

Your chest tightened. She wasn’t looking at you—just staring at her hands like they belonged to someone else.

“I miss my mom,” she said finally, in a whisper so soft you almost missed it. “But I don’t. Not really. I think I just miss the idea of a mom. Someone who cared. Someone who… made me feel like I belonged somewhere. And instead I’m here, bursting at the seams, terrified I’m screwing it all up.”

The silence that followed was heavy, aching. You just stood there, wide-eyed, your throat tight, knowing if you said the wrong thing she might shatter completely.

So you crossed the kitchen slowly, wrapped your arms around her waist, and held on.

She stiffened, just for a second and then melted, burying her face against your shoulder. Her breath came out in ragged sobs she didn’t even try to hold back.

And you held her, heart breaking with every shudder, realizing for the first time just how much of Jackie’s hurt had never had a place to go—until now.

You let her cry against your shoulder for a long beat, feeling the weight of all the things she’d never said before settling into the space between you. Her hands were clinging to you like she was afraid if she let go she’d fall apart entirely.

Finally, you whispered gently, “Hey… we have that IVF appointment coming up. How are you feeling about… continuing with our plans?”

Jackie froze, her face pressing harder into your chest. Her body stiffened for a moment as if the idea had pulled her out of some private fog. Then she sighed, soft and shaky.

“When I met you…” she murmured, voice muffled but deliberate, “…I knew I wanted a big family with you. I knew I wanted five kids, two dogs, and a big yard. I could see it. Even back then, it was… clear in my head. So… I still want another one.”

You pulled back just slightly to look at her, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face.

“I just… I need to shake off my funk,” she admitted, a small, almost embarrassed laugh escaping her. “I’ve been so wrapped up in… everything else, I forgot how much I wanted this. How much I want us.”

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. That small crack in her armor, it was enough for you to see her fully. Enough for you to know that the fear, the pain, the shadows of her past—they were all there, but so was her love. So was the hope. And it was yours to hold alongside her.

Later that night, long after the house had gone still, you lay awake staring at the ceiling. Jackie slept beside you, curled toward your side of the bed, one hand tucked beneath her cheek. In the dark she looked peaceful—soft in a way the daylight rarely allowed her to be anymore.

But sleep wouldn’t come. Charlie’s voice kept circling in your head. People don’t walk away from certain kinds of survival without ghosts. You turned carefully, reaching for the phone on the nightstand. The screen glowed pale blue against the dark room. You slip out of bed and into the kitchen before doing what you never thought you would do.

Three rings this time. Then what you hear next is almost like rain on dry ground “You okay?” Charlie answered immediately, groggy but alert in the way people only sound when they already sense bad news.

You swallowed. “Sorry. I know it’s late.”

“No, it’s alright. What happened?” Your gaze drifted toward the hallway where your Jackie was asleep. “She doesn’t know I’m calling,” you admitted quietly. “But I think… I think I want to come see the center.”

In the silence your heart sank at it. Maybe you overstepped? No, you couldn't have. Then a soft sigh. Not shocked. Not confused. Like Charlie had been expecting this eventually. “You sure?” she asked softly.

“No,” you answered honestly. “But I can’t shake this feeling that there’s something she’s not telling me. And I don’t want to betray her, Charlie, I don’t—”

“You’re trying to help your wife,” Charlie interrupted gently. “That’s not betrayal.”

You rubbed your hand over your face, exhausted. “Can you book me in? Just a couple days.”

Another pause. Then quietly she hums, “Yeah. I’ll make arrangements.” You nodded even though she couldn’t see it. “Thank you.”

After the call ended, you stayed sitting there for a long time, afraid that this decision would blow up in your face. You never had secrets…especially from Jackie. It made you feel tense all over. But God, you needed to do something. You just couldn't shake it.

You were losing Jackie.

After a long while, you slipped back into bed and lay there listening to Jackie breathe beside you. Eventually, exhaustion pulled at you hard enough that you slipped back beneath the blankets, one arm draping instinctively across her waist.

And sometime later, Jackie opened her eyes. Wide awake. The words from earlier looped endlessly in her head. Five kids. Two dogs. A big yard. She wanted that life so badly it hurt.

But some nights the past sat inside her chest like rot, whispering that none of this belonged to her. That she was still that starving girl in the wilderness pretending to be human long enough to survive another day. Beside her, you slept soundly, one arm thrown across the mattress toward her side like even unconscious you reached for her.

Jackie’s eyes burned suddenly. Quietly, she slipped from the bed. The house was cold and dark as she moved downstairs, careful not to wake anyone. Ranger lifted his head as she stepped onto the porch, but settled again when he recognized her.

The ranch stretched silent beneath the moonlight. Jackie walked toward the edge of the property without hesitation. Like muscle memory. Like instinct. The flashlight shook faintly in her hand as she reached the old fence line. Then she dropped to her knees.

The dirt was harder than she remembered. She dug anyway. Fast. Frantic. Mud packed beneath her fingernails. Her breathing turned sharp and uneven. “No, no, no…” she whispered under her breath like a prayer. Finally her fingers struck metal.

Jackie stopped cold.

For a moment she just stared at the rusted edge of the tin box emerging from the earth. Then, slowly, she pulled it free. The latch squealed when she opened it. Inside sat remnants of another life. A tattered journal warped from moisture. A faded varsity patch. A bundle of old photographs bound together with twine. And beneath them—The necklace.

Jackie recoiled so hard she nearly dropped the box. Even after all these years, the sight of it made bile rise in her throat. Her breathing became ragged instantly. Snow crunching beneath boots.

Blood soaking into fabric. A voice whispering through firelight. Girls kneeling. Girls starving. Jackie slammed the lid shut. Tears blurred her vision as she pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes. “You’re not her anymore,” she whispered fiercely to herself.

But the words felt hollow. Because deep down, buried beneath the wife and the mother and the woman who laughed in the yard tonight…that girl was still alive.

Waiting.

Jackie wiped harshly at her face before standing abruptly, clutching the box tightly against her chest. Then she turned toward the barn.

Toward gasoline.

Toward fire.

Toward destruction.

[the-oblivious-writer]

Let the Light In |15|

Tara Carpenter x Female Reader

Chapter Fifteen: The Still Before it Breaks

summary: things have been off between you and tara — nothing anyone else would clock, nothing you'd admit to out loud. but it's there. after a rough night at the gym, a chance run-in with an old face, and a few lost hours, you come home at 3 am to find tara waiting up in your apartment. what starts as deflection turns into the conversation you've both been avoiding.

warnings: references to prescription medication (antipsychotics, anxiolytics, ssris), ptsd and trauma responses, mention of past grief/loss, mild self-isolation, emotional avoidance and defensiveness, arguments, implied hallucinations (brief, non-graphic), mild physical pain/injury references, strong language.

note(s): we're gonna start diving into y/n's past more.

taglist: @t-wylia @lesbianpepsi @jennasfav @alyciaddict @justafoolinlove @steffido1993 @niqmandu @severelyuniquereview @darklron @ravenousinferno @smut-religiously777 @beautifulmongerbanditsalad @vanatalye @morganismspam23

masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

The gym smelled the same way it always did on Tuesday and Thursday nights—old rubber, chalk dust, the faint chemical bite of whatever they used to clean the mats. You'd been coming here long enough that the smell had stopped registering as unpleasant and started registering as a consistent thing in a world that kept rearranging itself without your permission.

You threw a right cross into the bag, felt the impact travel up through your wrapped knuckles, your wrist, the meat of your shoulder.

Again.

Left hook. The ache in your side flared—that persistent, low-grade complaint from the scar tissue that never quite healed right. You'd learned to work around it the way you'd learned to work around most things. Quietly. Without making it anyone else's problem.

Again.

Punching a bag required enough of your attention to crowd out coherent thought while still leaving just enough room for the stuff you were trying not to think about to seep in around the edges. Which was probably counterproductive. Henry had told you that approximately forty-seven times.

You threw a combination—right, right, left, right—and let yourself think about it anyway because you were clearly a masochist.

Tara knew.

The bottles had been moved. Fractionally, barely, the kind of shift that only mattered if you were the person who organized them by half-centimeter intervals because catastrophic anxiety expressed itself in deeply annoying ways. She'd been in your bathroom at 3 AM looking for painkillers, and she'd found—

You hit the bag harder.

She hadn't said anything. You hadn't said anything. And so the last several days had been this strange, performance of normalcy that you suspected was fooling absolutely no one. Texts that were slightly too brief. Study sessions where you both stared at your respective notes with the focused intensity of people actively not looking at each other. Laughter that came half a beat too late, like you were both reading from a script with a slight delay.

To an outside observer, nothing would look different. That was the thing about being good at keeping things close—you could perform fine so convincingly that even the person watching you couldn't prove you weren't.

But Tara watched you like she was looking for something. And you watched her watching you, and neither of you said a word about any of it.

The migraine had started around noon, threading itself behind your left eye with the patient, territorial quality of something settling in for a long stay. It had been quiet for a month. One whole month, which was the longest stretch you'd had in almost three years, and you'd been stupid enough to let yourself think maybe that was it. Maybe things were turning a corner.

Things were not turning a corner.

Your left side screamed in protest as you threw another hook, and you dropped your arms, breathing hard, pressing your wrapped hand flat against your ribs. Just held it there. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed in their particular frequency—just barely audible, just barely maddening.

Tara had been the one genuinely good thing.

You turned that thought over, examined it from all the angles, and hated how straightforwardly true it was. Not an easy thing, not an uncomplicated thing. But good. Consistently good. Good in the way where you'd stopped bracing for the catch, stopped waiting for the part where it went sideways, started just—

And now you were here. Performing the relationship-that-wasn't in front of people who cared about you, while a secret sat between you and Tara like a third person in every room, taking up all the air.

Sand sifted from a small tear in the base of the bag, pooling quietly on the mat.

You stared at it.

Then you pulled off your right wrap slowly, then the left, wincing when the pressure released from your sore knuckles. Stuffed both into your bag. Checked your phone with the specific dread of someone who already knows they've been ignoring it too long.

Three messages from Anika, timestamped over the last two hours:

nik: dinner?

nik: ok not hungry just checking in

nik: u coming home tonight or..?

One from Henry, which was just a link to a video about penguins that he'd sent with absolutely no context, as was his custom.

One from the bank, subject line containing the word reminder, which you didn't open because whatever it was, it could continue reminding you from the unread pile for a little while longer.

You closed the app. Changed out of your gym clothes in the locker room, moving slowly, because the migraine had settled in behind both eyes now and the fluorescent lights were being genuinely hostile. Pulled on your jacket and stepped out into the cold.

She was sitting on the bench outside the building's side exit, the one near the loading dock that most people didn't use, eating lo mein directly from a takeout container with a pair of plastic chopsticks. Like that was simply a thing one did at nine o'clock on a Thursday.

Olivia looked up. Took you in with that unhurried, comprehensive way she had—reading you the way she used to, the way that had driven you crazy when you were seventeen and was still not entirely comfortable at nineteen.

She didn't say you look terrible, which was either politeness or tactical patience.

"I've got another container," she said instead, patting the bag beside her on the bench.

You stood there for a second, gym bag over your shoulder, migraine doing its thing, all the things you weren't thinking about cycling through you at low volume. The sensible thing to do was to say thanks, no, I'm heading home.

You sat down.

She handed you the second container—fried rice, which she remembered was what you always ordered—and a pair of chopsticks still in their paper sleeve. You took them without comment. Cracked them apart. Ate.

The city moved around you. A cab rolled by on the cross street, someone laughed too loudly from a window somewhere above, the exhaust from a delivery truck cut briefly through the cold before dispersing. Normal city sounds. Uncomplicated.

"You don't have to tell me," Olivia said, after a while. Not are you okay, which you would have deflected. Not what happened, which you would have deflected. Just that. Leaving the door open and not standing in the doorway.

"I'm not going to," you said.

"I know."

You ate more fried rice. It was good—from the place on Amsterdam that you'd told her about once, back when both of you had meant something specific and present tense. You thought about asking if she'd gone there on purpose, but decided the answer didn't matter.

"Don't worry about it," you said, finally.

Olivia made the face. You'd forgotten about the face. It was this specific expression she got when she was choosing her battles, where the defeat showed at the corners of her eyes before she'd smoothed it away—resigned, not hurt. Familiar in the way that only things from a long time ago could be familiar, worn smooth by repetition.

"Okay," she said.

You stayed anyway. Not talking about it—not talking about much of anything, really. She told you about the documentary, about a location scout that had gone impressively sideways, about a cinematographer she was working with who apparently had opinions about everything and the confidence to match. You listened, and ate your fried rice, and let yourself exist in someone else's story for a while without having to contribute your own.

It was almost generous, in its way. Being allowed to just sit.

When you finally checked your phone it was quarter past midnight, which wasn't possible but was apparently happening. You said goodbye. Walked home the long way, because the cold was doing something useful against the migraine and the long way bought you more of it.

You didn't think about much. That, at least, was a small victory.

Your apartment was dark.

Or—mostly dark. The lamp in the living room was on, which you noticed through the gap at the bottom of your front door before you'd even unlocked it. Anika's light was off. You could see that from the sliver between her door and the frame. She was already asleep, which made sense because it was—

You checked your phone.

3:06 AM.

You stood in the hallway for a second, doing the math on that and finding it came up short. You'd left Olivia at the bench around midnight. You'd come home via the long way, which added twenty minutes, maybe twenty-five. That didn't account for three hours.

You sort of wondered within that time. Vaguely. Unsettlingly.

You unlocked the door and pushed it open.

Tara was asleep on your couch.

She'd clearly meant to wait up—there were notes spread across the coffee table in her handwriting, like she'd been reviewing something, and the TV was on mute, images still moving silently across the screen. But somewhere between arriving and now, she'd tipped sideways into the couch cushions, one arm tucked under her cheek, hair falling across her face in a dark curtain. Your Spider-Man throw pillow was wedged under her elbow.

You stood in the doorway and watched her sleep for exactly as long as it took you to become aware you were doing it, at which point you closed the door behind you—quietly, because you were a person with basic decency—and went to take off your shoes.

The lamp clicked off.

"You came home."

Your hand stilled on your shoelace. You looked over. Tara was sitting up, blinking slowly, hair thoroughly destroyed. The notes on the coffee table crinkled as she shifted her knee against them.

"In general?" you said. "Usually, yeah."

She wasn't laughing. She was doing the thing where she pressed her lips together and looked at you and the expression was so carefully arranged into not worried that it was essentially a billboard that said I'm worried.

"Why are you in my apartment?" you asked, genuinely curious.

She sidestepped it. Tara Carpenter, master of the redirect. "Where were you?"

"Out."

"It's three in the morning."

"Noted." You got your other shoe off, set them both by the door with more precision than strictly necessary. "You want some water? I'm getting water."

"Y/N—"

"I'll get you water anyway." You went to the kitchen, mostly because you needed a moment inside a different room. Filled two glasses. Came back. Set one on the coffee table in front of her and held yours.

Tara looked at the glass. Then at you. "Three in the morning," she said again, like the repetition would do something different.

"I know what time it is."

"I've been here since nine."

"You didn't have to be here at all."

"I know." Her voice came down slightly, losing the edge it had been building. "I know I didn't have to. I was just—I thought I'd stop by and then Anika said you were at the gym and I figured I'd just wait, and then—" She stopped. Pressed her fingers against her eyes briefly. "You were gone for six hours, Y/N."

You looked at her for a second, some dry, distant part of your brain cataloguing the specific quality of her frustration—how it sat differently than anger, how it had something else underneath it that it was very determinedly not showing.

"Relax," you said. "It's not that late."

"It's three AM."

"I've been out later."

"That doesn't—" She made a short, sharp gesture with her hand. "That's not the point."

"Then what is the point?" Your voice came out even, which was a miracle of engineering given the migraine and the sand on the gym mat and the bottles that had been moved two inches to the left. "I'm fine. I'm home. I'm getting water."

"You're deflecting."

"I'm hydrating."

"Y/N." Just your name, flat and tired and honest. Something in her jaw had gone soft, the tight line of it releasing slightly. "Come on."

You looked at her. At the notes scattered on your coffee table, your Spider-Man pillow wedged under her elbow, the muted television still playing something with a lot of dramatic camera movement. She'd been here for six hours waiting for you to come home. She'd fallen asleep doing it.

You laughed, a dry little exhale through your nose.

"What's your damage, Tara?"

She blinked. "What?"

"What is this?" You gestured between the couch and the door and the general theatrical atmosphere of the room. "You break into my apartment—"

"Anika let me in—"

"—and sit vigil in my living room, and now you're running the Spanish Inquisition at three in the morning." You tilted your head. "It's not like we're married."

Something moved through her expression.

"Unless," you continued, because the dry, awful part of your brain was apparently going to finish this thought regardless, "you think I'm a flight risk. Is that it? You think if I'm out past midnight I've—what, skipped town?"

"Stop."

"Bought a one-way ticket? Changed my name? Started a new life in—"

"Stop." The second one had a different weight. Tara's voice had gone quiet in a way that cut through the rest of it, through the migraine and the sardonic running commentary and all the careful armor you'd been wearing since the cabinet door clicked shut four days ago.

She was looking at you with an expression you didn't have a name for yet.

"You know that I know," she said.

The room went very quiet.

Not you know I have concerns or you seem stressed lately or any of the oblique approaches you'd been expecting, bracing for, preparing your non-answers against. Just that. Straight through the middle of everything, clean and irrevocable.

You know that I know.

You set your glass of water down on the table with a careful, deliberate click.

"Yeah," you said.

Tara exhaled. Not relief, exactly. More like the controlled release of something she'd been holding at pressure for four days. "Okay. So we're past pretending."

"Were we pretending?"

"We were both pretending."

You turned away from her, moving toward the window, because the room felt too small and she was looking at you too directly and the soft way her voice had gone when you confirmed it was doing something to your chest that you hadn't budgeted for tonight. You pressed your knuckles briefly against the cool glass. Outside, the city was doing its three-in-the-morning thing—quieter, but not quiet. Never actually quiet.

"It's not a big deal," you said.

"I didn't say it was."

"You're looking at me like it is."

"I'm looking at you like I was worried about you," she said. "Those aren't the same thing."

"Tara—"

"I'm not going to ask you to explain it." Her voice stayed level, like she'd rehearsed this, like she'd had six hours on your couch to figure out exactly how to say it without spooking you. "I'm not asking anything. I just—I need you to know that I saw them, and I'm not—" She stopped. Started again. "I'm not different."

"I know you're not different."

"You've been weird."

"You've been weird."

"I've been weird because you've been weird!"

"And that's—" You turned around, because this was somehow turning into an argument and you were genuinely almost impressed by it. "That's what you want to lead with? Great. Really constructive."

"I'm not trying to be constructive, I'm trying to—" She pressed her fingers to her mouth for a second, jaw tightening. "You shut down. You're doing it right now. The thing where you make it funny so it doesn't have to be real."

"I make things funny because—"

"Because it's safer. Yeah. I know." She met your eyes across the room, and there was something in hers—patient, stubborn, not going anywhere—that made your ribs feel too close together. "I know, Y/N."

"You don't—"

"I've been watching you do it since high school." She stood up from the couch, her voice quiet but not gentle in the performative way, just genuinely quiet. Like she was telling you something she'd thought about for a long time. "Every time something real got close you made a joke. Or started a fight. Or disappeared." A beat. "Or punched someone."

"That was one time."

"It was multiple times."

"The first punch was warranted—"

"I'm not talking about the punches," she said, and the patience in her voice made you want to say something sharp and deflecting and mean because that would at least be a thing you knew how to do. "I'm talking about the part where you're scared and you think you have to handle it alone, and I'm—" She stopped. Looked down at the coffee table for a moment, at the scattered notes, then back at you. "I'm right here."

"I know you're right here."

"Then talk to me."

"I am talking to you."

"No you're not."

"I'm standing right here talking directly at your face—"

"You're arguing with me," she said. "That's different."

"Nominally—"

"Y/N." She crossed the room in a handful of steps and stopped just in front of you, close enough that she had to tilt her head back slightly to look at you properly. Her eyes were dark and serious and didn't look the least bit afraid of you, which was honestly annoying. "I'm not going to run. Whatever it is. I'm not."

"You don't know what it is."

"I know some of it. I know enough." She held your gaze, and something cracked slightly in the careful construction of her expression—something uncertain and genuine showing through. "I know Sam's medications. I know what they're for. And I know what it means that you—" She stopped herself. Chose a different route. "I know you've been carrying something for a long time. I knew that before I opened the cabinet. You didn't exactly hide it."

"I did, actually. Quite successfully."

"Not from me."

The thing was, she wasn't wrong. The thing was, Tara Carpenter had been watching you with those stupid observant eyes for the better part of six years, across two states and approximately forty percent of your respective disasters, and the idea that she hadn't noticed anything was—

It was stupid. It was a stupid thing to have convinced yourself of.

"You should've just asked," you said, and your voice came out roughly, in a way you hadn't planned.

"Would you have answered?"

The silence answered for you.

Tara's expression did something complicated and tired. "Yeah. That's what I thought." She didn't sound triumphant about it. She just sounded like someone who was very familiar with the specific shape of your walls and had stopped expecting them to not be there.

"I'm not—" You stopped. Pressed your palm flat against the window frame, cold glass against the heel of your hand. "I'm not great at this."

"I know."

"I mean I'm genuinely bad at it. Clinically."

"I know that too." A pause. "I've got my own stuff. You know that."

"That's different."

"It's not, actually."

"Sam has—"

"I'm not talking about Sam." Her voice was quiet and firm. "I'm talking about me. About what I still carry from Woodsboro and why sometimes I drink too much at parties and why I sleep with the light on and why I kept you at arm's length for years because getting close to people felt like a liability." She looked at you steadily. "So don't tell me it's different."

You looked back at her.

Outside, somewhere below, a car alarm started and then stopped. The muted television cycled through its dramatic camera movements. The migraine had settled into a low, consistent throb behind your left eye, patient as weather.

"I should sleep," you said.

"Yeah," Tara said. "You should."

She didn't move toward the door. You didn't move toward the bedroom. The few feet of space between you sat there, holding all the things neither of you were saying, which was at this point quite a lot.

"I'm not running," she said again, softer. Like she just needed to say it one more time. Like she needed you to have heard it twice.

The worst part—the part that was going to take a while to deal with—was that she meant it. You could tell she meant it, in the specific, irritating way you'd always been able to read Tara Carpenter even when she was actively trying to be unreadable. And the thing about someone meaning it was that it left you nowhere to go.

No punchline. No exit. No window to climb out of.

"Tara—"

"You don't have to say anything tonight," she said. "I'm not asking you to. I'm just—I needed to tell you that. That's all."

You looked at her for a long moment.

"You can take my bed," you said finally. "I'll crash out here."

She opened her mouth.

"Don't argue with me about it."

"I can—"

"Take the bed, Carpenter."

She closed her mouth. Looked at you. The stubborn set of her jaw was doing battle with something else—relief, maybe, or just exhaustion, or the accumulated weight of six days of pretending everything was fine when it wasn't.

"We're revisiting this," she said.

"I know."

"We're going to talk about it."

"I know."

"Like, actually talk. Not—" she gestured at the general space between you, "—this."

"I know," you said, for the third time. And then, before she could say anything else—before the conversation could turn into another corner you'd have to fight your way out of—you handed her the spare blanket folded over the chair arm and pointed toward your bedroom door. "Go. Sleep."

She took the blanket. Stood there another second, holding it, watching you with that look you still didn't have a name for.

"Goodnight," she said.

"Goodnight."

She went. The door didn't close all the way—left a sliver of light falling into the hall, the way you always left it. You stood by the window for a while after, watching the city's 3 AM version of itself, your palm still flat against the glass.

You knew she was right.

You knew she was right, and she knew she was right, and she knew you knew, and somehow none of that made it easier to be known.

[the-oblivious-writer]

Let the Light In |14|

Tara Carpenter x Female Reader

Chapter Fourteen: Cabinet Confessions

summary: tara wakes up in your apartment after an impromptu study session and accidentally discovers something she wasn't meant to see.

warnings: implied ptsd/trauma, anxiety, secrecy, and trust issues.

note(s): no thoughts. just coconuts.

taglist: @t-wylia @lesbianpepsi @jennasfav @alyciaddict @justafoolinlove @steffido1993 @niqmandu @severelyuniquereview @darklron @ravenousinferno @smut-religiously777 @beautifulmongerbanditsalad @vanatalye @morganismspam23

masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

The first thing Tara registered when she woke up was the throbbing behind her eyes—a dull, persistent ache that felt like someone had taken a mallet to her temples. The second thing was the uncomfortable crick in her neck from falling asleep at an angle that no chiropractor would approve of.

She blinked slowly, trying to orient herself. Papers were scattered across the coffee table in front of her—notes on the Cold War, timelines of the Cuban Missile Crisis, your chicken-scratch handwriting mixed with her annotations. Right. You'd both been studying at your place, sprawled across the couch with textbooks and highlighters, debating whether Khrushchev or Kennedy had been more responsible for the escalation.

A glance to her left revealed you passed out in the corner of the couch, head tilted back at what looked like an equally uncomfortable angle, one arm draped across your stomach. Your laptop was still balanced precariously on the armrest, screen dark.

Tara's phone said 2:47 AM in harsh blue light that made her headache intensify. Great.

This is what she got for forgetting her blue light glasses. She'd been staring at her laptop for hours, and now her brain was staging a revolt.

She needed painkillers.

Moving carefully so as not to wake you, Tara extracted herself from the couch. You didn't even stir, just made a soft sound and shifted slightly. She paused, watching the rise and fall of your chest for a moment before shaking herself. Painkillers. Focus.

The bathroom was down the hall, and she'd been here enough times to navigate in the dark. The cabinet above the sink was easy to find, and when she opened it, she found it neatly divided—the top shelf marked with a label maker tag that read "ANIKA" in blocky letters, the bottom shelf labeled "Y/N" in the same font.

Very organized. Very you.

Tara didn't linger on the observation, immediately scanning the shelves for anything that looked like Tylenol or Advil. Your shelf had the basics—a bottle of ibuprofen, some allergy medication, a few other over-the-counter things.

She reached for the ibuprofen, her fingers grazing it, when her hand accidentally knocked against another bottle. It tipped, nearly falling, and she caught it reflexively.

The label faced her.

Risperidone. 2mg. Take one tablet daily as prescribed.

Tara froze.

She knew that name. She'd seen it before, written on the bottles in Sam's medicine cabinet. The medication Sam took to help with her hallucinations, to keep her grounded when the past threatened to blur with the present.

Her eyes dropped to the other bottles on your shelf—some familiar, some not. Sertraline. Clonazepam. Names she recognized from Sam's careful explanations of what each one did, why she needed them.

The ibuprofen was forgotten in her other hand.

For a long moment, Tara just stood there, the bottle of risperidone held carefully like it might shatter. Her mind was racing—questions piling up so fast she couldn't sort through them. Why did you have these? How long had you been taking them? Did anyone else know?

The image of you passed out on the couch flashed through her mind—exhausted, vulnerable, completely unaware that she was standing in your bathroom holding pieces of something you'd never shared.

She carefully, deliberately, set the bottle back on the shelf. Not quite where it had been—her hands were shaking slightly—but close enough.

Then she closed the cabinet door with a quiet click, the painkillers completely forgotten.

"Tara?"

Your voice drifted from the living room, rough with sleep and confusion.

Tara's hand was still on the cabinet door. She took a breath, forcing her expression into something neutral before calling back, "Yeah, just—give me a minute. Using the bathroom."

It wasn't technically a lie. She was in the bathroom. Just not using it for its intended purpose.

She turned on the faucet, letting the water run while she tried to sort through the chaos in her head. She couldn't mention this. Couldn't just walk out there and ask why you had medication for hallucinations and anxiety and whatever else was in that cabinet.

You'd never offered that information. And going through your medicine cabinet—even accidentally, even with innocent intentions—felt like a violation of something.

Besides, you always got that stuff yourself. She'd noticed it before, how you were particular about your bathroom, about your space. How you deflected when Anika offered to grab something for you, always saying you'd get it.

Now she understood why.

Tara washed her hands, dried them, and took another steadying breath before opening the door.

You were sitting up now, rubbing your eyes, looking adorably disheveled and confused. "You okay?" you asked, voice still scratchy.

"Yeah, fine." The lie came easily, even as a million questions ricocheted through her mind. "Just woke up with a headache. Fell asleep weird."

"We both did." You stretched, wincing at what was probably a protesting muscle. "What time is it?"

"Almost three."

"Shit." You looked at the papers scattered everywhere, the evidence of your study session. "We really passed out hard."

"Cold War politics will do that to you."

You smiled, soft and sleepy, and Tara felt something twist in her chest. You looked so normal. So much like yourself. And yet there was this whole other layer she hadn't known about, hadn't even suspected.

"You should take my bed," you said, standing and trying to gather some of the papers. "I'll just crash here."

Tara raised an eyebrow. "You don't have to be weird about sharing a bed when you've literally seen me naked."

You stuttered slightly, papers nearly slipping from your hands. "I—that's—I'm gonna knock out again anyway. Staying on the couch."

There was something in your voice, just a hint of deflection that Tara might not have noticed before. But now, with the knowledge of that cabinet sitting heavy in her mind, she heard it clearly.

You were keeping distance. Maintaining boundaries she hadn't realized you needed.

"Okay," she said instead of pushing. "Goodnight, dork."

You mumbled something that might have been goodnight back, already settling back into your corner of the couch.

Tara headed to your room, closing the door softly behind her. She sat on the edge of your bed for a long moment, staring at nothing, trying to reconcile what she knew with what she'd just discovered.

Sam took risperidone because she'd been through trauma. Because Ghostface had left scars that went deeper than skin. Because sometimes she saw things that weren't there, heard her father's voice, felt the past creeping into the present.

And you took it too.

The implications sat heavy in Tara's chest as she finally laid down, pulling your blanket around her. Your pillow smelled like your shampoo, and she pressed her face into it, trying to quiet her mind.

When she glanced back through the cracked door, you were already passed out again, one arm flung over your eyes, completely still.

She didn't sleep much after that.

------

When you woke up, neck protesting the couch's lack of support, the apartment was quiet in that specific way that meant you were alone.

You sat up slowly, rubbing your face, and noticed immediately that Tara's shoes were gone from where she'd kicked them off by the door. Her jacket wasn't on the chair.

Your phone said 7:23 AM. Early enough that she might've had a class, or maybe she'd just wanted to get back to her own place.

That's when you noticed the post-it note stuck to your shoulder.

NERD.

Just that, in Tara's handwriting, with a little doodle of what might have been a middle finger or possibly just a very abstract flower. Hard to tell.

You smiled despite yourself, pulling the note off and setting it on the coffee table.

No text. Just the note.

That was fine. Normal, even. You'd see her later anyway.

You stood, stretching, and headed to the bathroom to brush your teeth and attempt to look like a functional human being. When you opened the medicine cabinet to grab your toothbrush, you froze.

The bottles on your shelf were slightly off. Not by much—most people wouldn't notice. But you noticed. You always noticed.

The risperidone was two inches to the left of where you kept it. The sertraline was at a slight angle. The clonazepam had been moved forward.

Someone had touched them.

Your heart rate picked up immediately, that familiar spike of anxiety that the medication was supposed to help manage. You grabbed the bottles, checking them quickly—nothing missing, caps all secure, everything accounted for.

But they'd been moved.

"Fuck," you muttered, setting them back in their proper places with shaking hands.

Anika wouldn't have touched your stuff. She knew better, knew you were particular about this, had never questioned why you kept that shelf so organized, so separate.

Which meant—

Tara.

She'd said she woke up with a headache. She'd been in the bathroom for more than a minute. She'd called back that she needed a moment.

"Fuck," you repeated, louder this time.

She'd seen them. She had to have. There was no other explanation for why they'd been moved, why the risperidone specifically was out of place.

You closed the cabinet harder than necessary, bracing your hands on the sink and staring at your reflection.

This was bad. This was really bad.

Tara hadn't mentioned anything. Hadn't asked. Which meant either she hadn't noticed—unlikely, given how observant she was—or she had noticed and was choosing not to say anything.

You weren't sure which option was worse.

You didn't text her.

What would you even say? Hey, did you go through my medicine cabinet and discover I'm on antipsychotics? Cool, cool, just checking.

So you went to class, went through the motions, tried to focus on anything other than the growing knot of anxiety in your stomach.

You were walking across campus, heading toward the library, when you saw her.

Tara was sitting on one of the benches near the quad, laptop balanced on her knees, completely absorbed in whatever she was working on. Her hair was half-up, and she was wearing your flannel over her hoodie—the one she'd stolen weeks ago and refused to give back.

For a moment, you just watched her. The afternoon sunlight caught her profile, that familiar little crinkle between her eyebrows that meant she was deep in thought. Her posture was slightly tense, shoulders up, one hand unconsciously playing with the drawstring of her hoodie.

You could walk away. Pretend you hadn't seen her, deal with this later or never.

But your feet carried you forward anyway.

"Hey."

She looked up, and something flickered across her face—surprise, maybe, or uncertainty. "Hey."

You gestured to the bench. "Can I sit?"

"I won't stop you." But she shifted her laptop, making room.

You sat, leaving a careful distance between you. Close enough to talk, far enough to maintain the careful pretense you'd both been performing for weeks.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. Just sat there, watching people cross the quad, the normal chaos of campus life moving around you.

"I didn't hear you leave," you said finally, keeping your voice soft. Not accusing. Just stating a fact.

Tara's fingers stilled on her laptop. "You were passed out. Didn't want to wake you."

"Could've texted."

"Could have," she agreed, but didn't offer an explanation for why she hadn't.

The silence stretched again, heavier this time.

You wanted to ask. Wanted to know if she'd seen, if she'd put the pieces together, if she was waiting for you to explain. But the words stuck in your throat, trapped behind years of carefully constructed walls.

"I should get to class," Tara said, starting to pack up her laptop.

"Yeah. Okay."

She stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder, and for a second you thought she might just walk away. Leave it unsaid, unacknowledged.

But she paused, looking down at you with an expression you couldn't quite read. "See you Thursday?"

"Yeah. Thursday."

She nodded, then turned and walked away, your flannel billowing slightly in the breeze.

You watched her go, that knot in your stomach tightening.

When you got back to your apartment later, you went straight to the bathroom. Checked the cabinet again, even though you'd already checked it three times that day.

The bottles were exactly where you'd left them this morning. Perfectly aligned, properly organized.

But you could still see them as they'd been when you first opened the cabinet—shifted, touched, evidence of Tara's presence.

"Fuck," you breathed, closing your eyes and leaning against the sink.

She knew. She had to know.

And you had no idea what to do about it.

Your phone buzzed. For a wild second, you thought it might be Tara, finally bringing it up, finally asking the questions you could see building behind her eyes.

But it was just Anika, asking if you wanted takeout for dinner.

You typed back a thumbs up, then stared at your phone for a long moment.

No messages from Tara. Just like this morning. Just like all day.

The silence felt louder than any conversation could have been.

And somewhere in the back of your mind, a small voice whispered what you'd been trying not to think: She saw, and now everything's different.

You closed the medicine cabinet, the click of the door echoing in the small bathroom.

Different.

The word sat heavy in your chest as you walked back to your room, trying to convince yourself that different didn't have to mean broken.

But the bottles had been moved.

And Tara hadn't said a word.

[natsaffection]

Glass between us. Pt 2 | N.R

Older!Natasha! × Younger!Reader

Warnings: Age gap (N=31, r=23), parents death, infection, sickness

Word count: 14,1k

A/N: Because I got spammed, I split it again! The final part will be posted tomorrow at the same time.

Part 1

The first few hours after the quarantine sealed felt less like time passing and more like being pinned inside it.

The emergency lights had long since stopped flashing, but the red seemed to linger anyway, smeared into everyone’s vision and staining the edges of the lab with that same low, hostile warning. Tony had not left and Natasha had not expected him to, but there was still something brutal in witnessing the exact form his guilt took. He had moved with the kind of focus that looked almost calm from a distance, but only if someone didn’t know him.

Within an hour, the layout of the quarantine space had changed entirely. Tony had torn apart half the adjoining lab and rebuilt it into a secondary containment chamber connected to the infected room by a sealed transfer corridor, a pressure locked extension with transparent walls and independent filtration, meant to give you more space without breaking the quarantine. He’d converted a storage wing into a livable unit with a speed that should have been impossible even for him. New air scrubbers hummed behind reinforced panels and a narrow bed had been bolted to the wall and then softened with actual blankets Pepper had sent down at some point without entering the room. Tony had even rigged a food transfer system into the far wall, a compact stainless steel compartment that could be sealed from both sides and sterilized between uses so things could pass through without direct exposure.

It was the closest he could get to making the situation survivable and Natasha knew enough about the way Tony loved to understand that every added square foot of space, every welded seam, every upgraded filtration cycle was him trying to say the only thing he could not fix with words.

Stay alive. Stay alive. Stay alive.

Now, hours later, the rebuilt containment suite glowed under sterile white light. On one side of the transparent barrier, the lab had become a war room. Bruce stood at the central console with his sleeves rolled to the elbow, one hand braced against the table while the other moved through a field of molecular mapping. Dr. Cho had arrived not long ago and slipped into the work with two more specialists Bruce had called in remotely were patched onto side screens.

The virus had not spread beyond the sealed chamber, but that was the only good news they had. Because the more they studied it, the worse it became. It was not only biological..the nanite substrate supported the viral structure, allowing it to replicate and adapt through both organic and synthetic pathways. It could drift in particulate form, respond to environmental conditions and alter its own behavior depending on host contact. It behaved like a pathogen written by something that hated the difference between machine and body and intended to erase it.

And you had been standing in the middle of it. Natasha sat on the floor beside the barrier, one knee drawn up and one arm folded loosely over it, posture so still she could have been mistaken for calm if anyone had looked only briefly. But Natasha had long ago learned how to hold herself like stillness while everything underneath strained hard enough to crack bone.

On the other side of the glass, you sat on the floor too. You had spent the initial stretch moving around the new space with the uneasy caution of someone inhabiting a room that had been built too quickly and for terrible reasons. Natasha had watched you test the edges of it, the bed first, pressing a hand to the blanket as if uncertain whether to laugh or cry at the fact it was there at all. Then the sink, the table, the sealed transfer compartment. You had looked at each new addition with that same bright, careful expression you wore whenever you were trying to make other people feel less guilty about the effort they were making for you.

When you realized Natasha was still there, you had crossed the room and slid down against the glass opposite her. Now your shoulder rested lightly against the transparent wall and yours was the first face Natasha had seen uninterrupted for hours.

You looked pale and Natasha’s fingers curled once against her sleeve, then loosened. She had not cried, the tears had risen more than once, but she had not let them fall. Not here and definitely not while Tony and Bruce were tearing themselves apart to understand what was happening. Not while you were trapped inside a room designed to keep the rest of the world safe from what was around you. Someone had to stay steady.

Natasha had built a life out of being steady. So she sat there with the ache in her throat and the pressure behind her eyes and the girl she had finally, finally been brave enough to ask on a date only to have the universe answer by slamming a quarantine door between them.

You gave her a small smile, it was tired and a little uneven but it was yours. “Well.” you said through the speaker system, “This is cozy.”

Natasha’s mouth almost moved. “You have a bed.”

“Yes.” You glanced back at it with exaggerated approval. “I’m basically in luxury containment.”

“Tony overcompensates when he’s panicking.”

“Yeah.” Your smile gentled at once. “He does.”

Across the room, Tony’s hands stopped moving for the briefest fraction of a second at the sound of your voice. He did not turn around and did not say anything, but Natasha saw the line of his shoulders pull tighter. And you saw it too, because your gaze dropped away from him almost immediately and returned to Natasha’s.

For a while neither of you spoke, Natasha listened to the room instead. Bruce asking Dr. Cho for another pass on the structural integration between viral shell and nanite framework. Cho requesting environmental variance simulations. FRIDAY reporting contamination density inside the initial exposure zone. Someone on one of the remote screens saying, in clipped disbelief, that the code seemed to be “learning from the medical scans.”

The tension in the room never dipped, it only shifted shape. At some point the sealed transfer compartment clicked softly and a tray slid into your side of the wall: water, a bowl of soup, a protein bar, utensils sealed in sterile wrapping. Tony had designed the system in less than twenty minutes and Pepper had evidently decided that if he was going to keep rebuilding the laws of engineering instead of sleeping, then at minimum food would be involved.

You looked at the tray and then at Natasha. „I feel like a very sad zoo animal.” you murmured and this time Natasha did smile, though it was more in her eyes than in her mouth. “You’re comparing Stark technology to a feeding enclosure.”

“I’m saying it’s efficient.”

From the central lab, Tony’s dry voice cut in without him looking up. “You’re welcome.”

You startled just enough to betray that you hadn’t thought he was listening. Then you leaned slightly toward the speaker. “Thank you.”

That got him to glance at you finally. “Eat.” It should have sounded rude but it sounded like pleading. You obeyed because everyone in the room knew it mattered more when you did. You opened the soup and managed a few spoonfuls before Natasha saw the first shift. The smallest pause between one movement and the next. Your hand had been steady enough a moment earlier, but when you lifted the spoon again it trembled once before you corrected it.

Natasha’s gaze sharpened and you noticed. „It’s just weird eating while being observed by five geniuses and Natasha Romanoff.” you said lightly. “The pressure’s unreal.”

“You’re deflecting.” Natasha said.

You rested your head back against the glass with a quiet huff. “That’s not a denial.”

“No.”

That made you smile again and you reached for the water instead and took a sip. Then you coughed..just one sharp catch in your chest, one interruption too sudden for how still the room had been. But it happened again immediately after and folding you slightly forward.

Everything in the lab changed. Tony was moving before the second cough finished leaving you. His chair scraped across the floor so hard it nearly tipped. Bruce looked up at once and Cho was already pulling your live biometrics onto the main screen before anyone asked.

“Y/n?” Tony said too quickly and you lifted one hand at him without looking up, still coughing into your elbow. Natasha was on her feet before she consciously decided to stand. When you straightened, your breathing had gone shallow. You smiled immediately and Natasha wanted to shake you for it. “I’m fine.”

No one believed you, “That wasn’t nothing.”

“It was coughing.”

“That’s generally implied by the sound, yes.” he snapped, the words firing out too fast to be anger and too jagged to be anything else. “What does it feel like?”

You hesitated for less than a second, “Dry..” you said. “Maybe a little pressure.”

“How much pressure?”

“Tony-”

“How much?”

Your eyes flicked toward Natasha then and she hated the answer she saw there before you even gave it. You were calculating him and measuring how much truth he could survive without breaking further.

“A little.”

Bruce muttered something low and frustrated under his breath while Cho pulled the respiratory curve apart in three separate windows. Tony leaned both hands against the central console, staring so hard at the data it looked like he could force it to rearrange into something less dangerous.

You tried to lighten it and Natasha knew you were going to before you even opened your mouth because your expression shifted into that too bright thing she was beginning to understand as its own kind of shield.

“This definitely wasn’t how I pictured going out.”

The room froze around the sentence and no one answered. “I assumed it would be something cooler. A dramatic sacrifice, maybe in an alien invasion. Maybe I’d finally get crushed under one of Tony’s morally questionable ceiling projects.” You gave a weak little shrug. “I don’t know..hero death. Something embarrassing but noble..Kind of like my father.”

Tony’s hands stopped moving and Natasha’s head turned. He had gone still in a way she had learned to recognize as dangerous. He did not look at you, he did not let himself, but Natasha watched the memory move through him anyway.

It crossed his face in one shadowed flicker and then vanished, buried under motion as he turned back to the interface with even greater force than before. Natasha had heard enough from Pepper and seen enough in Tony’s silences to understand what that sentence had done.

A cave of scrap metal and blood dark stone. A man in military gear on the dirt floor, the wound too catastrophic for improvisation and too human for all of Tony Stark’s genius to stop. Hands slick with someone else’s blood while they try to press life back into a body. Him looking at him not with blame but with urgency, telling him the one thing that mattered more than his own pain.

Take care of her.

Natasha could almost hear it in the silence after your joke.

Take care of her.

Tony’s jaw flexed once so hard it looked painful. Bruce, bless him, chose not to force sound into the space. He only shifted closer to Tony and began running a secondary analysis on the cough as if giving him somewhere else to put the memory.

You, on the other side of the glass, seemed to realize a second too late what you had touched. Your smile faltered and Natasha saw it happen. Saw the flicker of regret, the immediate instinct to patch the moment before it could wound anyone further.

“Hey..” you said more softly. “I’m sorry. Bad joke.”

Tony did not turn around. “Don’t.” he said and you went quiet. For a long moment there was only the sound of systems working. Natasha lowered herself back to the floor because her knees had gone tight enough to hurt. She sat closer this time, until the side of her shoulder nearly brushed the barrier. You followed without thinking, shifting a little too until there was only inches of reinforced glass between you.

“I’m sorry about the evening.”

Natasha looked at you sharply. Your eyes were on the floor now, on your own hands. “I know tonight was supposed to be…” You let out a thin breath that might have become a laugh in another universe. “Less plague adjacent.”

“No.”

You looked up and Natasha’s voice was immediate, “No. Do not apologize for that.”

“But-”

“No.”

There was more force in it than she had meant to show and the result was that you stilled completely. The room behind Natasha continued to move around data and fear and urgency, but between the two of you everything narrowed.

“You do not apologize.” she said again, „Not for the evening. Not for what happened. Natasha held your gaze until she knew you understood she meant it. Behind her, she heard Tony shift. Evening..

It had caught him too because evening meant something now. Not a future date with hopeful edges and a restaurant reservation no one would keep. Evening meant promise interrupted and it meant a few feet of glass and a girl he had sworn, years ago in a cave that smelled like metal and blood, that he would protect.

When Natasha glanced back only briefly, she saw him staring not at the screen but through it, eyes unfocused. His hands had gone slack on the console and the memory had him again. Your father’s breaths getting thinner and thinner, while Tony told him to stay awake, stay with him, don’t do this, don’t and your father, in some final terrible clarity, saying your name.

Look out for her. Promise me.

And Tony, because what else could he do with a dying man asking for the only thing that might outlive him, saying yes. Now the promise stood on the other side of a quarantine wall surrounded by a deathly haze and a system no one yet knew how to beat.

Tony blinked once and came back into the room with the kind of brutality only grief could make functional.

“Cho. I want host response modeling based on the pulmonary shift. Banner, isolate every environmental trigger we’ve logged since exposure. I don’t care how small, I want all of it.”

You watched Tony for a second longer, your expression softening in that pained, helpless way Natasha was beginning to despise because it meant you were worrying about him now too. Then you looked back at Natasha and gave a smaller shrug.

“I really am okay.” you said quietly and Natasha said nothing. Because that was the thing. You weren’t okay and both of you knew that pretending otherwise did not make it less visible. It only made it lonelier.

So instead of contradicting you, Natasha asked, “Can you breathe?”

You looked almost surprised by the question. Then, “Yes.”

“Does it hurt?”

“A little.”

Natasha nodded once, as if the answer were manageable simply because it was honest. The hours after that settled into a strange shape. The lab worked around the clock and without mercy. Bruce and Cho built models of the viral nanite interface while Tony chased every hypothetical route to destabilization, interruption, purge. Remote specialists came and went from the monitors as fresh data replaced old assumptions. Every breakthrough lasted minutes at most before the next layer of the

No one ate properly and no one rested. Tony refused a chair for most of it. Bruce drank coffee that had gone cold long before he noticed. And through all of it, Natasha stayed where she was. Eventually, when the first shock burned down into something steadier and crueler, you disappeared from the glass for a few minutes and returned carrying a deck of cards.

Natasha lifted one brow and you sat down again, “I found these in one of the drawers.”

You held one card up to the glass. “War?”

Natasha looked at the deck, then at you. Then she shifted closer and nodded once. So that was how the next stretch of night passed: the world tilting toward catastrophe around you while the two of you played cards separated by reinforced barrier glass. You dealt on your side and Natasha mirrored the draw on hers with a second deck Tony must have shoved at her hours ago without comment.

It would have been ridiculous in any other circumstance. Maybe it was ridiculous here too but it gave your hands something to do and your breathing something to settle around. It gave Natasha a reason to keep looking at you without calling it watching.

Sometimes you talked, sometimes you didn’t. Sometimes Bruce asked you questions through the speaker about timing, symptoms, what the air had smelled like when the chamber first vented. Sometimes Cho requested that you move to a specific scanner panel so they could compare thermal data across progression markers. Sometimes Tony pretended not to be listening to anything but the code while hearing every sound you made.

At one point you won three rounds in a row and looked unbearably pleased with yourself for it. “At least I’m thriving somewhere.” you said.

Natasha placed another card down. “You’re cheating.”

“Through the glass?”

“You’d find a way.”

“That is, frankly, the nicest thing anyone’s said to me today.”

Natasha’s gaze rested on your face a second too long. “That’s not true.”

Something in your expression flickered, warmed, then turned careful again. “No.” you admitted. “It’s not.”

Hours kept moving. At some point the cough returned, softer this time but more frequent. Not enough to stop everything each time, but enough that Natasha heard it before anyone else now. Enough that she watched you brace your hand on the floor after one of them passed. Enough that she saw the way Tony’s shoulders twitched every single time even when he didn’t turn around.

Near what had to be somewhere past midnight, though the lab had lost all relation to real time, the room quieted in a different way. Tony was staring at three branching cure models at once, each of them wrong in a different direction. On the floor by the glass, Natasha drew another card and didn’t place it. She looked at you instead and you noticed after a second and glanced up. “What?”

Natasha was silent for long enough that you straightened a little. Then she asked, “Why did you do it?”

The card in your hand stopped moving. Behind Natasha, the room did not pause but for her, it narrowed instantly again, just as it had earlier. All the background motion blurred into nothing compared to your face.

You knew what she meant. Not Why did you close the seal, that answer was obvious. Not Why did you save everyone, that answer existed in facts and systems and consequences. She meant why had you been the one to run back without hesitation. Why had your body chosen before fear could. Why had you thrown yourself toward the thing everyone else was fleeing from.

You looked down at the deck and then at your own knees. Then somewhere over Natasha’s shoulder where no answer waited.

“I don’t know.” You let out one breath through your nose, almost a laugh, but not amused. “I know that’s not a very satisfying answer.”

“It’s honest.”

You turned one card over and over between your fingers. “I saw the countdown..I saw the door hadn’t sealed.” You swallowed. “And then…” A small helpless motion lifted one of your shoulders. “I don’t know. I just moved.”

Natasha watched you carefully as you went on more quietly. “I didn’t think about it. I wasn’t trying to…” You searched for the word and failed to find one that didn’t sound unbearable. “I just knew if nobody hit that override, it wouldn’t only be us.”

“You were thinking about them.”

You shook your head slightly. “I was thinking there wasn’t time.”

That landed harder than heroism would have and maybe because it was truer. “You do that all the time.” you said.

Natasha’s brow drew in slightly. “Do what?”

“Run toward horrible things because there isn’t time.” Your mouth softened around something that was not quite a smile. “You go out there with the Avengers every day knowing any mission could be the one that doesn’t end well. You could get shot, hit by a car or lose a fight.” You glanced down again. “I could’ve died in a car accident today too. Or choked on bad coffee. Or gotten flattened by one of Tony’s ceiling disasters like I said.” Your voice turned quieter. “Life doesn’t exactly file a warning notice first.”

Natasha stared at you and there it was again, that infuriating, impossible way you had of taking the sharpest truths and holding them out gently anyway. “That’s different.” Natasha said, though even to her own ears it lacked force.

You tilted your head. “Is it?”

“Yes.”

“Because I’m not supposed to be the one doing it?”

Natasha’s jaw tightened. “No, because you weren’t supposed to be trapped behind a wall while the rest of us watch.“

You set the card down and on the other side of the glass, your hand came up and rested flat against it without ceremony, as if the movement had happened before you fully decided on it. Natasha looked at it for a second, then she lifted her own and set it opposite yours. Only glass between them..again.

“You’re watching because you care.” Natasha did not blink. “That’s not a bad thing.”

A sound broke across the room then. Tony had braced both hands against the console again to signal he’d just hit the edge of control and forced himself back from it. Bruce shifted closer to him, speaking too quietly for the words to carry. Cho kept her eyes on the screen and gave Tony the grace of pretending not to have seen.

You looked over Natasha’s shoulder toward him and the concern in your face cut cleanly through the already unbearable night. Natasha saw it and thought, not for the first time, that maybe the cruelest thing about you was that even now, even in there, you had not stopped loving outward. When she looked back at you, your eyes had gone softer again. “Natasha.”

She leaned closer without realizing she was doing it. “What?”

You looked like you were deciding whether to say something risky. Then, perhaps because the room was full of too much fear and too little truth, you chose honesty. “I’m glad it was you.”

The exact same words as the night before. The exact same sentence and not remotely the same meaning. Natasha felt something pull hard in her chest and her hand flattened harder against the glass. “I’m here.”

Behind them, the lab kept working. Tony and Bruce and Cho kept trying to understand it the virus, to break it, outthink it, cure it..But on the floor at the edge of the barrier, with cards scattered between them and exhaustion wearing through every layer of defense, Natasha sat with you in the cold white light and watched every slight change in your breathing, every careful smile, every cough you pretended didn’t hurt.

Natasha did what she knew how to do when someone she cared about was standing too close to pain. She asked questions.

Had you always liked science fiction, or had Tony simply indoctrinated you into it before you had legal recourse? Which Avenger had the worst taste in music? Why did you own three identical screwdrivers and insist they each had a different “emotional purpose”? Did you actually prefer tea to coffee or was that some elaborate rebellion against lab culture? You answered all of it with increasing animation as the hours wore on, your hands moving when you forgot to keep them still, your smile turning real more often than fragile.

And Natasha against all logic, against the room, against the fear pressing against the back of everything..found herself relaxing into it too. She learned that your favorite food changed depending on the day but that you could always be bribed with dumplings. That when you were little, you’d once tried to build your own radio because Tony had told you not to touch one of his and the resulting explosion had singed your eyebrows clean off for a month. You told that story with enough deadpan dignity that even Bruce, half lost in viral models at the far console, let out a faint strangled laugh.

Natasha gave less of herself at first. Then, bit by bit, more. You asked what her favorite meal was and she answered before she could decide not to. You asked what kind of weather she liked best and she said cold, overcast mornings because they made the world feel honest. You asked what she’d wanted, years ago, before everything became this. Natasha was quiet for long enough that you looked as though you regretted asking, but then she said, “Peace.” and your face changed into something so soft and understanding that she almost wished she hadn’t said it after all.

By late afternoon the light outside the tower had begun to change, that was when Natasha finally stood. You looked up from where you were sitting cross legged on the floor by the glass, “Where are you going?”

Natasha smoothed one hand over the side of her pants, more to give herself something to do than out of any need. “To take a shower.”

Your expression shifted immediately into suspicion. “That sounds fake.”

„Everything sounds fake when I say it now?”

“Mostly, yes.”

That almost got her. “I’ve been down here for hours.”

You considered that. “Fair.” A small smile touched your mouth. “You’re allowed to leave the haunted science bunker for hygiene reasons.”

Natasha inclined her head as if granting you a tremendous favor. “Good.”

You watched her a second longer than necessary and there was affection in it now so open she could feel it from where she stood. “Come back?”

The question was light, if someone only listened briefly. But Natasha heard what sat beneath it. “Yes.”

That answer satisfied you enough that you leaned your head back against the wall again and let out a quiet breath. “Okay.”

Natasha turned before the expression on your face could settle too deeply into her chest and walked toward the doors. Halfway there, she caught FRIDAY’s sensor light shift toward her. In the corridor just outside the lab, Natasha slowed and spoke low enough that the others inside could not hear. “FRIDAY.”

“Yes, Natasha?”

“I need you to keep her distracted for a while.”

FRIDAY was far too advanced not to recognize the tone and for all Tony’s impossible habits, his systems knew when not to ask unnecessary questions.

“Of course.” FRIDAY replied.

Natasha nodded once and kept moving. She did take a shower quickly, but more to wash the cold chemical scent of the lab from her skin than for any true sense of refreshment. She changed afterward, standing in front of her room’s mirror for longer than she wanted to admit, trying and failing to pretend she wasn’t thinking about what to wear for a date that should have happened somewhere else entirely.

In the end, she chose something simple. She looked at herself once, sharply, as if daring her reflection to comment on how absurd this all was. Then she left before she could talk herself out of it. On the way back down, she ordered takeout from a place she had meant to take you eventually anyway, a restaurant Tony would have called pretentious and then stolen half the menu from if given the chance.

When Natasha returned to the lab floor, FRIDAY was doing exactly what had been asked. You were in the containment room standing near one of the side screens while the AI projected a rotating set of absurdly specific trivia questions at you. Something about obscure historical engineering failures.

You were arguing with the display. “That bridge collapse was not user error..” you said with sleepy indignation. “That was aggressively avoidable design arrogance.”

“Would you like me to log that as your final answer?” FRIDAY asked.

“Yes.”

“Incorrect.”

You gasped. “This system is rigged!!”

Tony, from the far side of the lab, said without looking up, “You’re arguing with a computer I pay to be smarter than all of us.”

“And yet she still enables you!” you shot back and Natasha felt warmth spread through her before she had even stepped fully into the room. In the few minutes she had been gone, someone..most likely Bruce at Natasha’s request conveyed through FRIDAY, or Pepper through sheer practical force of will, had cleared a small space not far from the barrier. Natasha carried in a foldable table from one of the side storage areas herself, setting it carefully in the open spot near the glass. She draped a spare dark cloth over it, smoothing the corners with more attention than the makeshift setup probably deserved.

From a cabinet she took two plates, two sets of cutlery, two glasses. Then, because she had found one in a forgotten holiday box shoved behind old Stark Expo decorations, she placed a single battery lit candle in the center. Bruce looked up first, blinked once, then deliberately looked back down as though granting privacy through studied noninterference. Tony noticed last, because he had buried himself inside a live model of the viral matrix so deeply he was halfway to forgetting his own pulse. When he did finally look up, his gaze moved from the table to Natasha and then somewhere softer.

Once everything was set, Natasha turned toward the containment room. You were still near the monitor, distracted enough by FRIDAY’s nonsense that you hadn’t yet properly seen what she was doing.

“Y/n.”

You turned and stopped. For one second you only stared, then your eyes moved over the little table, the candle, the plates and the takeout bags resting neatly beside Natasha’s hand. The lab seemed to hold itself quieter around the moment and Natasha’s voice was lower now, “We still have a date.”

It was such a simple sentence but it shattered you. Natasha saw it happen in real time, the surprise first and followed immediately by something deeper and far more fragile. Your face crumpled not into grief exactly, but into overwhelming feeling, the kind that arrives too fast for a person to hide. Your eyes filled before you could stop them and you blinked hard once, then again, as if trying to keep the tears from actually falling.

Then you laughed once under the breath that followed, not because anything was funny, but because your heart had nowhere else to put itself. “Oh my God.”

Natasha’s own chest tightened painfully. You looked down for a moment and when you looked back up, your eyes were wet and luminous under the containment lights.

“..You did this?”

Natasha rested one hand lightly against the back of her chair. “Yes.”

“For me?”

Her gaze never left yours. “Yes.”

That was what did it and one tear escaped despite your effort, tracing down your cheek almost absently and you laughed again, this time smaller and embarrassed by your own emotion and unable to stop it.

“Hang on..” you said, already turning away, swiping quickly at your face with the heel of your hand. “I need..I need a chair. I can’t…give me a second.”

Natasha watched you hurry awkwardly across the room to the small table Tony had installed earlier. There was one chair tucked near it and another folded against the wall. You grabbed the nearest with slightly clumsy hands, dragged it across the floor, then set it down opposite Natasha’s position at the barrier so that if the glass had not been there, the two of you would have been seated exactly across from each other.

You sat, smoothing your hands over your knees once as if to compose yourself, and by the time you looked back up your smile had returned, though your eyes were still shining. “Okay.” you said softly.

Natasha sat too. Then, carefully, she began unpacking the food. One by one, Natasha loaded part of the meal into the transfer compartment: dumplings, noodles, vegetables, a small container of sauce, even dessert folded into a neat paper carton. She sealed the outside door, activated sterilization and a moment later the inner lock on your side clicked green.

You looked at the food, then at her. “This is absurdly romantic for a woman who claimed she doesn’t make a thing of things.”

Natasha poured water into her glass. “You talk too much.”

“Only when emotionally compromised.”

“I noticed.”

You retrieved the meal from the compartment with a care that suggested it mattered far beyond hunger. Natasha hated how much she loved watching your face shift from surprise to tenderness to that bright helpless happiness she had come to crave without permission. For a little while, the room around you disappeared.

Tony, Bruce and Cho still moved across the lab, still worked, still chased an answer with the kind of relentless focus desperate people bring to impossible problems. Now and then voices rose and fell behind you, indistinct enough to fade into atmosphere. But the center of the room changed because there was a date happening.

“Tell me if the food’s terrible.”

You took your first bite and closed your eyes for half a second. “If this is terrible, then I’m willing to lower my standards permanently.”

That got a real smile from her. You looked absurdly pleased by it, and took another bite. For the first few minutes the conversation stayed easy in the way all careful things do before they trust themselves enough to deepen. Natasha learned that your answer changed based on mood, weather and whether you were in the middle of a project severe enough to destroy your ability to remember hunger.

You declared dumplings “universally healing” pasta “emotionally dependable” and good fries “the final proof that civilization deserved to survive.” Natasha informed you that this last category was too broad to be taken seriously.

You told her the tiny noodle place two blocks from the tower was better than any expensive Stark approved dining room and that Tony had once tried to buy the building because they refused to add truffle oil to the menu. Then, because dinner and candlelight and your soft expression made honesty easier, the conversation shifted.

“What do you want?” you asked after a while.

Natasha looked up. “In what sense?”

You gestured vaguely with your chopsticks, then immediately lowered them and swallowed because Natasha’s look suggested manners still existed in quarantine. “In…general. In a relationship, I guess.”

For a second Natasha simply watched you. The question itself was vulnerable enough. But the way you asked it..a little shy, a little hopeful, trying to sound casual and failing with such earnest sweetness that it hurt was worse. She leaned back slightly in her chair. “You ask dangerous questions over takeout.”

You smiled. “You asked me out. I’m capitalizing.”

Her eyes lingered on you, then dropped briefly to the candle between them, “Honesty.“ she said finally and went on, “No games, no guessing. I’ve had enough of both.”

“That makes sense.”

“And loyalty.” Natasha added. “Calm. Someone who doesn’t turn affection into performance.”

Something in your face shifted with painful tenderness. “Okay.” you said, barely above a murmur and Natasha tilted her head. “And you?”

You looked down at your plate for a second, then up again. “Safety. Not boring safe..Just…” You searched for it carefully. “The kind where I don’t feel like I have to be useful every second to deserve being kept around. The kind where I can be a mess sometimes and it doesn’t scare the other person off.” You smiled a little, embarrassed by your own honesty now. “Someone who stays.”

Natasha felt the whole room narrow around that. Because whatever defenses she still had left did not stand much chance against you saying something like that while trapped on the other side of a glass wall she could not break.

“You should have that.”

The speaker carried your next breath between you. “I know.” Then, “I think I could. With you.”

Natasha’s hand tightened around her fork and you seemed to realize what you had just admitted only after it was already there in the room. “Sorry. That was..maybe too much for one date.”

“It wasn’t too much.”

Your expression turned openly relieved, so Natasha asked another question before either of you drowned in the one she actually wanted to. “Favorite movie.”

You laughed, recognizing the rescue for what it was and accepting it anyway. “That’s not fair. I need categories.”

“No.”

“Natasha.”

“One answer.”

The conversation went on like that, wandering and returning and wandering again. Favorite books, worst music, what kind of mornings you both preferred. Whether either of you believed in fate or whether that was only something people said when trying to make chaos feel polite. You admitted that you hated being interrupted when reading but secretly loved when someone brought you tea without asking. Natasha confessed she had once learned three languages at once simply because she was bored and angry. You stared at her across the glass as if she were personally unreasonable. At some point you laughed so hard at one of Natasha’s dry observations about Tony’s “creative relationship with safety regulations” that you had to set your fork down and wipe at your eyes.

At some point Natasha forgot to track the room..at some point you both did. The candle glowed low and warm between you and the food disappeared gradually from both plates. Your posture loosened andNatasha’s did too. There were long stretches where neither of you spoke immediately because just looking at each other seemed enough. In another place, in another world, it would have been easy..

The glass became invisible. Your voice came through the speaker so clearly, your expressions reached her so immediately, your laughter landed with such warmth that for long stretches Natasha stopped feeling the barrier as a thing between you and started experiencing it only as a forgotten detail in the architecture of the room. Until the end of the meal, when the illusion broke.

It happened quietly, you had just said something and Natasha could not have recalled what afterward, only that it was soft and teasing and made her look at you in that unguarded way she had been doing more and more all evening. You smiled back at her with the same openness, the candlelight catching in your eyes and there was a moment then where nothing in either of you seemed interested in distance.

Natasha set her hand on the table and without thinking, you did the same. Fingers were drifting, only following the pull that had been there all night and all the nights before it. Then your fingertips met cold glass and the sound was soft. Both of you froze and the illusion shattered so cleanly it almost hurt physically.

There it was again..the barrier, hard and transparent and absolute. The wall you had both somehow managed to forget for an hour. Your hand flattened against it on instinct and Natasha’s did too, but where skin should have met skin there was only the sterile chill of reinforced separation.

The mood in the room changed instantly. Your expression dimmed first and the brightness in it folding inward. Natasha saw the exact second disappointment flickered across your face before you tried to hide it. Her own chest tightened with such force it almost qualified as pain.

For a long moment neither of you moved. Then you let out the smallest breath and looked down, smiling faintly in the way people do when trying to make something gentler than it is. “Well..” you said quietly. “That was aggressively rude of reality.”

Natasha almost laughed, though it came out as something rougher and softer at once. “It has bad timing.”

“Yeah.”

Then, because both of you were trying, you looked back up and lifted your brows with determined lightness. “On the bright side, at least I can’t steal your dessert.”

Natasha took the paper carton from beside her plate and held it up slightly. “You assume I was going to share.”

“I told you what I want in a relationship and you respond with emotional cruelty.”

“Correct.”

That finally got your smile back and after that the evening wound down slowly. You both stayed at the table longer than necessary, stretching the conversation into smaller corners now that the meal itself was done. Natasha told you about a city she once visited and never had time to actually see. You told her about the kind of tiny house you used to imagine building when you were younger, all windows and bookshelves and too many plants for any reasonable person to manage. Natasha said you would absolutely kill at least half the plants. You admitted this was likely but insisted love should count for something.

The other scientists faded further into the edges of things. Cho eventually left the main console for a side station and Bruce’s movements got slower with fatigue. Tony remained at the center of it all, tireless in that dangerous way that meant collapse would only come after someone forced it. Now and then Natasha felt his eyes flick over them before returning to the screens.

Eventually you rubbed one hand over your face and tried to hide the movement but Natasha noticed immediately. You saw her notice and made the universal expression of someone caught being more tired than they wanted to admit. “I’m okay.”

She stood and that seemed to startle you more than it should have. “What?”

“Go to bed.”

Your mouth curved faintly. “That sounded very authoritative.”

“I meant it that way.”

You looked toward the narrow bed built into the side of the containment space. The blankets were still turned down from earlier and the sight of it..so temporary and clinical made something in Natasha twist.

You pushed your chair back and stood too, a little more slowly than you had sat down in it, that did not escape Natasha either. You carried your dishes to the transfer compartment with exaggerated competence, clearly trying not to look as tired as you were. Natasha mirrored the motion on her side.

When everything had been cleared, you crossed the room and sat carefully on the edge of the bed. The containment lights had dimmed slightly into evening mode and you pulled one leg up onto the mattress and tucked the blanket around yourself with a small huff of movement. Then you looked over and found Natasha lowering herself back to the floor beside the barrier.

You blinked. “What are you doing?”

Natasha leaned one shoulder lightly against the glass, close enough that if the wall had not been there she would have been sitting at your bedside. “Staying with you.”

The answer came so simply that for a second you only stared. Then your whole expression changed and all the humor and careful brightness and stubborn composure softened into something quieter and deeper, a kind of wonder Natasha did not think she deserved and yet could not look away from.

“You don’t have to do that..”

“I know.”

Your throat moved with a swallow. “Natasha…”

She lifted her gaze to yours. “Go to sleep.”

You lay back slowly, pulling the blanket up with you. One hand stayed curled near your chest, the other drifted down to the mattress near the edge, almost unconsciously seeking the place closest to where Natasha sat on the other side.

For a while you kept talking. You asked if she was comfortable on the floor and Natasha said she had endured worse. You accused her of being impossible even while half asleep. She told you to stop talking and rest. You murmured that she was very bossy for someone who brought candlelit takeout to a biohazard containment zone.

Then even that thinned. Your eyelids grew heavier and words slowed. The room beyond you continued its relentless motion, all data and desperation and hope sharpened into labor, but around the bed a pocket of stillness formed. Natasha sat in it and guarded it with everything she had and at some point you opened your eyes again just enough to look at her.

“Hey.” you whispered.

Natasha looked up immediately. “What?”

“Thank you. For not letting tonight disappear.”

“It didn’t disappear.”

You looked at her for a second longer and then your mouth curved into the softest smile of the night. “Good.”

Your eyes closed again after that and Natasha stayed. She stayed while your breathing gradually evened out, though not entirely. There was still a faint catch in it every now and then that made her hands curl against her knees. She stayed while Bruce walked past once with a mug in his hand and deliberately did not interrupt. She stayed while Tony barked a frustrated order at one of the simulations and then went silent again. She stayed while FRIDAY dimmed the outer lab lights by five percent, perhaps sensing what kind of vigil this had become.

And when, sometime later, you shifted in sleep and your hand slid nearer the edge of the mattress, Natasha lifted her own and placed it quietly against the glass opposite your fingers. On the other side of the barrier, you slept in the bed built too quickly for a life that should not have needed saving like this. Outside it, beneath cold lab light and the hum of desperate machines, Natasha kept watch. She did not move and not sleep. And if, once or twice in the silence, her eyes burned with the tears she had refused all day, there was no one close enough to see them but the glass.

The next morning did not bring relief. It brought the kind of hope people manufactured by necessity, thin and careful and handled like glass because everyone in the room already knew what would happen if it cracked too hard. Natasha had not moved much during the night. At some point Bruce had draped a blanket over her shoulders without comment and gone back to his console or Tony had stopped pretending not to look over every few minutes just to make sure you were still breathing.

You had slept in fragments. Natasha knew because she heard every shift in the bed, every uneven breath, every low sound your throat made when sleep dragged you too quickly through dreams that were clearly not kind. Once, near dawn, you woke coughing again, quieter than before but longer, enough that Natasha was on her feet before the sound had fully broken the room. Tony had looked up so fast he nearly knocked over two sample trays and Cho had checked the monitors.

By morning the monitors proved it. The virus was progressing. Not through the containment room, but inward, inside you, it had changed its pattern. The particulate saturation in the original chamber remained dense but stable, while the readings tied to your own body had become more complex and more frightening. It was no longer just exposure..it was integration and the virus wasn’t merely spreading, no, it was learning how to live in you.

No one said that sentence aloud. Natasha saw it in the way Cho’s mouth tightened while reviewing your blood oxygen. In the way Bruce kept rereading the same molecular map as if he could force it to confess a weakness. In the way Tony worked with increasing speed and decreasing patience, his hands moving through six screens at once, jaw set hard enough to make every muscle in his face stand out.

And in you. It was in you too, though you kept pretending otherwise. The day wore on in intervals. Fluids through the sterile transfer and more talking than any of you wanted to do about your own condition because the second the room went quiet, everyone heard the coughing.

Natasha noticed the changes first because she had stopped paying attention to almost anything else. Your smile took longer to reach your eyes now. Your energy came in bursts and vanished faster. You held yourself too still between movements, conserving strength without wanting anyone to call it that. Once, when you stood too quickly from the chair by the little table, the room tilted visibly around you and your hand shot out to brace against the wall. You recovered almost immediately and pretended you had only stumbled because your sock had caught on the floor.

Natasha didn’t say anything, she only moved closer to the glass. You noticed and gave her that look..that infuriatingly gentle one that said yes, I know you see it, please let me keep pretending a little longer.

And Natasha let you. Not because she believed you..because dignity mattered and she had known too many people stripped of it by pain. By midafternoon Cho had enough blood panel data to begin constructing a targeted host response model. That was the first time the room shifted.

Because “progress” was a dangerous word in a place like that and yet the science had finally offered something that looked enough like a pathway to tempt everyone into believing it. Bruce called Tony over to the central display. Cho projected the nanite matrix in layered colors: viral protein structures in red, synthetic lattice in silver, the portions already binding within your bloodstream in a deep pulsing violet that looked too alive to be on a medical screen.

“It isn’t stable by itself.” Cho said, “That’s the first thing in our favor.”

Tony folded his arms. “Clarify ‘favor.’”

Bruce zoomed into a specific section of the pattern. “The viral shell depends on the nanite scaffold to maintain cohesion once it binds to host tissue. Without the scaffold, it degrades.”

“And without the virus..” Cho added, “the scaffold loses its propagation model.”

Tony’s eyes narrowed. “Meaning?”

Bruce looked up at him. “Meaning if we can break the bond between the two without triggering dispersal, both sides collapse.” There it was..The word no one said, but everyone heard anyway.

A cure.

Natasha saw it hit Tony in real time. Something sharp and dangerous and bright enough to make him stand straighter for the first time in hours. He turned back to the data with a focus that bordered on violent. “How?”

Cho brought up a molecular inhibitor sequence. “Not biologically. It adapts too fast..we just target the substrate.”

Bruce nodded. “A destabilizing pulse, narrow enough that it attacks the nanite support without aerosolizing the viral load.”

Tony was already three steps ahead. “Coupled with a suppressor to keep the host response from crashing when the bond breaks.”

“That’s the idea.” Cho said.

“And if it works?” Natasha asked and all three scientists looked at her. Bruce answered because Tony was already building the simulation. “If it works, it interrupts integration. Stops progression, maybe gives us a chance to clear what’s left before it rebinds.”

“Maybe?” Natasha repeated and Bruce’s face tightened. “We’ve never seen anything like this.”

Tony cut in, not looking up. “Then we build the part that’s missing.”

That set the next hours into motion. The lab transformed again, this time not into a containment ward or a war room but into something feverish and almost holy in its concentration. Tony built the prototype delivery system himself, hands moving with sleepless precision as he reconfigured a med pulse emitter into something far more specialized, everyone worked together.

Even FRIDAY sounded more alert, cross referencing model after model and for the first time since the quarantine had sealed, the room let itself lean toward something.

Hope.

You saw it in them too. From your side of the glass, sitting wrapped in a blanket on the bed while your oxygen monitor glowed faintly against your finger, you watched the shift happen and your whole expression changed in answer. When Natasha looked at you, you gave her the smallest smile.

“They found something..” you said quietly through the speaker and Natasha nodded once. Your eyes flicked to Tony, then Bruce, then Cho, following their movements with exhausted concentration. “Do you think it’ll work?”

Natasha had become allergic to promises in the last twenty four hours. She had no intention of making one she couldn’t keep. But she also could not bear the look in your face if she gave you nothing. So she sat down again by the glass and answered honestly in the only way she could.

“I think they believe it might.”

You absorbed that for a second. Then your smile tilted faintly. “That is the most Natasha Romanoff answer ever.”

“It’s accurate.”

“It’s terrifying.”

“Yes.”

That made you laugh softly, though it ended in a cough you tried to turn aside from the speaker. Natasha heard it anyway and her fingers curled against her knee. You caught that too and straightened a little too quickly, trying to recover. “Still okay.”

The prototype took shape by evening. It was ugly in the way most brilliant things were before anyone polished them. A narrow injector line housed inside a sterile cartridge. Tony tested it first on isolated substrate samples in sealed dishes. The first run failed instantly, the nanites destabilized too fast and triggered a cascade that nearly breached the microchamber. Tony swore, Bruce recalibrated, Cho altered the damping sequence.

The second run held longer but didn’t fully separate the structures. The third produced breakdown. On the screen, the silver lattice shuddered, collapsed inward and the viral pattern folded with it. After the fourth one, the room went silent and Bruce looked at the result, then back at the model as if expecting it to vanish if he moved too quickly. Cho leaned forward, studying every line of the data with disciplined caution that barely concealed her own shock.

Tony let out one breath and it sounded almost like disbelief. You were on your feet before anyone told you to stay seated. “What happened?”

Bruce turned toward the barrier. “It collapsed the bond.”

Your whole face opened with hope so immediate and so bright that Natasha had to look away for a second because seeing it felt too much like watching someone stand in the path of something fragile and beautiful enough to die from touch.

“Does that mean-” you started.

“It means..” Tony interrupted, “that it works on the sample.”

He would not let anyone rush ahead of the science..Natasha respected him for that and hated him for how much she needed him to be wrong. So they tested again and again. Each time the isolated sample collapsed cleanly.

Bruce ran cross model comparisons. Cho mapped inflammatory outcomes and FRIDAY predicted the host response under various load thresholds. For the first time, probability curves moved in their favor. Enough that even Natasha felt it happen in the room, the impossible, reckless softening of people who had been braced for loss too long and suddenly saw a door crack open where there had only been wall.

Tony turned toward you and Natasha would remember that moment later because of how carefully he handled it, as though even now he was afraid that saying the words aloud might break them.

“We’re not there yet..” he said and you nodded too quickly. “Okay.”

“But we may have a path.”

Your breath caught and the look on your face was not joy. It was hope filtered through fear and exhaustion and the desperate need not to be heartbroken by another maybe. Still, it was there. You sat down hard on the edge of the bed, your hand lifting to cover your mouth for a second before dropping again. “Oh.”

Tony looked away almost immediately after saying it, as though he could not withstand your hope directly and still stay functional. “We test the final sequence on live adaptive substrate first.” he said, already turning back to the console. “Then we talk about application.”

Nobody objected..they all knew the danger of mistaking a pathway for an answer. Still, the atmosphere changed and Bruce drank fresh coffee and didn’t seem to notice it was hot this time. Cho requested a second round of fabrication samples with something that sounded suspiciously like steadier breath beneath her usual composure.

And Natasha…Natasha hated herself a little for what happened next. She let herself imagine only for a second. Only because she was tired and you were looking at her through the glass with those bright, wet eyes and because the entire room had just spent hours clawing a possibility out of the impossible.

But she imagined it anyway. You alive and out of there. A real date somewhere without fluorescent lights and sterile walls and the hum of containment systems in the background. Your hand in hers without glass in the way. Your laugh somewhere ordinary. Your body warm and living and not attached to monitors or watched by five people trying to outthink death. She imagined it and the image struck her so hard she had to set her jaw just to stay still.

Maybe that was why she did not notice how tired you had become in the meantime. Or rather, she noticed, but she wanted to believe the hope explained it away. That the strain of the day, the coughing, the scans, the adrenaline of hearing they had something..any of it accounted for the slight tremor in your fingers when you reached for your water. For the way you sat down more heavily than before and for the shallow breaths you tried not to make obvious.

Hope made people stupid. Natasha knew that better than most.

Night settled fully beyond the hidden windows of the tower and under the lab lights the final test was prepared. This one would not be on the simple isolated samples from the first chamber. This one would use the adaptive hybrid substrate drawn from your blood work and bonded in vitro as close to the host integrated structure as they could safely create without touching your actual system.

Tony set the sample chamber into the stabilization cradle himself. Bruce checked the inhibitor sequence twice, then a third time and Cho entered the monitoring thresholds and host-response projections while FRIDAY synchronized every sensor feed.

The room grew very still, even you stopped moving. Natasha stood from the floor and came a little closer to the console without realizing she’d done it. You were there too, near your side of the barrier, one hand braced lightly against the wall, all the fatigue in your body hidden beneath sheer concentration and need.

Tony’s fingers hovered over the command sequence. “Final substrate adaptive test.” FRIDAY confirmed.

Bruce looked at the screen. “Pulse at twenty percent to start.”

“Too low.” Tony said immediately.

“Too high and we trigger collapse too fast.”

“Too low and it adapts before we finish.”

Tony spared her one glance, then nodded. “Running on my mark.” he said and no one breathed.

“Three.” Natasha felt her heart pounding in her throat. “Two.” On the other side of the glass, your hand flattened fully against the barrier. “One.”

The pulse fired and on the main screen, the hybrid substrate lit in branching lines of silver and red. The inhibitor entered and the nanite lattice reacted, shuddering under the pulse. Viral shell markers spiked, then dipped. The bond began to separate.

It was working. Tony saw it first and Natasha knew because the line of his body changed, not much, but enough.

“Nanite support falling.”

“Viral shell destabilizing.”

“Host mimic response within tolerance.”

Hope exploded through the room so hard it nearly had a sound. You made one tiny, broken noise behind the glass. Natasha turned her head just enough to see you staring at the screen with your eyes full and shining.

Then everything went wrong. At first it was small, a fluctuation in one corner of the display. A rise in the host mimic pattern. Bruce’s brows pulled together before the numbers had even fully changed. “Wait.”

The silver lattice should have collapsed. Instead, it bent and reconfigured. On screen, the nanite scaffold did not die. It folded in on itself, consumed part of the inhibitor structure and reemerged denser than before. The viral shell, rather than degrading, altered its pattern to bind around the new architecture.

Cho’s voice changed. “No-”

Tony’s hands flew across the controls. “Increase pulse.”

“Tony-”

“Increase it!”

FRIDAY obeyed and the pulse intensified. For one split second the entire structure flared white hot under the energy surge and Natasha thought, absurdly, please, please, please-

Then the sample split. Not into collapse but into replication. The chamber flooded with new branching structures, the hybrid substrate duplicating itself through the very cure meant to kill it. The inhibitor was being broken down and repurposed as scaffold fuel. Every line on the screen turned catastrophic at once.

Bruce swore and Cho stepped back. FRIDAY’s warning tone cut through the room.

“Adaptive resistance confirmed.” she said. “Cure vector compromised.”

“No!” Tony snapped. On screen, the virus devoured the model. The final structural reading blinked once and flatlined into failure.

Silence hit and Natasha felt it like a blow to the ribs. She looked toward you and you had gone perfectly still. Just staring at the dead screen as if your body had not decided how to absorb what it had seen. Hope was a crueler thing to lose once it had put down roots. Natasha could see the exact shape of the hurt opening in your face, not dramatic, not loud, just a slow, stunned collapse inward.

Tony did not move either till he broke. The sound of it wasn’t grief at first, it was impact. His hand swept across the workbench with violent force, sending instruments and tablets and two sealed trays crashing to the floor hard enough that one of the screens flickered. The noise cracked through the lab like a shot.

Tony shoved the stabilization cradle so hard it slammed sideways against the counter and rebounded. “No!”

His voice was raw now, stripped down to something Natasha had rarely heard from him and never in front of so many people. “No. No, no, no!!”

He grabbed the nearest tablet, looked at the failed model on it as if it had personally betrayed him and hurled it across the room. It shattered against the far wall in a burst of sparks and broken glass. The remote scientists on the monitor feeds went abruptly silent.

“Tony..” Bruce said carefully.

“Don’t!” Tony turned on him so fast the word came like a blade. “Do not tell me to calm down!”

He turned back to the main display, hands trembling now not with fear but with the force of keeping all of it inside his body..or trying to. His breathing had gone uneven and Natasha saw the way his control was shredding in visible layers.

“It worked..” he said to no one and everyone at once. “It worked on the isolated matrix. It held on the bonded mimic. It should have-”

“It adapted.” Cho said quietly and Tony rounded on the screen so violently Natasha thought for half a second he might hit it. “I know what it did!”

The words tore out of him louder than the room could hold and You startled behind the glass. That made Natasha move and she crossed the space between herself and the barrier in three fast steps, eyes flicking over your face. You looked pale enough now to frighten her properly, your hand still braced against the wall as if without it you might fold.

On the other side of the lab, Tony was still going. “This thing takes everything!” He slammed a fist against the workbench. “Every model, every inhibitor, every goddamn solution we build, it takes it and learns and comes back worse!” Another object hit the floor, some sensor module, expensive and innocent and utterly unable to bear the force of his grief. “I am so sick of burying people because the world keeps finding new ways to be smarter than us!”

The room froze around that sentence because that was what it was about. Not only this lab..Not only you but Afghanistan, the cave and your father. Every person Tony had ever failed to save despite all the machinery and brilliance in the world. It was all in the room now with him, decades of guilt finally finding an object physical enough to throw itself against.

Bruce stepped closer, cautious the way one approached a blast radius. “Tony.”

But Tony was beyond hearing gentleness. “I promised..” he said and this time the words were lower, “Do you understand? I promised him.”

Natasha’s breath caught and Cho looked away. Bruce went still and Tony’s eyes were on the failed screen, but he was no longer seeing it. He was somewhere else entirely, somewhere dim and blood dark and impossible to survive twice.

“I told him I’d look after her.” His voice cracked on the last word and then hardened immediately after, as if he hated himself for allowing the weakness to show. “And now she’s in there and I can’t-” His hand came down again, harder this time, sending an instrument cart rattling sideways.

“Tony.” Bruce said again firmly and Tony laughed once. It was the ugliest sound Natasha had heard in a long time. “What, Banner? You want me to stop throwing things so I can what, exactly? Accept it?”

“No.”

“Because I’m not going to.”

Bruce’s expression tightened with its own grief. “I know.”

“And I don’t need you to tell me probabilities. I don’t need calm. I need something that works.”

The last word rang through the room and shattered against everything. On the other side of the barrier, you made a small sound. Natasha turned fully then and you were trying to straighten, trying to push yourself away from the wall as if you meant to speak, but your body had gone too light with exhaustion and strain. One hand came up to cover your mouth just before the coughing started.

This time it was bad. Not the dry, manageable kind from earlier. This was deeper, harsher, wrenching hard enough through your chest that Natasha felt her own stomach drop with each one. You bent forward, shoulders tightening around the force of it, and the room changed all over again.

“Y/n.” Natasha said sharply and Tony whirled.

His breakdown vanished on the spot and replaced by pure fear. You couldn’t answer immediately, the coughs kept coming, tearing through the room one after another, your free hand groping for the edge of the chair and missing it. By the time you caught yourself against the wall, your breathing had gone ragged.

Bruce was already at the monitors and Cho pulled your live stats into the center display. “Her saturation’s dropping.”

“Heart rate spiking.”

“Pressure’s up-no, wait, now it’s falling.”

Tony crossed half the lab before he remembered the glass would stop him. He hit the barrier with the flat of one hand instead, eyes fixed on you with a terror so naked Natasha almost couldn’t look at it.

“Kid, look at me.”

You did, eventually and your face had gone gray. Truly gray now beneath the fluorescent light. The cough finally eased enough for you to suck in one shallow breath, then another, and Natasha saw the moment you realized everyone was watching too closely. Instantly, reflexively, you tried to smile, but it came out wrecked. “I’m okay.”

Natasha closed her eyes for a fraction of a second because hearing that from a mouth still shaking with the effort to breathe nearly split her open.

“No, you’re not..” she said and you looked at her. And because you were too tired now to protect everyone as carefully as before, the truth flickered plain in your face for just one heartbeat. No. I’m not.

It vanished almost immediately behind another attempt at composure, but Natasha had seen it and so had Tony. That was worse than the failed cure, maybe. The proof that even you could not quite keep performing okay anymore.

Cho’s voice cut across the room, “The integration markers jumped during the stress response. The viral lattice is feeding on systemic inflammation.”

Bruce stared at the data. “It’s reacting to her body fighting it.”

Tony dragged both hands through his hair so hard Natasha thought he might rip it out. “Then suppress the response.”

“We can suppress some of it..” Cho said, “but too much and we crash her.”

Bruce looked toward the failed model still frozen on the side screen. “And now we know the destabilizer won’t hold.”

Silence again, only this time there was no hope inside it. Tony stood with one hand still against the glass, his head lowered for a second as if he no longer trusted his own face to be seen. Then he straightened, slow and mechanical, grief forcing itself back into motion because stopping meant surrender.

“We keep working.” he said and no one answered because what else could anyone say? Bruce moved first, already rerouting the failed cure data into new simulations even though everyone in the room knew they were farther from an answer now than they had been an hour earlier.

Tony did not apologize for breaking the room. He simply picked up the nearest intact screen and kept going. Natasha returned to the glass and sat down again because if she did not stay close to you she thought she might actually come apart.

You had made it back to the bed by then, though Natasha wasn’t sure how. One of the blankets lay twisted around your knees and your breathing had steadied, but only in the fragile way that meant it had cost you something to get there.

When you saw Natasha lower herself to the floor again, your eyes softened. You didn’t say anything for a while, neither did she. The room behind them kept moving through wreckage and work and the low hum of machines that did not know enough to stop when human hope did.

Finally, in a voice so quiet Natasha had to lean closer to hear it through the speaker, you asked, “Did it almost work?”

Natasha looked at you and thought about lying. About saying no, because maybe it would hurt less if you believed it had always been impossible. But you would know..you always knew.

“Yes.”

Your eyes closed and one tear escaped this time. It slipped down toward your hairline as you lay back against the pillow and you did not wipe it away. Maybe you hadn’t felt it, maybe you were too tired, or maybe you were done pretending that every hurt in this room had to be swallowed before it was allowed to exist.

Natasha lifted her hand and placed it against the glass beside your bed. On the other side, after a second, your fingers found the same place.

By the time the lab settled after Tony’s outburst, something fundamental in it had changed. The work continued because it had to. Broken equipment was cleared from the floor and new trays replaced the old. No one said anything about what had happened, because the room had no energy left for comforting the people who were trying to save it. But the hope that had briefly lifted them all was gone now and everyone felt the shape of its absence.

Natasha stayed by the glass, it had become less a choice than the only position her body recognized anymore. The floor beside the barrier had molded itself around her through the last day and night, a place she knew in the set of her spine and the ache of her knees. She sat there now with one hand folded over the other and looked at you while the rest of the room tried, once again, to outthink death.

Your skin had lost what little warmth the containment lights could fake. There was a strain in your breathing now even at rest, a carefulness to it that made every inhalation sound measured. The energy you spent on smiling had started to outpace the energy you had for anything else. When you sat up, you did it more slowly. When you stood, you looked like you were negotiating with your own body each time. And still, when you noticed Natasha watching too hard, you smiled at her.

For a while neither of you spoke. Natasha knew you were exhausted because your eyes kept drifting half closed and then opening again with stubborn effort, but each time she considered telling you to rest, you seemed to sense it and would sit a little straighter or lift your brows in quiet challenge.

Eventually you broke first. “Are you ever going to sleep again?”

Natasha’s gaze stayed on your face. “Eventually.”

“That is not reassuring.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

You gave her a look over the rim of the blanket. “You know, most people say things like ‘I’m fine’ when they’re clearly not fine.”

“Do I seem like most people?”

“No..” you said softly. “That’s sort of the problem.”

Something in the way you said it made Natasha lean closer to the speaker. “Problem?”

Your smile thinned into something more thoughtful. “You don’t fake things for comfort.”

“No.”

“You don’t say things just because they sound nice.”

“No.”

“That should be terrifying.” Your eyes held hers. “It isn’t.”

Natasha felt that somewhere too deep to defend against. You looked down at your own hands for a moment, then began smoothing an invisible crease in the blanket with careful fingers. “I keep thinking..” you said after a while, “that if I weren’t in here, this would all feel completely unreal.”

“What would?”

You glanced up. “Us.”

The word hovered there between the crackling machinery and the low hum of filtration and all the impossible circumstances pressing in around it.

Natasha said nothing and you smiled faintly, embarrassed now that you’d said it aloud. “Not in a bad way.”

“I know.”

“It’s just…” You exhaled. “I spent so much time thinking you were impossible to read.”

“That was accurate.”

You ignored that. “And then suddenly you were asking me to dinner and then somehow you were sitting outside a quarantine wall with takeout and a fake candle like it was the most natural thing in the world.”

“The candle was your favorite part.”

“It absolutely was not.”

“It was.”

You pressed a hand lightly to your chest. “This is slander.”

“It’s observation.”

You laughed softly, but the sound faded too quickly into a breath that caught midway. Natasha saw the way your shoulders tightened before you forced them to ease again. She stayed still because she had learned that lunging at every sign only made you spend more energy pretending not to need anyone.

Your voice, when it came again was lower. “I liked last night.”

Natasha looked at you and the room behind her vanished for a second. “Im glad.” she said.

“I mean really liked it.” You shifted, pulling the blanket a little tighter around yourself. “I’m glad it happened before…” You stopped, the rest of the sentence did not need saying.

Natasha’s jaw tightened. “I’m glad too.”

Your eyes softened. “Even with the glass?”

That one landed harder and Natasha looked at the transparent wall between them, its surface nearly invisible until it caught a line of overhead light. Then she looked back at you.

“Especially then.” She said. “Because you were there..” she clarified. “Because it happened and I didn’t wait.”

For a moment you only stared. Then something inside your expression opened with a sudden, painful tenderness that made Natasha feel exposed in ways combat never had. You looked like she had handed you something fragile and priceless just by telling the truth.

“I would’ve waited.”

Natasha’s gaze sharpened. “For what?”

“For you.”

The air left the room for one impossible heartbeat. Natasha had lived through interrogations, gunfire, betrayal, gods, monsters and the collapse of empires. She had not been prepared for a sentence spoken softly by a girl wrapped in a blanket behind glass.

Your cheeks colored the second you realized how naked the admission sounded. “That was..wow. Okay. I did not mean to say that so intensely.”

Natasha felt the pull of a smile, though her chest hurt too much to let it fully form. “No?”

“No.” You ducked your head. “Maybe a little.”

She should have said something clever then. Instead she said, “I’m glad you didn’t.”

You looked up so quickly it would have been almost funny in any other room. But what crossed your face then wasn’t humor, it was relief so deep it looked like grief’s kinder twin.

The room behind Natasha continued to work. Bruce moved to another console and Tony asked FRIDAY for a tighter replay of the substrate collapse. For a little while, it was just the two of you. “What did you think it was going to be like?” Natasha asked.

You blinked. “What?”

“Our date. I mean..In real.”

That made you smile despite everything. “Oh.”

You leaned your head back against the wall behind the bed, eyes going slightly unfocused as though looking into a version of the evening that should have existed somewhere else. “I thought I was going to spend three hours pretending I wasn’t nervous and failing.”

“You did that anyway.”

“That is so rude!” But your smile deepened. “I thought maybe there’d be some ridiculously expensive restaurant Tony would be offended he didn’t get to approve.”

“He would’ve been.”

“I thought maybe you’d order something elegant and I’d try to seem like the kind of person who knew what to do with tiny forks.”

“You don’t know what to do with tiny forks?”

“I reject their authority.”

You glowed under it, then kept going because once started, the imagining seemed to soothe you. “And I thought maybe afterward we’d walk somewhere quiet and I’d say too much because I’d be trying to fill every silence before it had the chance to turn awkward.”

Natasha’s eyes stayed on yours. “You don’t make silences awkward.”

Something in you shifted at that, quiet and touched. “No?”

“No.”

Your voice softened almost to a whisper. “You don’t either.”

The speaker carried it too clearly and Natasha looked down once at her hands, then back up. “I was going to take you somewhere small.”

You stared. “You had picked somewhere?”

“Yes.”

A tiny crease appeared between your brows, startled and pleased. “Really?”

Natasha nodded. “Not loud or public enough for people to bother us. Food you would’ve liked.”

You smiled then, helpless and aching all at once. “That is dangerously thoughtful.”

“I know.”

“Would I have been allowed dessert?”

“I was considering it.”

You made a wounded noise. “Considering?”

“You talk too much.”

“And yet you keep choosing to be around me.”

The words were light but the look between you was not. Natasha felt it then again, the almost unbearable tenderness of being known in the middle of fear. She had spent years armoring herself against the world, and somehow you had found your way in not by force but by patience and laughter and seeing what lived beneath the steel.

On the other side of the room, Bruce suddenly straightened. It was a small movement, but Natasha saw it because she had learned to monitor all of them without turning her head. Cho moved closer at the same moment and Tony, who had been staring at the residue data from the failed trial, snapped his eyes toward the central screen. The shift in the room was immediate and sharp.

Natasha glanced back and on one of the enlarged molecular displays, the remains of the failed cure vector, what the virus had not fully consumed in the first collapse had been re rendered at a different scale. Instead of total degradation, there was a surviving pattern in the residue. A piece of the inhibitor had not simply been eaten.

It had changed..Bruce zoomed in further, lines of code and structural overlays blooming around the pattern. “Wait..” he said quietly.

Cho’s expression sharpened. “It’s not random.”

Tony was already moving. “FRIDAY, isolate the remnant sequence from the failed substrate.”

“Done.”

He stabbed a finger toward the highlighted structure. “That’s what it used to stabilize itself after the first pulse.”

“No.” Bruce said, stepping closer. “That’s what it borrowed.”

Cho looked between them, mind racing as fast as theirs. “The virus didn’t just adapt around the cure. It incorporated part of the cure’s vector to maintain cohesion during reconfiguration.”

Natasha rose to her feet without realizing it. On your side of the glass, you pushed yourself upright too and Tony was staring now with that terrifying stillness he got when genius found a door it hadn’t seen before. “Run the sequence backwards.”

FRIDAY obeyed and on screen, the remnant pattern inverted through several theoretical states until a new model emerged, not the original destabilizer, not the version they had tested, but something altered by the virus itself. A tiny difference..One structural pivot in the inhibitor arm and a change in timing measured in fractions of a second.

Bruce saw it at the same time. “It needed a stagger.”

Cho nodded once, almost disbelieving. “The initial vector collapsed the scaffold too cleanly. That’s what triggered full adaptive compensation. If we make the bond unstable in phases instead of all at once…”

“We force it to keep choosing structure over replication..” Tony finished.

“And it can’t use the same adaptation path because the phase lag blocks the scaffold handoff,” Bruce said.

There it was. Not a new cure…but the same cure, understood too late. The virus had shown them how to fix it by surviving the first version. For a second nobody in the room moved because the realization was too specific..

Tony’s face changed in a way Natasha knew she would remember for the rest of her life. It was horror, because one structural phase delay..one timing correction in the transfer pulse..And the first cure would have held.

Your breath caught audibly through the speaker. “What does that mean?”

No one answered fast enough. Tony turned toward you slowly, in his face now was something Natasha had never seen so nakedly on him before: hope and guilt so violently fused they became indistinguishable.

“It means.” he said carefully, “..the virus didn’t destroy the treatment.”

Bruce looked at the revised model. “It taught us where it failed.”

You stared at them from behind the glass, body swaying almost imperceptibly from the effort of standing. “So you can fix it?”

Tony didn’t say yes but this time he didn’t say maybe either. “We can rebuild it.”

The room took that sentence and held its breath around it. Then the work began again, only now it had a shape..

A treatment plan started to form.

[ilovemarvel97]

The Heir’s Secret - Chapter 29

A New Era

Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Summary: Y/N and Wanda’s first day as King and Queen.

Word Counter: 10k+

Warnings: Fluff, Smut, (18+).

Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist

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No One’s POV

The celebration carried on deep into the night.

Music flowed from one song to the next, laughter echoing beneath the chandeliers as nobles and commoners alike filled the floor. Conversations overlapped, glasses clinked, and for the first time in years, the palace did not feel heavy with expectation or fear—but alive. People celebrated not just a coronation—but hope.

A new king. A new queen. A different kind of future.

Y/N moved through the evening at Wanda’s side, never straying far from her. They danced once more, spoke with a few lingering guests, and watched as the energy of the ball slowly softened into something calmer, more intimate as the hours passed.

At some point, a servant approached quietly. Lina had fallen asleep. The girl had been brought inside, curled up against the servant’s shoulder, her earlier excitement finally giving way to exhaustion.

Y/N’s expression softened immediately at the sight. “Careful,” they murmured as the servant adjusted her gently.

“We’ll take her to her chambers, Your Majesty,” the servant said softly.

Y/N nodded. “Thank you.”

Wanda watched with a small smile as Lina was carried away, her head resting peacefully, completely unaware she had just danced her way through a royal ball.

Eventually, the music slowed.

Then stopped.

Guests began to take their leave one by one, bowing respectfully as they passed the king and queen. The great hall gradually emptied, the laughter fading into quiet echoes. Servants moved in soon after, beginning the careful process of cleaning—clearing tables, gathering glasses, extinguishing candles one by one.

The night was ending.

Y/N glanced around the hall one last time. Then they turned to Wanda. “Come,” they said softly. Their hand found hers again. They escorted her from the ballroom, walking side by side through the now quiet corridors of the palace. The contrast was almost surreal. Where hours ago there had been music and voices—now there was only the soft sound of their footsteps against marble.

Wanda leaned slightly into them as they walked, her hand still resting in theirs. “You did well today,” she said gently.

Y/N exhaled quietly. “So did you.”

She smiled.

“I didn’t get crowned.”

“Technically you did!” Y/N replied. “And you stood beside me…that matters more.”

They reached their chambers.

Y/N opened the door for her, their hand still steady at her back as she stepped inside. The room was calm, dimly lit by a few remaining candles. The quiet felt almost surreal after the noise of the celebration. Y/N stepped in after her and let the door close behind them.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Y/N reached up and unclasped the heavy ceremonial cape from their shoulders. The fabric slipped free, and they exhaled softly, as if shedding part of the weight of the day with it.

They draped it carefully over the back of a nearby chair.

“That was…” Y/N began, running a hand through their hair.

“Long?” Wanda offered with a small smile.

Y/N huffed faintly. “That’s one word for it.”

They turned back toward her—and paused.

Wanda was already stepping closer. There was something different in her expression now. Softer, but with a quiet intensity beneath it. “Come here,” she murmured.

Y/N didn’t resist. They barely had time to take a step before she reached for them.

Her hands moved to the front of their jacket, fingers slipping easily over the buttons as she began to undo them one by one.

Slowly. Deliberately.

Y/N’s breath caught slightly. “Wanda…” they started.

“You’ve been wearing this all day,” she said softly, not looking up yet as her fingers worked. “You deserve to breathe.”

Y/N’s hands hovered for a moment before settling gently at her waist.

“Is that what this is?” they asked quietly.

Wanda glanced up then, a small smile playing at her lips. “Partly.”

Another button came undone. The fabric loosened. The space between them felt warmer suddenly.

“You were very impressive today,” she added.

Y/N huffed softly. “I stood there and repeated what I was told.”

“You led a kingdom,” she corrected gently. Her hands slid up slightly, pushing the jacket open just enough. “And,” she added, voice lowering, “you danced with Lina.”

Y/N smiled faintly at that. “She demanded it.”

“And you gave it to her.” Wanda’s fingers paused briefly against their chest.

“I love that about you.”

Y/N’s grip at her waist tightened slightly, pulling her just a little closer.

“I seem to be doing a lot of things you love today,” they murmured.

Wanda’s smile deepened. “You are.”

The last button slipped free. The jacket hung open now, her hands resting lightly against the fabric.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The candlelight flickered around them. The crowns were gone. The court was gone.

The world outside—

gone.

There was only this.

Wanda leaned in just slightly. And Y/N met her halfway. Y/N felt the air leave their lungs as Wanda’s fingers danced over the buttons of their undershirt. The weight of the gold-embroidered coat was gone, discarded somewhere behind them, but the weight of her gaze was far more intoxicating.

She leaned up, her toes pressing into the soft rug, and brushed her lips against theirs. It wasn't the steadying kiss of the ballroom or the desperate kiss of the morning; it was playful, a silken promise that made Y/N’s heart hammer against the very ribs she was currently uncovering.

She pulled back just an inch, that "cute" smile—the one that always made Y/N feel like they’d already surrendered their kingdom to her—lighting up her face. Her hands didn't stop, moving with a maddeningly slow rhythm to the next button of the white linen shirt.

"I recall," Wanda murmured, her voice a low vibration that seemed to hum right through Y/N’s skin, "a certain King whispering in my ear on the dance floor."

She flicked another button open, her knuckles grazing the warmth of their chest. "Something about... not being able to wait to remove this dress from my back?" She looked up, her green eyes dancing with a triumphant, mischievous grin. "And yet, here we are in our chambers, and you’ve gone so quiet, my love. Where did all that royal confidence go?"

Y/N’s hands, which had been resting almost reverently at her waist, suddenly found their grip. They slid around to the small of her back, pulling her flush against them until they could feel the steady, rhythmic heartbeat of their child between them.

"The confidence is still here," Y/N rasped, their voice dropping an octave as they leaned down, their nose brushing against hers. "I was simply taking a moment to appreciate the view before I followed through on my threat."

A low, breathless laugh escaped Wanda, her hands stalling on the last button of their shirt. "Is that so?" she challenged, her grin softening into something more heated.

"It is," Y/N whispered. They reached behind her, their fingers finding the intricate laces and the hidden fastenings of the deep blue gown. The silk felt cool, but the skin beneath was warm. "I believe," Y/N murmured, their lips ghosting over her jawline toward her ear, "it’s my turn to do the work."

Wanda shivered, her head tilting back to give them better access, her eyes fluttering shut as the first of the heavy silk began to loosen under Y/N’s touch. Slowly, the heavy silk of the royal gown finally gave way, the structured bodice loosening until it pooled in a deep blue and gold wave around Wanda’s feet. She stepped out of the shimmering fabric, standing before Y/N in only her thin, translucent chemise. The cool air of the chamber hit her skin, but it was the heat from Y/N’s gaze that made her breath catch.

As Y/N’s hands moved to her waist, Wanda’s own fingers reached for the front of Y/N’s half-unbuttoned shirt. She didn’t stop at the linen, however; her hands slipped beneath to find the familiar, tight pressure of the linen bandages wrapped firmly around Y/N’s chest. With a gentle, questioning tug, Wanda began to unwind the binding. She looked up, her brow furrowing slightly as the fabric fell away in her hands.

"Why do you still wear these?" she asked softly. "In here... with me? You know you don't have to."

Y/N watched her hands, their expression relaxed, the old defensiveness that used to flare up at the question long since extinguished by the peace they found in her presence. They reached out, brushing a thumb over the back of Wanda's hand as the last of the constriction loosened.

"Habit, mostly," Y/N replied casually, their voice a low, steady hum. "I’ve spent half my life strapped into them to be the son my father demanded. Honestly? It just feel weird to have them off. It's like my body doesn't quite know how to sit right without the pressure." They gave a small, lopsided shrug, leaning in until their foreheads touched. "But I'm learning. It feels better when it's just us."

Wanda’s expression melted into a soft, understanding smile. She let the discarded bandages fall to join the gown on the floor, her palms smoothing over Y/N’s bare skin, marveling at the strength and vulnerability she held in her hands. "Then we'll unlearn it together," she whispered.

The honesty of the moment seemed to spark something deeper in Y/N. They didn't wait for a response; instead, they reached down and hooked their arms beneath Wanda’s thighs, lifting her effortlessly. Wanda gasped, a small, delighted sound as she instinctively wrapped her legs around their waist and her arms around their neck. Y/N didn't head for the bed immediately. They held her there, her weight a grounding reality against their chest. They buried their face in the crook of her neck, trailing a path of slow, searing kisses along her collarbone. Wanda tilted her head, her fingers tangling in Y/N’s hair as a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold raced down her spine.

Y/N’s grip on Wanda’s thighs tightened, their fingers digging into the soft silk of her chemise as they pressed her firmly against the door. The wood was cool, but the heat radiating between their bodies was combustible. Y/N didn't stop at her collarbone; their lips moved lower, tracing the delicate line of her shoulder before dipping into the shadow of her cleavage, where the thin fabric of her chemise did nothing to hide the frantic skip of her pulse.

Wanda let out a low, broken moan, her head thudding back against the door as she arched into the contact. Her fingers tightened in Y/N’s hair, tugging just enough to ground herself as their mouth found the sensitive skin just above the curve of her breast.

"Y/N," she breathed, her voice a ragged velvet.

In one fluid motion, Y/N carried her toward the bed, never breaking the searing contact of their lips. They lowered her onto the silk sheets, following her down until they were hovering over her, their bare chest brushing against the lace of her chemise. Without the bandages, the sensation was electric.

Y/N’s hands slid up from her waist, their thumbs grazing the undersides of her breasts through the silk. They watched Wanda’s face, mesmerized by the way her eyes clouded with desire, her lips parted and damp.

"I've been thinking about this since the first toast," Y/N rasped, their voice vibrating against her skin as they leaned down to capture her lips in a kiss that was no longer gentle. It was demanding, deep, and tasted of the hunger they'd suppressed all evening.

Wanda’s hands shifted from their shoulders to the small of their back, pulling them closer, her nails scratching lightly over the skin that had been bound tight just moments ago. She wanted every inch of them, every bit of the strength they usually kept hidden beneath armor and royal decree.

Y/N’s hand found the hem of her chemise, sliding upward. The fabric bunched between their fingers as they uncovered the smooth, heated skin of her thighs, moving higher until there was nothing left between them but the heavy, charged air of the room. "My queen," Y/N murmured against her throat, their breath hot and uneven. "My home."

The thin silk of the chemise was the final barrier, and Y/N had run out of patience for barriers. Their hands slid beneath the lace hem, the pads of their fingers grazing the sensitive skin of Wanda’s outer thighs before moving upward with a slow, deliberate heat. Wanda arched her back, a soft, hitching breath escaping her as Y/N gathered the fabric in their fists. They sat back on their heels for a fleeting second, pulling the garment over her head in one fluid motion. The silk fluttered to the floor, forgotten, leaving her entirely bared to the amber glow of the candlelight.

Y/N’s gaze traveled over her with an intensity that felt like a physical touch—lingering on the flushed skin of her chest, the elegant curve of her waist, and the gentle, precious swell of her stomach where their future rested. "You are breathtaking, my love.” Y/N rasped, their voice thick with a raw, unshielded devotion.

Wanda didn’t look away. Instead, she reached up, her damp palms sliding over Y/N’s shoulders and down to their chest, her thumbs tracing the faint red marks where the bandages had pressed into their skin only an hour before. She pulled them back down to her, her legs tangling with theirs, skin sliding against skin in a way that made Y/N growl low in their throat.

The heat between them intensified, the air in the room thick with the scent of lavender and the raw, electric friction of skin on skin. As Y/N’s mouth slanted over Wanda’s, their tongue tangling with hers in a deep, demanding rhythm, Wanda’s hands continued their slow, possessive exploration.

Her palms slid down from their shoulders, grazing the sensitive curves of Y/N’s breasts that were finally free from the restrictive linen. She felt the frantic skip of their heart beneath her touch before her fingers drifted lower, tracing the jagged line of the scar on Y/N’s side—a silver reminder of a past they had survived together. Her touch there was reverent, a silent promise of healing, before she moved even further down.

Y/N let out a guttural groan into the hollow of her throat as Wanda’s hand reached the waistband of their formal slacks. Through the heavy, fine fabric, her fingers found the unmistakable, pulsing heat of their hardness. Wanda didn’t shy away. Her grip was firm, her thumb stroking the length of them through the material, charting the unique, powerful anatomy that was Y/N's own. The sensation sent a jolt of pure fire straight to Y/N's core, making their hips jerk instinctively against her palm.

"Wanda," Y/N gasped against her lips, their voice breaking as they pulled back just enough to look at her. Their eyes were dark, blown wide with a hunger that bordered on desperation. Wanda met their gaze with a hooded, sultry stare, her hand continuing its steady, rhythmic torture over the fabric of their trousers.

Wanda’s fingers worked with a frantic, focused grace, the silver buttons of the coronation slacks giving way beneath her touch. She didn't stop there, her palms sliding over the fine wool to hook into the waistbands of both their trousers and the linen underwear beneath. With a firm, downward tug, she eased the fabric over the curve of Y/N’s hips, the friction of the material against their sensitive skin making Y/N’s breath hitch in a jagged gasp.

Y/N took the cue instantly. They sat back, the cool air of the room hitting their bared skin as they kicked the heavy fabric away, finally shedding the last remnants of the King’s armor. For a heartbeat, they stood over her in the amber light—strong, scarred, and entirely theirs.

As Y/N moved to crawl back over her, intent on pinning her into the silk sheets, Wanda suddenly braced herself on her elbows. Her hair fell in a dark, silken curtain around her face as she reached out, her hand hooking into Y/N’s shoulder. Instead of pulling them down onto her, she exerted a firm, surprising pressure, pushing them backward.

Y/N let out a small huff of confusion, their muscles tensing as they landed flat on their back against the mattress. They looked up at her, chest heaving, their hair fanned out against the pillows. “Wanda?" they murmured, their voice a low, questioning rasp.

Wanda shifted, her knees flanking Y/N’s hips as she settled her weight firmly onto their thighs. The contrast was striking: her skin, pale and soft in the candlelight, against the lean, scarred muscle of Y/N’s legs. She didn't look away, her green eyes locked onto theirs with a focused, quiet intensity that made Y/N’s pulse thrum in their throat. Slowly, her fingers curled around the base of Y/N’s cock. The heat was immediate, a branding touch that made Y/N’s stomach flip. Wanda didn’t rush; she began to stroke the length with a deliberate, upward motion, her thumb grazing the sensitive underside before her palm capped the velvet-soft head.

Y/N’s head thudded back into the pillow, a sharp, broken hiss escaping their teeth. Their hands flew to the mattress, clenching the silk sheets into tight knots as their hips made a small, involuntary jerk upward.

Wanda paused, her hand stilled but her grip remained firm. She leaned forward, her dark hair falling forward to veil their faces as she searched Y/N’s expression. She watched the way their eyes hooded, the way their jaw tightened with the effort not to cry out, and the flush that was spreading rapidly across their chest.

"Is this..." she whispered, her voice a low, uncertain velvet. She gave a small, experimental squeeze, her thumb tracing the bead of moisture at the tip. "Is this okay? I don't want to... I've only ever watched you."

Y/N let out a ragged, breathless laugh that was half-groan. They reached up, their fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of her neck, pulling her down just enough to press their forehead against hers. "Wanda," they rasped, their voice thick and strained. "It’s more than okay. It’s... gods, don't stop. Please."

Reassured, Wanda’s smile returned—slower this time, more confident. She resumed the rhythm, her hand moving faster now, exploring the weight and the heat of them with a fascination that was bordering on predatory. She watched Y/N’s eyes roll back as she found a particularly sensitive spot, her own breath hitching as she realized exactly how much power she held over her King in this moment. "You like that?" she murmured, her hand slicking the length of them again, her touch becoming bolder, more demanding. Y/N could only nod, their breath coming in shallow, frantic pants as they surrendered entirely to their Queen’s touch.

Wanda didn't pull away; instead, her gaze darkened, focused entirely on the way Y/N's body reacted to her every touch. She leaned down, her dark hair spilling over Y/N’s stomach like a silken veil, her breath hot against their sensitive skin. When the tip of her tongue flicked out to taste the bead of moisture at the very top, Y/N’s entire body jolted. A sharp, broken gasp left their throat, and their hands flew to her shoulders, fingers digging into her skin. "Wanda—wait," Y/N rasped, their voice thick and strained. "It’s... I haven’t... it's dirty, love, you shouldn't—"

The protest died in a strangled moan the moment she ignored them, swirling her tongue around the crown of their length in a slow, deliberate circle. The damp heat of her mouth sent a lightning bolt of pure sensation through Y/N’s, melting the last of their royal composure.

Wanda felt the sudden, fierce throb of their cock in her hand. It felt even harder now, pulsing with a life of its own as Y/N’s hips made a desperate, involuntary thrust upward, seeking more of that agonizingly perfect friction. She looked up at them through her lashes, a sultry, triumphant smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"I don't care," she whispered against their skin, her voice a low, vibrating hum. "You’re mine. All of you is mine." To prove her point, she did it again, slower this time—lapping at the underside before taking the very tip into the heat of her mouth. Y/N’s fingers tangled desperately in her hair, their knuckles white as they hold themselves.

"Gods, Wanda..." they choked out, their eyes rolling back. The King of Virelia was completely undone, reduced to nothing but raw nerves and breathless pleas under the Queen’s devastatingly thorough exploration. Wanda continued, her hand working in perfect tandem with her mouth, determined to learn every shiver, every hitch in their breath, and every guttural sound of surrender she could draw from them.

Wanda’s hair cascaded over Y/N’s stomach, a silken curtain that shielded them from the rest of the world as she deepened her exploration. She began to alternate her rhythm, her tongue swirling in slow, agonizing circles around the sensitive crown before she started to bob her head, taking the head of their cock into the wet, velvet heat of her mouth.

The friction was overwhelming. Y/N’s fingers were knotted so tightly in the silk sheets that their knuckles turned white, their breath coming in jagged, broken hitches. Every time Wanda’s lips tightened around them, a low, guttural sound tore from Y/N’s throat—a sound of pure, unadulterated surrender.

As she felt the slickness of their pre-come increase, Wanda shifted her focus. She leaned down and sucked gently, almost experimentally, on the very tip. The sensation was like a lightning strike. Y/N’s hips jolted violently off the mattress, a loud, raw moan breaking from their lips as their eyes rolled back. The sheer intensity of the pleasure made their muscles locking up for a split second.

Startled by the sudden, powerful reaction, Wanda let go, sitting back on her heels with wide, dark eyes. A stray strand of hair clung to her damp lip as she breathed heavily, watching the way Y/N’s chest heaved. "I—I’m sorry, did I—?" she started, her voice a breathless whisper.

She didn't get to finish. Y/N reached out, their hands firm and demanding as they hooked under her arms and hauled her upward. They pulled her flush against their chest, their mouths colliding in a kiss that tasted of salt and the frantic heat of their shared desire. It was a messy, desperate collision of lips and tongues.

"Wanda," Y/N rasped against her mouth, their voice thick and strained with the effort to hold back. "If you... if you keep doing that... I’m going to come. I’m right there, love." Wanda’s hands slid down to their shoulders, her fingers digging into their skin. "It’s okay," she murmured, her voice a sultry challenge. "I want that. I want to see you break."

Y/N let out a low, predatory growl, their grip shifting to her waist. "Not yet. I want to be inside you when I do." In one fluid, powerful motion, Y/N flipped her onto her back. The sudden change in perspective made Wanda gasp, her head thudding softly into the pillows as Y/N settled between her thighs. They didn't waste a second, their hands sliding down to catch her knees, spreading her legs wide to make room for the heavy, pulsing heat of their member.

The amber candlelight caught the sweat glancing off Y/N’s shoulders as they hovered over her, their eyes dark with a hunger that was no longer patient. The muscles in their arms trembling slightly from the effort of holding back. They reached down, their hand sliding between Wanda’s thighs to find the slick, petal-soft heat of her.

Wanda let out a sharp, hitching breath as Y/N’s fingers began to massage her, circling the entrance and spreading her own natural moisture upward. They moved with a deliberate, agonizing slowness, their thumb finding the swollen bud of her clitoris and pressing just enough to make her hips buck off the mattress. "Y/N," she gasped, her head falling back as her fingers knotted in the dark silk of the pillows.

Y/N didn't pull away. Their gaze stayed locked on her face, watching the way her eyes fluttered shut and her lips parted. They dipped a single finger inside her, testing the snug, velvet depth of her, before slowly adding a second. The sensation of being filled, even just a little, made Wanda moan—a low, vibrating sound that seemed to hum right through Y/N’s skin. They began to curl their fingers, stretching her gently, the friction of the slickness making a soft, wet sound in the quiet room.

"You're so tight for me," Y/N murmured, their voice a ragged, dark velvet. They pushed a little deeper, their knuckles grazing her outer lips as they continued to prepare her, ensuring she was ready for the heavy, pulsing weight of them. Every slow, rhythmic stretch was a promise of what was coming next. Wanda’s legs tightened around their waist, her heels digging into the backs of their thighs as she arched into the touch, her voice a desperate, broken whisper against their ear.

"Please... Y/N... now. I want you now."

Y/N withdrew their fingers slowly, the absence of them making Wanda whimper in protest, only to replace the space with the broad, scorching head of their cock. They braced themselves, their eyes blown wide and dark as they prepared to sink into her. The friction of Y/N’s skin against hers was like a living flame, the slickness they had spread ensuring that when they finally pushed forward, there was nothing but a seamless, devastating heat.

Y/N didn't rush. They braced their weight on their forearms, their muscles corded and glistening with a thin sheen of sweat in the amber candlelight. As the broad, pulsing head of their cock began to stretch her open, Wanda’s breath hitched, her fingers digging into Y/N’s shoulder blades.

"Look at me," Y/N rasped, their voice vibrating with the sheer effort of self-control. Wanda opened her eyes, her gaze clouded and dark with desire, her lips parted in a silent gasp as she felt the heavy, stretching fullness of them. Y/N watched her expression intently, tracking every flicker of pleasure across her face as they slowly, steadily sank deeper. The snug, velvet heat of her was almost too much. Y/N let out a low groan, their forehead dropping to rest against hers as they finally bottomed out, buried to the hilt within her. For a heartbeat, they stayed perfectly still, both of them trembling from the sheer sensory overload of being completely joined.

"You feel... incredible," Y/N whispered, their breath hot against her mouth. Wanda didn't answer with words. She arched her back, her heels digging into the mattress as she tilted her hips up, silently demanding the rhythm they both craved.

Y/N began to move. It started slow—long, agonizingly deep strokes that pulled nearly all the way out before plunging back in, the wet, rhythmic sound of their bodies meeting filling the quiet chamber. Every thrust was a deliberate claim, the friction of their bodies and the unique anatomy of Y/N’s hardness hitting exactly where Wanda needed it most. Wanda’s moans turned into broken, rhythmic gasps. Her legs locked tighter around Y/N’s waist, pulling them even deeper, her nails scratching down their back as her pregnant body being too sensitive, had began to coil into a tight, electric spring faster than usual.

"Faster," she breathed, her voice a desperate, ragged velvet. "Please, Y/N... faster."

Y/N’s control snapped. They increased the pace, their thrusts becoming harder, faster, and more primal. The bed groaned beneath them, the silk sheets tangling around their legs as they chased the edge together. Y/N’s hand slid down between their bodies, their thumb finding the swollen bud of her clitoris and grinding against it with every downward surge. The combination was lethal.

Wanda’s eyes rolled back, her entire body stiffening as she hit her climax first, a loud, shattered cry breaking from her lips. The ripples of her release squeezed around Y/N, the intense, rhythmic pulsing finally pushing them over the brink. Y/N let out a raw, guttural moan, their muscles locking as they surged one last time, emptying themselves deep inside her. They collapsed against her chest, their hearts hammering a frantic, synchronized rhythm against one another, the only sound in the room the heavy, uneven sound of their breathing as the candlelight slowly burned down to nothing.

The room was thick with the scent of salt and lavender, the air heavy and still as the echoes of their shared release slowly faded into the shadows. Y/N didn’t pull away immediately; the connection was too grounding, too necessary after the whirlwind of the day.

Instead, they kept their weight braced on their forearms, their hips beginning a slow, languid grind against Wanda’s. It wasn't the frantic, demanding pace from moments ago, but a soft, rhythmic friction—a gradual cooling of the fire. With every slow circle, they felt the internal tremors of Wanda’s body begin to steady, her legs loosening their tight grip around their waist to rest heavily against the mattress.

Y/N’s breath, once a series of ragged hitches, slowly deepened into a steady cadence against Wanda’s neck. They felt the frantic thrum of her heart beneath their chest, mirroring their own as it gradually slowed to a peaceful thud.

Finally, the movement ceased altogether. Y/N stayed buried deep within her, the intimate heat of their bodies melding them together in the quiet dark. They lifted their head, their hair falling in messy strands over their damp forehead, to look down at her. Wanda’s eyes were half-lidded, glazed with a soft, post-coital glow that made Y/N’s chest tighten with a different kind of ache. Her lips were swollen, parted slightly as she breathed.

Y/N leaned down, capturing her mouth in a kiss. It started as a mere ghost of a touch—soft, tasting of salt and lingering wine—before deepening into something profound. There was no urgency left, only a silent, soul-deep communication. The silence of the room was thick and heavy, broken only by the synchronized rhythm of their breathing. Y/N pulled back from the deep, soul-shaking kiss just enough to look at Wanda, their eyes dark with a lingering, protective heat. The urgency had indeed faded, but in its place was a slow-burning, methodical adoration.

Y/N began a slow descent, their lips grazing the flushed skin of Wanda’s cheek before moving to the sensitive curve of her jawline. Every touch was deliberate, a silent worship of the woman who had stood by them through the grief of the afternoon and the triumph of the coronation. "You are so beautiful," Y/N murmured against her skin, their voice a low, gravelly vibration that sent a fresh shiver down Wanda’s spine.

They trailed their mouth down the elegant column of her throat, lingering over the pulse point that beat frantically against their lips. Wanda’s head tilted back, her fingers tangling in Y/N’s messy hair as a low, appreciative hum vibrated in her chest. Y/N didn't stop, moving to the hollow of her collarbone, marking the delicate bone with soft, stinging kisses that made Wanda’s breath hitch.

When Y/N reached her breasts, they slowed down completely. They took their time, their hands cupping the soft, aching weight of her as their mouth began to explore. They circled the pale swell of one breast, their tongue tracing slow, damp patterns that made the skin tighten. When they finally took a nipple into the heat of their mouth, Wanda let out a sharp, broken moan, her hips making a small, involuntary jerk beneath them. Y/N was relentless, their tongue flicking and swirling over the peak before they began to suckle gently, then with a firmer, more demanding pressure. The sensation was electric; Wanda felt the coil of desire, which had only just begun to settle, snap tight once more.

"Y/N..." she gasped, her hands sliding down from their hair to grip their shoulders, her nails digging into the skin.

Y/N didn't let the fire die, their mouth sliding across the valley between her breasts to find the other peak. They treated it with the same agonizingly slow devotion, circling the sensitive aureola with their tongue until Wanda was whimpering, her back arching off the silk sheets.

The connection between them remained—a heavy, pulsing heat that seemed to throb in time with the flickering candles. As Y/N took the second nipple into the wet warmth of their mouth, suckling with a low, rhythmic pull, they felt Wanda’s internal muscles squeeze around them in a sudden, sharp reaction.

"You're still so sensitive for me," Y/N murmured against her skin, their voice a dark, rough velvet. Wanda’s hands shifted from their shoulders, her fingers tangling back into Y/N’s hair to hold them there, her knuckles white. "Because of... what you're doing," she gasped out, her head tossing against the pillow.

Y/N let out a low, predatory hum. They began to move their hips again—not with the frantic desperation of before, but with a slow, grinding pressure that forced the air from Wanda's lungs. Every slide of their body against hers was a deliberate choice, a way to reawaken the nerves that had only just begun to settle.

The friction was different now—slicker, deeper, and fueled by a quiet intensity that felt even more intimate than their first climax. Y/N watched her through the dark curtain of their hair, mesmerized by the way her eyes fluttered and the way her lips parted to let out those small, broken sounds they loved so much. They leaned up, their weight braced on their elbows as they captured her mouth again, their tongues tangling in a slow, wet dance that mirrored the rhythm of their lower bodies. The bed groaned softly beneath them, the only sound in the room besides the rustle of sheets and the heavy, synchronized hitch of their breath.

Y/N increased the depth of the thrusts, their thumb finding the swollen bud of her clitoris once more to ground the pleasure. Wanda’s legs locked around their waist, her heels digging into the backs of their thighs as she pulled them closer, her voice a desperate, melodic whisper. "Don't... don't stop. Please, Y/N."

"I'm not going anywhere," Y/N promised, their voice breaking as they felt the coil of their own desire snapping tight for a second time.

The friction was a slow, agonizingly perfect slide, made even more intense by the slickness that now coated them both. Y/N kept their gaze locked on Wanda’s, watching the way her eyes dilated, turning almost entirely dark in the dim amber light. Every slow, rhythmic thrust seemed to draw a fresh, broken sound from her throat—a soft whimper that vibrated against Y/N’s own chest. "You're so responsive," Y/N rasped, their voice dropping to a low, primal growl.

They shifted their weight, leaning down to catch a stray tear of pleasure from her cheek with their tongue before capturing her lips again. This kiss was hungrier, fueled by the realization that they weren't done—that the adrenaline of the coronation and the emotional release of the afternoon had left them both raw and craving the only grounding force they knew.

Wanda’s fingers dug into the muscles of Y/N’s back, her nails leaving light, stinging crescents on their skin. She tilted her hips, meeting every downward surge with a desperate, rising pressure of her own. The slow grind of Y/N’s pelvis against hers, combined with the expert flick of their thumb against her sensitive core, was building a second storm, one that felt deeper and more heavy-lidded than the first.

"Y/N... please," Wanda breathed, her voice a fractured velvet. Y/N didn't need further permission. They increased the pace, their movements losing their steady deliberation and becoming more frantic, more focused. The wet, rhythmic sound of their bodies meeting filled the quiet chamber, a steady heartbeat for the night. Y/N’s breath came in jagged hitches now, their forehead slick with sweat as they chased the peak. They buried their face in the crook of Wanda’s neck, their teeth grazing the sensitive cord of her throat as they hit the deepest part of her. The internal clench of her muscles was the final trigger; Y/N felt the coil in their gut snap.

"Wanda—" they choked out, their voice breaking as they surged into her one last time. Wanda’s eyes rolled back, her body stiffening in a long, shuddering release that seemed to ripple through her entire frame. Y/N followed a heartbeat later, their muscles locking as a raw, guttural shout was muffled against her skin.

For a long, silent minute, neither of them moved. The only sound was the frantic, frantic thrum of two hearts trying to find a shared rhythm again. Y/N eventually collapsed against her, their weight heavy but welcome, their head resting on the pillow beside hers. Wanda’s arms wrapped loosely around their neck, her fingers playing idly with the hair at the nape of their neck.

Y/N’s eyes snapped open, the haze of pleasure suddenly pierced by a sharp spike of parental anxiety. They scrambled backward, their knees sliding against the silk sheets as they pulled away with a sudden, jerky movement.

"Gods," Y/N wheezed, their chest heaving as they fought to catch their breath. Their hair was a wild, tangled mess, and their skin was still flushed and glistening with sweat. Panic flickered in their dark eyes as they hovered over Wanda, their hands trembling slightly. Without a second thought, they reached out, their palm pressing flat and incredibly gentle against the small, firm swell of Wanda’s stomach.

"I’m sorry," Y/N rasped, their voice cracking with genuine worry. "Wanda, I’m so sorry. I didn't—I wasn't thinking. I didn't mean to put so much weight on you. I didn't mean to squish our little one.” The transition from a dominant, primal lover to a panicked, hovering parent was so abrupt it was almost dizzying. Y/N’s fingers splayed over her skin, light as a feather, as if they were trying to feel for a heartbeat or some sign that their child was offended by the earlier intensity.

Wanda let out a soft, breathless laugh, her hand going down to cover Y/N’s, pressing their palm more firmly against her. She looked up at them with eyes that were still heavy-lidded and warm, a gentle, maternal glow softening the sharp edges of her earlier desire. "Y/N," she murmured, her voice like velvet. "Look at me. Breathe." Y/N blinked, their gaze finally snapping up to hers.

“They are fine," Wanda assured them, her thumb stroking the back of Y/N’s hand. “Our baby is safe and tucked away. You didn't hurt them, and you certainly didn't 'squish' them. You were just loving their mother."

Y/N exhaled a long, shaky breath, their shoulders finally dropping an inch. They leaned down, resting their forehead against the very top of her stomach for a moment, their eyes closing.

"I just... I don't want to be like him," Y/N whispered, their voice muffled against her skin. "I don't want to be careless." Wanda’s fingers tangled in their hair, pulling them up just enough so she could kiss their forehead. "You aren't him," she said firmly. "He never worried about who he was hurting. You worry about a child who isn't even born yet. That's the difference."

Y/N stayed there for a long time, their hand never leaving her stomach, until the frantic rhythm of their heart finally slowed to a peaceful thud.

---

Next Morning

Y/N’s POV

Morning came softly.

Sunlight slipped through the curtains in thin golden lines, warming the quiet of their chambers. Y/N woke first, but for a moment, they didn’t move.

Wanda was curled against them, still asleep, her body tucked close beneath the blankets, bare skin warm against theirs. One of her arms rested loosely across their chest, her breathing slow and even. Y/N’s expression softened instantly.

Carefully—so carefully—they shifted just enough to look at her. Their hand moved first, slow and gentle, tracing along her back, following the curve of her spine, then to her arm, fingertips brushing lightly over her skin, down to her hip… and then to her stomach.

Their palm rested there, warm and protective, thumb moving in slow, absent circles over the slight swell beneath the blankets. A quiet exhale left them.

They leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her shoulder, then her cheek, then her temple. Wanda stirred slightly but didn’t wake, and Y/N lingered there for a second longer before, reluctantly, slipping out of bed.

The air was cool against their skin as they moved quietly across the room, gathering fresh clothes. They dressed with practiced efficiency, though their movements were softer than usual—quieter, as if the room itself deserved peace after everything.

They had just finished fastening their shirt—

“Y/N…?”

They turned immediately.

Wanda was awake now, still half-curled in the bed, hair slightly messy, eyes barely open as she looked at them.

“Where are you going so early?” she asked softly.

Y/N didn’t answer right away. Instead, they walked back to the bed, leaning down with one hand braced gently beside her as they pressed a slow, warm kiss to her lips.

“Good morning,” they murmured.

Wanda hummed softly against their mouth. “Morning…”

Y/N brushed their thumb along her cheek. “Go back to sleep,” they said gently.

She frowned faintly. “You didn’t answer me.”

A faint smile tugged at their lips. “I’m going to the training grounds.”

That got her attention a little more. Wanda blinked up at them. “Now?”

Y/N nodded. “It’s Rogers’ first day as commander.” Their tone shifted—just slightly. Not serious. Something else. A glint of mischief. “I should go check on him.”

Wanda narrowed her eyes, already suspicious. “Check on him?”

Y/N’s smile deepened. “Make sure he’s settling into the role properly.”

Wanda huffed softly. “You’re going to make his life difficult, aren’t you?”

Y/N leaned down again, brushing another quick kiss to her lips. “Only a little.”

Wanda let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head as she sank back into the pillows. “Be nice.”

Y/N pulled back just enough to look at her. “I am nice.”

She gave them a look. “…sometimes.”

They smiled, softer now. “I’ll be back before you wake properly.”

Wanda reached for their hand, squeezing it once. “Come back safe, Your Majesty.”

Y/N lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “Always.”

Then they stepped away—and left for the training grounds.

---

The morning air at the training grounds was crisp, steel clashing against steel in a steady rhythm that echoed across the wide courtyard. Knights moved through their drills under the rising sun as commands rang out, boots struck the dirt, and the energy of discipline filled the space.

Y/N stepped through the archway, and immediately a few of the knights nearest the entrance noticed. They straightened instinctively.

“Your High—” one of them started, then froze. “…Your Majesty,” he corrected quickly.

Others followed, voices overlapping slightly as they greeted them. “Your Majesty.”

Y/N gave a small nod, their expression calm but faintly amused. “Carry on,” they said, and the drills resumed—though with just a bit more stiffness now.

At the far end of the grounds, slightly raised above the training field, sat the viewing area. Ser Barnes was already there, standing with his usual relaxed posture—though the moment he saw Y/N, he straightened properly out of respect. Beside him stood Ser Romanoff, arms loosely crossed, sharp eyes already tracking everything.

Y/N approached. Barnes inclined his head. “Your Majesty.” Formal, as always in front of others—but the familiarity in his eyes hadn’t changed.

Y/N’s lips twitched slightly. “At ease, Barnes,” they said quietly as they stepped beside him.

Barnes allowed the smallest hint of a smirk. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Nat glanced between them, already catching the tone beneath the formality. “Your Majesty, are you here to observe?” she asked.

Y/N folded their arms, gaze drifting toward the field. “Something like that.”

Barnes added, voice still properly composed, “Are you here to check on Commander Rogers, Your Majesty?”

Y/N didn’t even pretend otherwise. “Yes.”

That earned the faintest huff from Nat.

On the field, Rogers stood at the center, issuing calm, measured instructions as knights moved through formations—efficient, controlled, very Rogers. Y/N tilted their head slightly.

“He’s being too nice.”

Barnes kept his posture straight, but his voice dropped just enough to carry that familiar, almost brotherly edge beneath the formality. “Give him a moment, Your Majesty.”

As if summoned—“Hey!”

Ser Wilson’s voice cut across the field. Sam jogged forward, spotting Y/N immediately. “Your Majesty!” he called, grinning.

Y/N raised a brow.

Sam gestured dramatically toward Rogers. “You here to teach us properly?” he teased. “Because I’m pretty sure he’s going easy on us.” A few knights nearby laughed, and Sam continued, louder now, “I mean—where’s the ‘give me 100 laps as penalty’ energy, huh?”

Laughter spread across the training ground. Even a few of the stricter knights couldn’t hide it. Barnes’ shoulders shifted slightly—just enough to show he was holding back a laugh. Nat didn’t bother hiding hers.

Rogers turned slowly. “…Wilson.”

Calm. Too calm.

Y/N’s smirk deepened. “Oh, I like him already,” they murmured.

Sam grinned wider, completely fearless. “What? I’m just saying—standards have dropped!”

A few more snickers. Rogers took a slow breath.

Then—“Two hundred laps.”

Silence.

Then chaos.

Barnes let out a quiet, approving huff. Nat shook her head, amused. Y/N actually laughed, low and satisfied. “There it is.”

Sam froze. “…I regret everything.”

Rogers didn’t raise his voice. “Start running, Wilson.”

Sam groaned loudly as the others cheered him on. Y/N leaned slightly against the railing, clearly enjoying this far too much.

“Perhaps I won’t interfere after all,” they said.

Barnes glanced at them, still composed—but with that unmistakable familiarity underneath. “With respect, Your Majesty,” he said evenly, “you absolutely will.”

Y/N’s smirk returned.

“Eventually.”

---

The morning carried on with renewed energy. Laps were run—many laps—and by the time the knights circled back toward the center of the grounds, most were breathing heavily but still standing straight out of sheer discipline.

Sam, however, was not.

“Whose idea was this?” he muttered, hands on his knees.

“Yours,” someone called helpfully. More laughter followed.

Barnes stepped forward then, rolling his shoulders slightly. “With your permission, Your Majesty,” he said, tone properly formal, “a spar?”

Y/N’s grin was immediate. “Always.”

Nat stepped aside as the two moved into the center of the training space. A few knights lingered, suddenly very interested despite their exhaustion, while Rogers watched too—arms folded behind his back, expression calm but attentive.

Steel met steel, the sound ringing sharp and clean.

Barnes didn’t hold back. Neither did Y/N.

Their movements were quick and practiced, years of training together evident in every strike and block. There was no real hostility in it—just familiarity sharpened into skill. Barnes lunged, Y/N parried, stepping in close and forcing him to pivot. A quick exchange—then another. The watching knights murmured quietly among themselves. “Still fast,” one said. “Faster,” another corrected.

Y/N twisted out of Barnes’ reach, breath steady, eyes bright. Barnes pressed again, strong and precise, and this time Y/N met him head-on. Their blades locked for a brief second before Y/N broke the hold and stepped back.

They both paused. Then, almost at the same time, lowered their weapons.

A silent agreement. Enough.

Barnes inclined his head slightly. “Well fought.”

Y/N huffed a soft laugh. “You’re getting slow.”

Barnes’ mouth twitched. “I’ll correct that.”

Nat rolled her eyes faintly from the side. “Please do. That was almost embarrassing.”

Barnes glanced at her. “You’re next.”

“Not before breakfast.”

That settled it.

Rogers stepped forward. “Training complete,” he called out. “Dismissed.”

The knights didn’t need to be told twice. They bowed quickly toward Y/N—“Your Majesty”—and then made their way toward the castle in a much less disciplined formation now that food was involved. Sam dragged himself along behind them.

“I’m never making jokes again,” he muttered.

“No, you will,” someone replied.

“Yeah,” another added, “you never learn.”

Soon, the grounds quieted until only the four of them remained. Y/N stepped toward Rogers, and for a moment, it was formal again. “You did well,” Y/N said.

Rogers inclined his head. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

They extended a hand, and Rogers took it immediately—a firm shake, full of respect. But Y/N didn’t let go. Instead, they stepped forward and pulled him into a brief, solid hug.

Rogers froze for half a second—then his arms came up just as firmly around Y/N. A small smile broke through his usual composed expression as he held them there, steady and grounding. For a moment, there was no title, no crown—just the boy he had trained beside, protected, argued with… his little brother. “I’m proud of you,” Rogers said quietly.

Y/N’s grip tightened slightly at that, just for a second, before they pulled back.

Rogers straightened almost immediately, composure slipping back into place, though the warmth hadn’t fully left his eyes. “Your Majesty,” he added, voice returning to formality.

Y/N gave him a look. “Don’t start.”

Barnes snorted softly. Nat smirked. Rogers allowed the faintest hint of amusement. “Of course,” he said.

A beat.

“…Your Majesty.”

Y/N sighed—but there was no real annoyance in it.

Only familiarity.

---

When Y/N returned to their chambers, the atmosphere was calm again. Sunlight filled the room more fully now, warming the soft fabrics and casting a gentle glow across the space.

Wanda was awake, seated near the window in her chemise, the light catching softly in her hair as Lily stood behind her, carefully brushing it out in slow, practiced strokes.

The moment Y/N stepped inside, Wanda looked up—and smiled.

Lily noticed immediately and stepped back, giving a small bow. “Your Majesty.”

Y/N nodded once in acknowledgment. “Thank you Lily, you may go.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Lily set the brush aside and quietly took her leave, closing the door behind her. The room fell into a softer silence.

Wanda’s smile widened as she watched Y/N approach. There was something unmistakably pleased about them—almost boyish despite the crown they now carried. “Well,” she said lightly, “someone looks very satisfied this morning.”

Y/N didn’t answer. They simply walked straight to her and dropped to their knees in front of her.

Wanda blinked, surprised.

Y/N’s hands settled gently at her hips before they leaned forward, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her stomach. Another. And another.

Wanda let out a quiet giggle, her fingers brushing through their hair. “You’re very affectionate today.”

Y/N hummed softly against her skin before leaning up, their hands sliding to her waist as they kissed her—slow, warm, content.

When they pulled back, Wanda wrinkled her nose slightly. “You’re sweaty.”

Y/N raised a brow. “I just came from training.”

“Yes,” she said, amused, “and you smell like it.”

They didn’t seem particularly concerned. Instead, they leaned in again, pressing a kiss to her cheek, then her jaw, then the corner of her mouth.

“Then come bathe with me,” they murmured.

Wanda laughed, tilting her head away slightly as they continued their gentle assault of kisses. “I already bathed.”

Y/N paused just long enough to meet her eyes. “Then do it again.”

She laughed properly this time, reaching up to cup their face before pulling them into another kiss. “You are impossible.”

Y/N smiled against her lips. “And yet—” they kissed her again, softer now, “—you married me.”

Wanda shook her head, still smiling. “Go,” she said gently, “before you ruin the sheets.”

Y/N leaned in once more, stealing one last kiss before finally pulling back. “Fine,” they said—but not before brushing their thumb lightly over her stomach again.

And smiling.

---

After bathing, Y/N joined Wanda again, properly dressed this time—though their hair was still slightly damp, a few strands falling loosely over their forehead.

Together, they made their way to the dining hall. It felt different now—not just because of the coronation, but because of the choices being made.

The long table had been set, but not in the overwhelming, excessive way it once had been under Alaric. There were no towering platters of heavy meats or rich, untouched delicacies meant only for display. Instead, it was simple. Warm. Bowls of light soup, fresh bread still soft from the ovens, sliced fruits arranged neatly, and tea steaming gently in porcelain cups. Just like Wanda and Y/N eat when it was just the two of them in their chambers.

Wanda took her seat first, Y/N pulling the chair slightly for her before sitting beside her. Across from them sat Queen Natalya, composed as always, though her expression softened at the sight of the meal.

And then—Lina.

She climbed into her chair with far less grace than the others, immediately leaning forward to inspect the table. Her nose scrunched slightly—then her face lit up.

“Oh!”

Y/N glanced at her. “What?”

“This is the food we used to eat when Papa was not here,” Lina declared confidently. “This is better!”

Wanda smiled faintly. “Do you like it?”

Lina waved her hand vaguely. “Yes,” she said. “It doesn’t make my tummy upset like the food Papa used to choose.”

Y/N’s expression shifted slightly—not hurt, just thoughtful.

Lina reached for a piece of fruit. “I like this,” she added, already taking a bite.

Natalya observed quietly, then looked at Y/N. “A deliberate change?”

Y/N nodded. “Yes.” They reached for their tea. “Food should be eaten,” they said simply. “Not displayed.”

Wanda glanced at them, a small warmth in her eyes. “And easier on the body,” she added, resting a hand lightly over her stomach.

Y/N’s gaze flicked there instinctively. “Exactly.”

Lina, already halfway through her fruit, spoke again. “And no one looks scared.”

The table went quiet for a brief moment—not tense, just… aware.

Y/N leaned back slightly in their chair. “No,” they said quietly. “No one should.” Wanda reached for Y/N’s hand under the table, giving it a gentle squeeze. Y/N glanced at her, and for a moment, the weight of everything felt lighter.

Breakfast continued—simple, warm, and finally peaceful.

---

Wanda’s POV

The morning had settled into something steady—quiet, but not idle.

Wanda sat by the window in their chambers, a stack of letters neatly arranged in front of her. Sunlight poured across the desk, warming the parchment as she worked through the growing pile of correspondence. It was only the first day, and already the kingdom had found its voice—congratulations from nobles, carefully worded alliances from neighboring regions, and gifts, some thoughtful, some… excessive. All addressed to her husband. Her king.

A small smile tugged at her lips as she sealed another reply.

Y/N was elsewhere in the palace, buried in work of their own. Ser Barnes had been assigned to assist them—something that, from what Wanda understood, mostly involved keeping things organized while Y/N tried to take on everything at once. She could almost picture it.

Wanda reached for another letter just as a soft knock came at the door.

“Enter.”

The door opened gently, and Lily stepped inside, careful as always. “Your Majesty,” she greeted with a small bow.

“Good morning, Lily.”

She carried a tray, light as requested. “I’ve brought your morning snacks,” she said, setting it carefully on the small table beside Wanda. “Fresh fruit, light bread, and tea.”

“Thank you.”

As Lily adjusted the cup, she hesitated for just a second. “And,” she added, a hint of amusement slipping into her voice, “you have a special visitor.”

Wanda looked up.

A small head peeked out from behind Lily’s skirts.

“…Wanda!” Lina said, as if she hadn’t just been caught hiding.

Wanda laughed softly. “Well, that explains everything.”

She stood from her desk just as Lina slipped fully into the room and ran straight to her. Wanda barely had time to open her arms before the little girl wrapped herself around her waist in a tight hug.

“Careful,” Wanda murmured gently—but she was smiling.

Lina didn’t let go. Instead, she leaned in and pressed a small, careful kiss against Wanda’s bump. Wanda’s expression softened instantly, her hand coming down to rest over Lina’s head as she leaned down to press a kiss into her hair.

“Hi, little one.”

“Hi!” Lina said brightly, finally pulling back just enough to look up at her. “I came to help.”

Wanda smiled. “So I heard.”

Lina nodded very seriously. “I am very helpful.”

“I don’t doubt that.” Wanda studied her for a moment before asking, “Are you done with your lessons for the morning?”

Lina straightened slightly, proud. “Yes.”

“All of them?”

“…Yes.”

Wanda raised a brow.

Lina hesitated. “…Mostly.”

Wanda laughed softly. “That’s what I thought.”

She reached for Lina’s hand. “Come. Let’s have some snacks first.”

Lina perked up immediately. “Yes!”

Together, they stepped out onto the balcony. The weather was warm and gentle, a soft breeze moving through the curtains and across the open space. Sunlight spilled over the small table Lily had already prepared—tea, fruit, and light bread arranged neatly.

Lily stood nearby, making final adjustments before stepping back. “Your Majesty.”

“Thank you, Lily.”

Wanda guided Lina to the chair beside her and sat down. Lina immediately reached for a piece of fruit.

“This is better than lessons,” she declared.

Wanda smiled, lifting her cup of tea. “I imagine it is.”

The breeze carried the distant sounds of the palace—soft, alive, peaceful.

And for a moment—it was just them.

---

Lina swung her legs lightly beneath the chair, already halfway through her fruit. “This is definitely better than lessons,” she repeated, very sure of herself.

Wanda smiled over the rim of her teacup. “I’m certain your tutors would disagree.”

“They always disagree,” Lina said with a small sigh, as if burdened by this constant injustice.

Wanda laughed softly. “What were your lessons about today?”

Lina thought for a moment. “…Numbers.”

“That sounds important.”

“It was very boring,” Lina corrected.

Wanda reached over and brushed a stray strand of hair away from Lina’s face. “You’ll appreciate it one day.”

Lina looked unconvinced. “I will not.”

Wanda only smiled.

They sat together like that for a while—Lina talking, Wanda listening, the morning breeze soft against their skin. Lina eventually leaned closer, resting lightly against Wanda’s side as she ate, completely comfortable.

After a moment, Lina’s attention shifted again.

“Wanda?”

“Yes?”

“Can the baby hear me?”

Wanda’s expression softened immediately. “Not quite yet,” she said gently. “But soon.”

Lina brightened. “Then I’ll practice.”

Wanda blinked once. “Practice?”

Lina nodded seriously, then leaned closer and whispered toward Wanda’s stomach, “Hello. I’m your aunt.”

Wanda couldn’t help it—she laughed softly, one hand coming to rest over her stomach. “I think they’ll like you very much.”

“They will,” Lina said confidently.

A soft voice joined them then. “I have no doubt.”

Wanda looked up.

Queen Natalya stepped onto the balcony, her presence calm and graceful as always.

“Mother.”

Natalya smiled warmly as she approached. “May I join you?”

“Of course.”

Lina straightened immediately. “Good morning!”

“Good morning, Lina,” Natalya replied, taking the seat across from them.

Lily appeared quietly to pour her tea before stepping back once more.

Natalya’s gaze moved between Wanda and Lina, lingering briefly on Wanda’s hand resting over her stomach. “You both seem very busy this morning.”

“We are practicing,” Lina explained.

“Oh?”

“Yes,” Lina said, very serious. “For the baby.”

Natalya’s lips curved gently. “Of course you are.”

Wanda shook her head slightly, smiling. “She’s preparing to be the best aunt in the kingdom.”

“I already am,” Lina corrected.

Natalya chuckled softly. “I believe you.”

For a moment, the three of them sat together in the warm morning light—tea steaming gently, fruit half-eaten, the quiet hum of the palace drifting up from below.

Peaceful. Soft.

---

After the little break, Queen Natalya went back to the guest chambers to write a letter for her husband. Wanda went back to her table to continue to correspond the letters and Lina stayed with her.

Of course she did.

Despite her earlier declaration that she had come to “help,” Wanda quickly redirected that energy. “You may help,” she told her gently, “after you finish your lessons.”

Lina tried to argue—briefly. “I already did them.”

Wanda raised a brow.

Lina hesitated. “…Most of them.”

“That is not the same thing.”

A dramatic sigh followed—but Lina obeyed. She settled beside Wanda at the desk with her books, legs swinging slightly as she worked through her lessons while Wanda continued with her correspondence. Every now and then, Lina would pause, glance over at Wanda’s letters, and then return to her work with renewed determination—as if proving she was, in fact, helpful.

“Look,” Lina said at one point, pushing a page toward Wanda. “I did it.”

Wanda glanced down and smiled. “You did.”

“I am very smart.”

“That you are.”

The morning passed like that—quiet, productive, and occasionally interrupted by Lina’s commentary about how unfair numbers were.

Eventually, the light shifted, and the soft sound of the palace changing rhythm reached them—servants moving more quickly, doors opening and closing, the subtle signal that midday had arrived.

Wanda set her quill down. “It’s time for lunch.”

Lina looked up immediately. “Can we go get Y/N?”

Wanda smiled. “That was exactly my plan.”

Lina was already on her feet before Wanda could stand.

Together, they made their way through the halls toward Y/N’s study. The doors were slightly open.

Inside, Y/N stood near the desk with Ser Barnes, both of them surrounded by ledgers, maps, and reports. The table was covered in documents—economy reports, trade routes, taxation notes—everything that came with ruling a kingdom. Barnes was speaking, and Y/N was listening, but their posture carried that familiar tension that meant they had been at this for a while.

Lina didn’t hesitate. She pushed the door open.

“Lunch!”

Both Y/N and Barnes looked up immediately. Y/N blinked once. Barnes exhaled quietly through his nose. Saved.

Y/N’s expression softened the moment they saw Wanda—and Lina. “Is it that time already?” Y/N asked.

“Yes,” Wanda said calmly. “And you are coming.”

Lina crossed her arms. “You have to eat.”

Barnes glanced at Y/N. “I agree with the princess.”

Y/N narrowed their eyes slightly. “You’re all conspiring against me.”

“Yes,” Wanda said simply.

Lina nodded. “Yes.”

Barnes added, perfectly straight-faced, “Yes.”

Y/N sighed—but there was no real resistance left. “Alright,” they said. They set the papers down and followed them out.

Lunch was simple—deliberate. The table was set much like breakfast: light, balanced, thoughtful. Bowls of vegetable soup, fresh bread, fruit, and one modest dish of meat placed at the center rather than dominating the entire spread.

No excess. No waste. Just enough.

Lina noticed again. “This is still better,” she said between bites, very satisfied with herself.

Y/N glanced at her, amused. “I’m glad you approve.”

“I do,” she nodded seriously, then reached for more bread.

Wanda smiled quietly, watching the two of them. It felt… right.

After lunch, the day slowed. For once, Y/N didn’t return immediately to their study. Instead, they stayed—with Wanda, with Lina. They walked out toward the stables first, the smell of hay and leather greeting them as they stepped inside. Lina rushed ahead, immediately drawn to the horses, her laughter echoing softly as she tried to pet one while Y/N kept a careful eye on her.

“Gentle,” Y/N reminded.

“I am gentle!”

The horse snorted.

Wanda laughed softly.

From there, they made their way to the garden—Eleonora’s garden. The place felt different now. Not abandoned, not heavy. Just… quiet. Alive again. Lina ran ahead between the paths, stopping every now and then to point out flowers she insisted had always been her favorite—even if she had only just noticed them.

Y/N walked more slowly, their hand resting at Wanda’s back—steady, grounding. Wanda reached for their hand at one point, lacing her fingers with theirs.

They didn’t speak much. They didn’t need to. The air was warm, the sound of leaves shifting softly in the breeze. Peaceful.

By the time evening came, the palace had settled into a gentle quiet once more. When they returned to their chambers, the weight of the day no longer felt heavy.

Just… full.

Y/N sat on the edge of the bed as they removed their outer layers, shoulders loosening in a way they hadn’t even noticed earlier. Wanda moved closer.

Y/N looked up at her.

There was something lighter in their expression now—something that hadn’t been there before.

“I think,” they said quietly, “that went well.”

Wanda smiled. “It did.”

Y/N exhaled softly, leaning back slightly as if finally allowing themselves to rest. “I feel…” they paused, then huffed a quiet breath, “lighter.”

Wanda stepped between their legs, her hands coming up to cradle their face gently. “That’s because you did it your way.”

Y/N looked at her.

Wanda leaned down and kissed them—slow, soft, full of quiet certainty.

“You are a good king,” she murmured against their lips.

Y/N let out a small chuckle. “It’s been one day.”

Wanda smiled, resting her forehead against theirs. “And that first day was everything.”

Y/N’s eyes softened.

For once—they didn’t argue.

---

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[ilovemarvel97]

Almost

Wanda Maximoff x G!P Reader

Summary: After a miscarriage, Wanda and Y/N’s marriage is tested by grief.

Word Count: 11k+

Warnings: angst, grief, happy ending

Main Masterlist

---

They say love is patient. But Wanda was beginning to think maybe love had never known the ache of trying.

It had been almost a year since she and Y/N started trying. Almost a year since they’d made that quiet promise, lying in bed with legs tangled and cheeks still flushed from love—“Let’s make a baby.” It was spoken between kisses, the sort of dreamy wish you whisper to the stars when you’re too happy to believe anything bad could happen.

They tried. God, they tried.

At first, it had been beautiful—full of laughter and excitement. Wanda would pull Y/N into her lap, kissing her deeply as they undressed each other. She loved watching Y/N’s eyes darken with need, loved how her body responded so perfectly to her touch. They made love in every room of the house that first month, giddy with hope.

Y/N would hold Wanda gently after, whispering things against her temple.

“Maybe this is the one.”

“Would she have your eyes?”

“If it’s twins, we’re screwed.”

“Wanda… you’ll be the most beautiful mother.”

But then, the first test came. Negative.

Then the second.

Then the third.

Then a month with no period—hope bloomed, only to shatter.

A false positive.

Wanda started to cry in the bathroom.

And Y/N—Y/N stopped smiling quite as often.

They stopped talking about names. About rooms and colors and cribs. Instead, Wanda began tracking her ovulation like a soldier—rigid, organized, mechanical. No more soft seductions in the hallway. Now it was, “I’m fertile. Come now.” And Y/N would nod, her heart splitting in silence, and take her to bed.

They still made love—but sometimes, it didn’t feel like love anymore. It felt like duty. Like desperation. Still, they held each other close afterward, too afraid to say the truth out loud:

What if this never works?

---

On the 11th month, Wanda stopped looking at the stick before the five-minute timer.

She just threw it on the counter and curled up on the bathroom floor.

Y/N found her there.

She didn’t ask what the result was. She just sank down, pulled Wanda into her lap, and whispered, “I’ve got you. I’ve got you…”

---

It was the end of April when Wanda woke up feeling different. Her body wasn’t sore in the same way. Her stomach didn’t hurt. Her breasts tingled. She didn’t want coffee.

It was small, almost unnoticeable.

But something inside her… shifted.

She didn’t say anything to Y/N that morning. Y/N had already left early for work. She just stood in the kitchen holding her mug, staring at nothing. Then—on impulse—she went to the bathroom.

She took the test. And then another. And a third.

When the timer went off, Wanda sat on the toilet, afraid to look.

But she did.

One line.

Two lines.

Three positive tests.

Wanda didn’t scream. She didn’t cry.

She just sat there—trembling, in absolute silence—as her hand flew to her stomach.

You’re real.

But Y/N wasn’t home.

She wasn’t there to hear the sharp inhale Wanda took, or the soft sob that broke her, or the way she laughed through her tears, repeating over and over, “We did it… we did it…”

She wasn’t there to see Wanda sink to the floor, still clutching the test, rocking slowly, as if afraid to move too much in case the dream shattered.

Y/N was at work—handling emails, laughing with a coworker, pouring coffee into a chipped Avengers mug.

She had no idea that, miles away, the woman she loved was crying in a sunlit bathroom, whispering to the life blooming inside her:

“She’s going to be so happy.”

---

The house was quiet when Y/N stepped through the door that evening.

She kicked off her shoes with a tired sigh, the muscles in her back aching from sitting at her desk all day. The sun had just dipped below the horizon, casting a soft, dusky glow through the living room window. The kind of light that made everything feel like a painting.

“Wanda?” she called softly, setting her bag on the table.

No answer.

She didn’t panic. It wasn’t uncommon for Wanda to be deep in her thoughts, or napping after a hard day. The last few months had been heavy for both of them, and Y/N had been careful—gentle with her voice, her touch, her presence. As if Wanda were made of glass and heartbreak.

She moved through the hallway and toward the bathroom, noticing the faint light under the door.

And then she heard it.

A soft sniffle. A breath caught in a throat. The quietest whisper of, “Please be real…”

Y/N’s chest tightened.

She knocked gently. “Wands?”

The door creaked open slowly.

And there she was. Sitting on the floor. Legs curled to her chest, red-rimmed eyes looking up through a blur of tears. Her hands were shaking.

Y/N’s heart dropped. She was beside her in a second, crouching low.

“Baby, what happened? Are you—did something happen?”

Wanda didn’t speak.

She just reached forward, picked something up from beside her, and pressed it into Y/N’s palm.

Three sticks. Two unmistakable lines.

Y/N blinked down, her lips parting in disbelief. She stared. And stared.

Then she lifted her eyes, her voice barely more than a breath.

“…Is this real?”

Wanda let out a tearful laugh. “I think so. I—I took three. I wanted to be sure. I thought I was imagining it. I still kind of feel like I am.”

Y/N’s fingers tightened around the tests, and she collapsed to her knees beside Wanda, cupping her face with both hands.

“You’re pregnant?”

Wanda nodded.

Y/N’s eyes flooded with tears, fast and silent, before she pulled Wanda into the tightest embrace she’d ever given her.

And there they stayed.

On the cold bathroom tiles.

Wrapped around each other, trembling and breathless and completely overwhelmed.

Y/N kissed her—everywhere. Her cheeks, her forehead, her mouth, her stomach. She buried her face in Wanda’s neck and held her like she never wanted to let go.

“I can’t believe it,” she whispered. “We’re having a baby. You’re going to be a mom, Wands.”

Wanda sobbed harder, her hands buried in Y/N’s shirt. “You’re going to be a mom.”

They stayed like that for a long time—just clinging to each other in the quiet miracle of the moment they thought would never come.

After almost a year of pain and waiting and wondering, they finally got what they wanted.

A new heartbeat. A tiny life.

Hope.

A future.

They didn’t sleep that night.

Not really.

They tried—cuddled under the soft sheets, limbs entwined like always—but every few minutes one of them would stir and whisper, “Can you believe it?” or reach out just to feel the other. Just to make sure this wasn’t a dream.

At one point, Wanda rolled over, placed Y/N’s hand on her stomach, and whispered, “You’re in there… aren’t you, little one?” Then she looked up, tears in her eyes. “She’s really in there.”

Y/N chuckled softly, stroking her hand over the tiny swell that didn’t exist yet but somehow already felt sacred. “She or he—or they—is in the safest place in the world.”

Wanda pulled her closer. “Next to you?”

“No,” Y/N murmured against her lips. “Inside you.”

---

The next morning, Y/N made breakfast even though she couldn’t stop yawning—pancakes with fresh strawberries, because it was Wanda’s favorite. She hummed while she cooked, a hand always drifting down to touch her own stomach, as if she could feel the connection too.

Wanda sat at the kitchen island, still in her robe, watching her with a soft, sleepy smile.

Y/N glanced over her shoulder and raised an eyebrow. “You’re staring.”

“You’re glowing.”

“Wands, I’m not the one pregnant.”

Wanda grinned. “Doesn’t matter. You’re still glowing.”

They laughed—and then they cried again, out of nowhere, because that’s what happens when your dream finally becomes real.

---

They scheduled their first appointment that week.

Y/N went with her, of course, sitting stiffly in the tiny clinic chair while Wanda lay back for the ultrasound. Her heart was racing faster than Wanda’s. She kept her hand over her wife’s, thumb moving in slow, grounding circles.

The room was quiet. Then came the sound.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

Wanda gasped. Y/N froze.

“There it is,” the technician said softly. “A very strong little heartbeat.”

Wanda turned her head to look at Y/N, and the look on her face—pure awe, trembling lips, love radiating from every pore—nearly undid her.

Y/N leaned down and kissed her forehead.

“I hear you, baby,” she whispered, meaning both of them.

---

They told no one at first.

Just held the secret between them like a flame cupped between trembling hands.

Y/N came home early almost every day. She made dinner, brought Wanda snacks, insisted she rest even when she wasn’t tired. Wanda teased her for being overprotective, but her smile said she loved every second of it.

And when Wanda started getting sick in the mornings, Y/N held her hair and whispered soothing things in Sokovian. She didn’t speak the language well, but Wanda said the effort alone made her heart ache in the best way.

They started journaling. One for each of them. Writing little letters to the baby. Wanda’s were poetic. Y/N’s were funny and full of doodles. They kept them in the top drawer beside the bed.

---

One night, weeks later, Wanda lay curled on the couch in one of Y/N’s old t-shirts, her hand absentmindedly stroking her stomach. The bump was barely there, but to them, it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Y/N knelt beside her, rested her head gently against her belly.

“Hi, bean,” she whispered. “Just so you know… I loved you before I even heard your heartbeat.”

Wanda’s eyes shimmered. “Me too.”

And for the first time in a long time, there were no doubts. No ache. No fear.

Just love.

For the life they made.

For the life they shared.

For the life still coming.

---

By the time Wanda reached the second trimester, everything started to feel more real.

The nausea faded. The exhaustion eased. And the bump—finally—began to show.

Y/N noticed it first.

She came home one afternoon with Wanda’s favorite soup and flowers that were slightly wilted but chosen with love, and paused when she saw her wife standing in front of the hallway mirror.

Wanda had pulled her shirt up, revealing a small but undeniable curve.

Y/N froze, her breath catching.

Wanda caught her staring and blushed. “It’s not much, but…”

Y/N dropped everything.

She crossed the room in three steps, knelt down in front of her, and pressed the softest kiss to her belly.

“You’re growing so fast,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Hi again, bean.”

Wanda looked down, brushing her fingers through Y/N’s hair. “You make me feel so beautiful.”

“You are beautiful,” Y/N said without hesitation. “But this? You carrying our baby? It’s—Wanda, it’s magic.”

---

They decided to share the news a week later.

They invited everyone over under the guise of a small dinner—just Clint, Nat, Sam, and a few others. Nothing big. Nothing dramatic.

Wanda wore a soft red dress that clung to her belly just enough. Y/N kept sneaking glances at her like she couldn’t believe she was real.

Over dessert, Wanda stood up and said simply, “We have news.”

Y/N stood beside her, fingers laced with hers, heart pounding.

“I’m pregnant,” Wanda said, voice shaking but proud.

There was a moment of stunned silence. And then—

Shouts. Cheers. Laughs. Hugs.

Clint cried the second time he hugged her. Natasha offered to kill anyone who stressed Wanda out during her pregnancy. Sam brought baby socks the next day, and Tony sent them a stroller they hadn’t even asked for.

It was loud and chaotic and perfect.

That night, as they lay curled together in bed, Wanda whispered, “You think they’ll love her?”

Y/N smiled against her skin. “Are you kidding? She’s already got more family than she’ll know what to do with.”

---

The Gender Reveal

They didn’t want something flashy. No fireworks. No paint-filled balloons.

Just them. Just the two of them.

Their doctor had written the gender on a small card, sealed in an envelope. Y/N tucked it into a book until they were ready.

One rainy Saturday, curled on the couch in matching socks and with a plate of warm cookies on the table, Wanda finally said, “Let’s open it.”

Y/N’s hands trembled as she tore the seal.

She glanced at the paper. Then looked up, eyes wide, glassy.

Wanda held her breath. “Tell me.”

Y/N handed her the card.

It read: Female.

Wanda’s hands flew to her mouth.

Y/N was already crying. “We’re having a girl.”

A sob slipped from Wanda’s chest as she threw her arms around Y/N, holding her tightly. “A girl. A daughter…”

“She’s going to be so strong,” Y/N whispered. “She’s going to have your magic, your heart, your fire.”

“She’s going to have your soul,” Wanda whispered back, pulling away just enough to kiss her. “And your stupid laugh.”

They both started laughing and crying at the same time.

Wanda placed Y/N’s hand over her bump again. “She’s listening. She knows we love her already.”

Y/N pressed her forehead to Wanda’s.

“I would’ve loved her no matter what.”

---

Nesting & Names

Wanda began nesting somewhere around week 22.

Y/N came home one day to find the entire nursery reorganized for the third time.

“Wands… did you paint the crib?”

“It needed to be sage green.”

“It was already sage green.”

“It was the wrong sage.”

Y/N bit her lip, trying not to laugh, and crossed the room. She wrapped her arms around her from behind, resting her hands on Wanda’s stomach.

“You’re nesting.”

“I’m pregnant and chaotic,” Wanda said, exasperated. “And my feet hurt. And your daughter won’t stop kicking my ribs.”

“She’s probably kicking because she inherited your dramatic flair.”

“She inherited your legs. That’s the problem.”

They both laughed, and then Wanda winced with another sharp jab from inside.

Y/N lowered herself to her knees and kissed the bump. “Alright, you. Settle down. Mama needs a break.”

They settled on a name a week later, lying in bed and whispering possibilities into the dark.

When they found it, it just fit—like it had always belonged to her.

Wanda said it softly against Y/N’s lips, and Y/N felt like she’d been kissed by the future.

---

But it didn’t last long. 

It all happened suddenly. 

Y/N didn’t know how long she’d been asleep when it happened.

But she woke up to Wanda screaming her name.

“Y/N!!”

Then—smack—a sharp slap against her arm.

Y/N jolted upright, dazed, heart pounding.

“Wanda?! Baby, what—”

Then she saw the blood.

It stained the sheets—bright, terrible red—spreading beneath Wanda’s thighs. Wanda was sitting up, shaking, one hand between her legs, her face ashen.

“It’s blood,” she gasped, eyes wide with panic. “Y/N—it won’t stop—I woke up and—oh my god—”

Y/N’s world tilted sideways.

“No—no, no, no, baby—” she threw off the covers and grabbed Wanda as gently but as quickly as she could. “We have to go. Now.”

She didn’t wait for help.

Didn’t call anyone.

She scooped Wanda into her arms—arms that had always been strong, but never felt the weight of the world like this. Wanda curled into her, sobbing, whispering the same phrase over and over:

“Don’t let her go. Don’t let her go.”

“I won’t,” Y/N choked out. “I’ve got you. I swear, I’ve got you.”

She ran—barefoot down the hallway, through the front door, into the night.

The stars blurred. The wind felt sharp.

She didn’t feel anything but Wanda shaking in her arms.

---

Y/N placed her in the passenger seat as gently as she could, hands covered in blood. She buckled her in, kissed her forehead.

“Hold on, Wands. Hold on.”

Then she slammed the door and jumped into the driver’s seat.

The engine roared to life.

And she drove like the world was ending.

Red lights blurred past. Speed limits meant nothing. Horns screamed as she ran intersections, tires screeching across the asphalt. Her hands were shaking. Her heart was a war drum.

“Please, please, please…” she kept whispering under her breath. “Just hold on.”

Wanda whimpered beside her, one hand gripping her belly, the other clutching the edge of the seat.

“It hurts so much,” she sobbed. “Y/N, I’m scared—what if something’s wrong—what if she’s—”

“Don’t,” Y/N said quickly, voice breaking. “Don’t say it. She’s okay. You’re okay. You’re both okay.”

But the truth was clawing at her throat. The blood hadn’t stopped. It soaked the towel Wanda had wrapped around herself. Her face was pale. Her breathing uneven.

Every second stretched out like an eternity.

---

She reached the emergency room and didn’t even park properly. She left the engine running, the door wide open. She ran around the car, yanked open the passenger side, and lifted Wanda into her arms again.

“Help!!” she screamed the second she crossed the threshold. “Please—my wife—she’s pregnant—she’s bleeding—someone help us!”

A nurse sprinted forward. Then another. Voices rose. A gurney appeared out of nowhere.

Y/N laid Wanda down, breathless, shaking.

“She’s twenty-three weeks,” she gasped. “Please—our baby—please—”

“We’ve got her,” one of the nurses said gently, already moving fast. “You did good. You got her here. Now let us take care of her.”

But Y/N didn’t feel like she did good.

She felt like she was losing everything.

She tried to follow them, but someone held her back. “Ma’am—you need to wait here—”

“I can’t—I can’t let her go in there alone—please, please—”

“Y/N—”

It was Wanda’s voice, weak, from the gurney.

Their eyes locked.

“Stay close,” she whispered.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Y/N promised. “I’m right here. Right here.”

Then they disappeared behind the double doors.

And Y/N stood alone in the sterile hallway, hands stained with the most terrifying shade of red she’d ever seen, whispering over and over:

“Please… don’t take her from us.”

---

The Waiting Room

Y/N sat in the sterile hospital hallway, her hands still stained with blood.

Wanda’s blood.

Their daughter’s blood.

She didn’t know how long she’d been sitting there. Minutes? Hours? Time had folded in on itself. Every nurse that walked past without meeting her eyes felt like another nail in her chest. Every second without news was a scream inside her skull.

Her phone buzzed. Clint. Natasha. Melissa—her mom. Dozens of texts, missed calls.

She didn’t answer.

She just stared at the swinging doors, waiting for someone to say anything.

Please just say she’s okay.

Please just say she’s alive.

The doctor came out at last. A woman in her fifties, kind eyes, blood on her gloves.

Y/N stood before she could think. “Is she—Wanda—is she okay? Please tell me—”

“She’s stable,” the doctor said gently, her voice calm in the worst possible way. “She’s asleep now. We managed to stop the hemorrhaging.”

Y/N nearly collapsed in relief. Her knees buckled and she gripped the edge of the chair. “Okay. Okay. Thank god. Thank god.”

But the doctor didn’t smile.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, carefully. “Your baby… didn’t make it.”

Y/N’s ears rang.

The world stopped.

“No,” she said.

The doctor’s voice remained steady, but soft. “We did everything we could. She was just too small. There was too much blood loss.”

“No,” Y/N whispered again, louder this time. “No—no, no, you don’t understand—she kicked this morning. She kicked while Wanda was brushing her teeth. She was alive. I heard her heartbeat.”

“I know,” the doctor said, reaching out. “And I’m so sorry.”

Y/N pulled back.

She couldn’t breathe. Her chest was tight, her hands shaking.

She turned away from the doctor and covered her mouth with both palms.

Their baby was gone.

Gone.

The little girl who had a name. A room. A blanket with her initials already embroidered. The daughter they had talked to through Wanda’s belly, told bedtime stories to, sang lullabies for.

She never took a breath.

Y/N didn’t cry at first. Not in the hallway. Not in front of the doctor. Not when she called her mom and couldn’t even speak.

But when she stepped into the empty restroom, locked the door, and saw herself in the mirror—covered in Wanda’s dried blood, in the hoodie she’d thrown on over pajamas, her eyes wide and hollow—

She shattered.

Her knees gave out.

She sank to the floor and sobbed like something feral—like her chest was being split open from the inside out.

Not quiet. Not graceful.

Ugly, desperate, broken crying.

She curled into herself, fists clenched in her hair, teeth biting her forearm to muffle the sound until it tasted like iron.

She had lost her daughter. Their daughter.

The future she pictured, the late-night feedings, the little shoes by the door, the first time she’d call her “Mama”—gone.

She stayed like that for minutes. Maybe longer.

Until a nurse knocked on the door, asking softly, “Ma’am? She’s asking for you.”

Y/N wiped her face. Rinsed her hands. Threw cold water on her cheeks. Looked at herself in the mirror and whispered, She needs you. She doesn’t know yet.

And that thought—she doesn’t know yet—nearly broke her all over again.

But she stood.

Straightened her shoulders.

And walked back down the hall to Wanda’s room.

---

Wanda was awake when Y/N stepped inside.

She looked exhausted, pale, her eyes rimmed red from crying, but alert now. Waiting.

The moment she saw Y/N, she searched her face.

Her voice was small. “The baby?”

Y/N’s throat closed up.

She took slow steps toward the bed, then sat on the edge and reached for Wanda’s hand.

It was cold. Shaking.

Y/N brought it to her lips.

“Wanda…” Her voice cracked. “Baby, I’m so sorry.”

Wanda blinked at her.

And then she knew.

“No.” It came out in a breath. “No—no, Y/N, please—please tell me she made it. Please tell me she’s okay—”

Y/N sobbed. Shook her head. “They tried. She was just… she was too small.”

Wanda broke.

A sound tore from her throat—sharp, stunned, animalistic. Her whole body folded inward, curling like she was trying to disappear.

Y/N wrapped her arms around her as tightly as she could without hurting her. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Wanda clutched her as if she were drowning. “She was ours.”

“She still is,” Y/N whispered into her hair. “She’ll always be ours.”

And they sat there in the quiet, wrapped in the gravity of what had been taken from them.

Two mothers.

One empty space where their daughter should have been.

---

After that night, Wanda stopped talking to Y/N.

Not fully, at least.

She answered when spoken to, but her eyes were distant, her smile gone. The warmth that used to fill the space between them was replaced with a heavy silence that neither dared to break.

Y/N tried.

She left little notes on the kitchen table. Made Wanda’s favorite tea just the way she liked it. Caught her hand gently whenever they passed in the hallway. Tried to slip her an extra kiss before sleep.

But Wanda’s walls only grew higher.

One evening, Y/N sat beside her on the couch, reaching for her hand.

“Wanda…” she whispered.

Wanda pulled back, shaking her head.

“I’m here,” Y/N said softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

But Wanda didn’t say anything.

Just looked past her, eyes shimmering with tears she refused to shed.

---

Inside, Y/N’s heart was breaking.

Every day, she swallowed her own grief whole, packing it away behind a mask of strength.

She couldn’t let herself fall apart—not when Wanda was slipping away.

So she smiled when Wanda glanced her way, even though her chest ached.

She stayed quiet when Wanda needed space, even though the silence crushed her.

She held Wanda close at night, whispering, “I’m here,” over and over, even if the words felt hollow.

And every morning, when Wanda woke still cold and closed off, Y/N reminded herself to be patient.

To be the anchor.

To be the love they both needed.

Even if Wanda couldn’t see it yet.

But the distance grew.

And Y/N wondered how long she could hold it all together before she cracked too.

---

Wanda stopped being quiet.

The silence didn’t last.

It turned into something sharp.

Anger.

It started small—snapped words, heavy sighs when Y/N spoke. Then it grew. Louder. Unavoidable.

“You don’t get it,” Wanda spat one afternoon after Y/N gently suggested they go outside for fresh air. “You weren’t the one carrying her.”

Y/N flinched.

“I know I wasn’t,” she said softly. “But she was still my daughter, Wanda.”

Wanda turned away.

“Then why does it feel like I’m the only one drowning?” she muttered, almost too low to hear.

Y/N didn’t reply.

She didn’t say that she was drowning—just quieter. Deeper. In silence.

---

It kept happening.

Wanda lashed out in small, sudden bursts.

When Y/N left the groceries in the wrong place. When she folded the baby blanket Wanda had left on the couch. When she touched Wanda’s back too gently, too lovingly.

“Don’t act like everything’s fine,” she hissed. “Don’t touch me like I’m okay.”

“I know you’re not,” Y/N whispered. “Neither am I.”

But Wanda didn’t seem to hear her.

Or maybe she just didn’t want to.

At night, Y/N still whispered, “I love you,” before bed.

But Wanda never answered.

And every morning, Y/N would wake up alone.

---

The nursery was quiet now.

The room they had painted together. The walls once lined with soft stuffed animals and folded baby clothes. The name still hung above the crib.

Some nights, Y/N would find Wanda curled up on the floor in there.

Other nights, she was in the rocking chair, blanket pulled up to her chin, eyes puffy from crying.

She never looked at Y/N when she walked in.

She never asked for help.

And Y/N never said a word—just quietly covered her with another blanket, kissed her hair, and whispered, “I love you,” to someone already too far away to hear it.

Then she’d leave the room and close the door gently behind her.

And go back to bed.

Alone.

---

Grief changes people.

But Wanda didn’t just change.

She hardened.

Whatever soft place in her that used to belong to Y/N—the part that used to smile at her across the breakfast table, or hum while brushing her hair—was gone now.

Wanda became sharp edges.

And Y/N walked barefoot through every one of them.

---

“I can’t even look at you some days,” Wanda muttered one night as she passed Y/N in the hallway, her shoulder brushing roughly against her as she walked away.

Y/N froze in place. “What?”

Wanda turned, voice cold. “You get to just keep being. Keep breathing. Keep sleeping. You still eat. You still shower. You still walk around like you’re okay.”

“I’m not,” Y/N said quietly. “You think I’m okay? You think I don’t cry every time I step into that nursery?”

“Then why don’t I see it?” Wanda snapped. “Why don’t you feel like you’ve lost anything?”

Y/N took a step back, breath shaking. “Because I’m trying to hold us together.”

“Us?” Wanda laughed bitterly. “There’s no us anymore.”

Y/N’s heart cracked.

But she didn’t fight back.

She never did.

---

Some days, Wanda wouldn’t speak to her at all. Other days, she’d throw barbed words like knives.

“You didn’t carry her. You don’t understand. You didn’t feel her kick at night. You didn’t get your body ripped apart for nothing.”

Y/N would just stand there. Swallow hard. Nodding like she deserved it.

One night, after she brought Wanda dinner—softly cooked vegetables and rice, untouched—Wanda stood in the doorway of the nursery and said, without looking:

“Stop pretending you’re grieving. It’s pathetic.”

That one hit too hard.

Y/N dropped the plate.

It shattered against the floor.

And for the first time, she said nothing at all. She just cleaned it up silently while Wanda sat down in the nursery’s rocking chair and stared at the crib like it might still hold a heartbeat.

---

Y/N cried in the shower most nights. Water hot enough to burn. Hand pressed against the tile just to stay upright.

She missed her daughter.

She missed her wife more.

But she didn’t leave.

Even as Wanda kept pushing.

Even as the “I love you”s went unanswered.

Even as she found herself whispering them now from the other side of the closed nursery door.

---

Four Months Later

It had been four months since they lost the baby.

Four months since Wanda had spoken to Y/N with real warmth.

Four months since Y/N had heard Wanda laugh, or reach for her, or say “I love you” back.

In those months, Y/N gave up everything except Wanda.

She stopped going into the office. Told her team she needed time, and when the time stretched on, she just kept working from home—silent, exhausted, going through the motions with the same quiet determination she’d used to survive those endless nights in the hospital.

She cooked. Cleaned. Sat with Wanda even when Wanda wouldn’t speak. Listened when she did—and let every cruel word wash over her like she deserved it.

She held the space around Wanda like a shell—strong, unmoving, unfeeling on the outside.

But something inside her had been bleeding too.

And no one had noticed.

Until today.

Y/N had to go in—just for a few hours. A meeting she couldn’t reschedule. So she called Natalya.

Wanda’s mother had checked in now and then over the past months—gentle calls, awkward texts—but never stayed long. Wanda didn’t want her hovering. She didn’t want anyone.

But Y/N couldn’t leave her alone today.

So she asked.

And Natalya said yes without hesitation.

When the door opened, Natalya was met with a sight she wasn’t prepared for.

Y/N stood there in slacks and a blouse that hung too loosely on her frame. Her collarbone was sharper. Her jaw more hollow. Her skin was pale—washed out like a photograph left in the sun. The circles under her eyes were deep, bruised, and heavy.

But it was her eyes that hit Natalya hardest.

They were black. Not literally—but dark, dull, empty. Like someone had reached into her chest and snuffed out the light.

Natalya froze in the doorway.

“Y/N…” she breathed. “You…”

Y/N forced a tired smile. “Thanks for coming. She’s still in bed. She’s had a rough morning.”

Natalya stepped inside slowly, taking in the quiet house. How clean it was. How untouched the living room felt. No signs of life. No warmth.

“Have you eaten?” she asked gently.

Y/N didn’t answer at first. She just reached for her coat. “There’s soup on the stove if she gets hungry. She probably won’t. But… just in case.”

Natalya’s eyes welled up.

Y/N was halfway to the door when Natalya reached for her wrist, stopping her.

“Y/N.”

She turned.

And for the first time in four months, someone looked at her with something that wasn’t pity or avoidance.

It was recognition.

Natalya’s voice broke. “You’re not okay.”

Y/N blinked, lips parting.

“I’m managing,” she whispered.

“You’re not.” Natalya’s eyes brimmed with tears. “Sweetheart, look at you.”

Y/N looked away.

“If you keep carrying both of you like this,” Natalya continued softly, “there won’t be anything left of you.”

Y/N’s shoulders sagged. Her throat tightened.

But she nodded.

“I know.”

And then she left—quietly, gently—because there was still a day to get through, and someone had to keep moving.

The door clicked shut behind Y/N, leaving the house in a suffocating kind of silence.

Natalya stood still for a moment, hand pressed lightly to her chest.

She hadn’t expected this.

Not the hollow version of Y/N. Not the echoing emptiness of the house. Not the scent of untouched food, or the slight chill in the air from a window left cracked open in a room no one wanted to be in.

Natalya moved quietly through the hallway, stopping in front of the bedroom door.

She hadn’t seen Wanda in weeks—texts ignored, calls left unanswered. And now, after seeing the hollowed version of Y/N standing in that doorway… she knew something was deeply wrong. More than she had realized.

She knocked gently. “Wanda? Sweetheart, it’s Mama.”

No response.

She opened the door softly.

The room was dim, curtains closed, air still and heavy. Wanda lay curled up on her side in the same bed where she and Y/N used to fall asleep laughing.

Now she looked like a ghost—sunken eyes, lips chapped, skin pale against the dark sheets.

Natalya’s heart cracked.

“Hi, moya lyubov’,” she whispered, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed. “I came to check on you.”

Wanda didn’t say anything. Just turned her face further into the pillow, a quiet signal: I’m still here, but barely.

Natalya reached out and gently tucked a strand of hair behind her daughter’s ear. “Have you eaten anything today?”

No reply.

“I brought some soup,” she said softly. “Why don’t you try a little? It’s still warm.”

Still no response.

But when Natalya stood and returned with the bowl of soup Y/N had made—still sitting on the stove, untouched—she placed it on Wanda’s nightstand and waited.

Wanda didn’t move for a while. But then, without a word, she slowly pushed herself up, sitting hunched against the headboard. Her hands trembled as she reached for the spoon, and for a moment, Natalya wasn’t sure she’d even go through with it.

But she did.

One small bite.

Then another.

And another.

Wanda’s brow furrowed slightly as she chewed. She didn’t look at her mother—just stared blankly ahead.

“This tastes… different,” she muttered after a few spoonfuls. “Did you change something?”

Natalya hesitated. Then said softly, “I didn’t make it.”

Wanda blinked. Looked at her, slow and tired. “Then who did?”

“Y/N,” Natalya said. “She made it before she left for work. She was worried you wouldn’t eat if no one was here.”

Wanda froze.

The spoon hovered in the air, suddenly too heavy.

Natalya watched her daughter carefully. “She asked me to stay with you because she didn’t want you to be alone today.”

“She shouldn’t have,” Wanda murmured, setting the spoon back in the bowl. Her voice was hollow again. “She doesn’t have to keep pretending.”

Natalya’s jaw tensed gently, but her voice remained calm. “She’s not pretending, Wanda. She’s surviving. The same way you are. Only… she’s doing it with no one to hold her.”

Wanda looked away. Her expression flickered—somewhere between guilt and something deeper. Shame.

“I didn’t ask her to stay,” she whispered.

“I know,” Natalya said. “But she stayed anyway.”

“She’s not the one who carried her.”

“No,” Natalya said gently. “But she was still her mother, Wanda. And she loved her, too. Loves you. Still.”

Wanda’s throat tightened. Her eyes shone, but she blinked quickly, forcing them dry.

“You didn’t see her this morning,” Natalya added softly. “She’s… she’s not the same girl I remember. She’s fading, Wanda.”

Wanda didn’t speak.

“She made you soup,” Natalya continued. “Even with nothing left in her. She made you soup and kissed your forehead while you were sleeping, and told me to please, please make sure you didn’t feel alone.”

Wanda’s lips parted, but no words came out.

Just a shaky breath.

And then, barely a whisper: “I don’t know how to reach her anymore.”

Natalya touched her cheek, thumb soft against her skin. “You don’t have to have the right words, Wanda. You just have to try.”

Wanda’s breath trembled.

“She still looks at you like you hung the stars,” Natalya added gently. “Even today. Even after all of this.”

Wanda’s eyes fell to the half-eaten bowl of soup.

She’d been so sure it was her mother’s—there was something softer in the flavor, something careful. It had tasted… warm. Familiar. Safe.

And yet it came from her.

The woman she’d spent four months pushing away.

The woman who still made her soup when she had nothing left of herself.

Wanda reached for the spoon again but set it back down, her appetite fading into guilt.

“I’ve been awful,” she said quietly.

Natalya didn’t argue.

She simply reached for her daughter’s hand and held it, warm and steady.

She didn’t fill the silence. She didn’t try to fix it. She just listened.

And Wanda, fragile and slow, began to speak.

“I think I hate her sometimes,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “And I hate myself even more for feeling that way.”

Natalya’s thumb brushed gently across her knuckles. But she said nothing, waiting.

“She looks at me like she’s still in love with me,” Wanda went on, breath uneven, “and all I can feel is this… this giant, empty, burning hole inside me that keeps screaming, You’re alone. You lost her. You failed.”

Her lip trembled.

“She didn’t carry her. She didn’t feel her grow. She didn’t… know her like I did.”

Natalya’s brows softened.

Wanda’s voice broke. “So when she grieves, it doesn’t look like mine. And I can’t help thinking… maybe it’s because she didn’t know what we lost the same way I did.”

She let out a shaky breath and looked away. “I know that’s cruel. I know that. But it’s how I feel. And every time she says something kind or brings me soup or tries to be strong, I just—” Wanda squeezed her eyes shut—“I want to scream. Because it feels like she’s moved on. And I’m still stuck back there. Still bleeding.”

Natalya’s heart ached.

She reached up and gently cupped her daughter’s face, guiding her to meet her eyes.

“Oh, Wanda,” she murmured. “You may have carried your daughter in your body… but Y/N? She carried her in her heart. From the moment you told her you were pregnant.”

Wanda’s lips parted slightly, but she didn’t speak.

“She grieves differently because she has to. Because you couldn’t afford to fall apart, so she did it in private. Quietly. In the shower. In the laundry room. In her silence.”

Wanda’s chest heaved.

“She stayed when you pushed. She cooked when you couldn’t eat. She sat outside this door for hours, Wanda. Hoping for any sign you were still in there.”

Tears began spilling down Wanda’s cheeks.

“She didn’t just lose her daughter,” Natalya whispered. “She’s been losing you, too.”

Wanda broke then—gasping softly, hands covering her face as the sobs finally came.

Natalya pulled her into her arms, holding her the way she used to when Wanda was small and scared of thunder.

“I didn’t know,” Wanda cried into her shoulder. “I didn’t know I was hurting her.”

“I know, baby,” Natalya whispered. “But now you do.”

Wanda’s sobs had softened into silence.

Natalya didn’t let go—just rubbed her back, quiet and patient, while Wanda slowly unraveled in her arms.

When Wanda finally pulled back, her eyes were red, lashes damp, and her voice small.

“Does she really cry where I can’t see?”

Natalya gave her a tired, aching smile. “She does everything where you can’t see. And not because she wants to hide it. She just didn’t want to add to your pain.”

Wanda looked down at her hands, ashamed. “I didn’t notice. I didn’t want to.”

“But you’re seeing her now,” Natalya said. “That’s the beginning.”

Wanda nodded faintly. Then whispered, “Do you want some tea?”

Natalya smiled. “Only if you’ll drink some too.”

---

Later That Evening

Wanda sat on the couch beside her mother, a cup of tea warming her hands.

The living room felt foreign in its calmness. Like it didn’t quite belong to her anymore. So much of the house had turned into a museum of absence—quiet, still, sacred in the wrong ways.

She sipped the tea slowly, grateful for the silence that wasn’t crushing for once.

That’s when the door opened.

Wanda’s head turned instinctively.

And she saw her.

Y/N stepped inside like a ghost.

Her movements were slow, mechanical—like her body had forgotten how to move with purpose. Her eyes were dull, skin colorless under the hallway light. Her bag slipped off her shoulder with a soft thud, but she didn’t seem to notice.

Wanda froze.

She had looked at Y/N every day.

But this was the first time she’d truly seen her in weeks.

And it felt like being struck.

Y/N wasn’t just tired. She wasn’t just grieving.

She was gone in places Wanda hadn’t been looking.

A shell of the woman who used to light up every room. The woman who danced barefoot in the kitchen. Who kissed her forehead while she chopped vegetables. Who once held Wanda through every ache of pregnancy like she’d been made for it.

She hadn’t stopped loving Wanda.

She’d just been slowly disappearing under the weight of being invisible.

Y/N didn’t even glance toward the living room.

She walked straight down the hallway like it hurt to exist, her body stiff and silent.

Wanda felt her tea go cold in her hands.

Her mother didn’t speak.

She didn’t need to.

Wanda stood up slowly.

And for the first time in four months… she followed.

The hallway was dim, save for the sliver of light pouring out from beneath the bathroom door.

Wanda hesitated before stepping closer, her bare feet soundless against the wood floor. She could hear the soft trickle of running water. Nothing else.

No movement. No voice. Just… water.

She knocked gently.

No answer.

Her hand trembled as she turned the doorknob.

The door creaked open.

And there, standing over the sink, was Y/N.

Frozen.

Her hands rested on either side of the basin, white-knuckled. Her shoulders were hunched, head bowed, water still running in front of her.

Her shirt clung to her back—damp where she’d splashed her face but hadn’t yet bothered to dry it. Her body was still, her breath uneven. She looked like she was holding herself together by sheer force of will.

She didn’t see Wanda at first.

She just stared into the water.

Not moving.

Like if she stood there long enough, it might carry her away.

Wanda’s chest tightened.

This wasn’t strength.

This wasn’t “managing.”

This was someone who had broken so quietly, no one noticed the pieces.

Then Y/N finally looked up.

Their eyes met in the mirror.

For the briefest second, Wanda saw the truth—raw, hollow, exhausted pain.

Then it vanished.

Y/N turned off the faucet, wiped her face quickly with her sleeve, and turned to Wanda with a smile.

But it wasn’t a real smile.

Wanda had never seen it before.

It was the kind of smile worn like armor—a shape pulled onto a face because it was easier than saying I’m not okay.

“Hey,” Y/N said, voice light, too light. “You hungry? I’ll just take a quick shower and cook something.”

She didn’t wait for a reply.

She moved past Wanda like nothing had happened—like she hadn’t just been standing there trying not to shatter.

Wanda reached out instinctively, catching her wrist. Gently.

“Y/N.”

Y/N froze.

That smile slipped. Cracked at the corners.

Wanda stepped closer.

“You don’t have to do that.”

Y/N’s throat worked around a swallow. “Do what?”

“Pretend.”

The silence stretched.

Y/N blinked rapidly, glancing down at Wanda’s hand around her wrist, as if unsure how it got there.

Then she forced another smile—smaller this time. “I’m fine, Wands. Really.”

“You’re not,” Wanda said softly. “And I see it now.”

Y/N looked away. Her breath caught in her throat, but she kept her jaw tight, her spine straight.

Wanda stepped closer. Gentle. Careful. Like approaching a wounded animal.

“I haven’t looked at you in months,” she whispered, voice trembling. “But tonight I did. And I see it. I see you. And I’m so sorry.”

The words hung in the air like something sacred. Heavy. Breaking the silence that had ruled their home for far too long.

But in Y/N’s mind, they floated past like mist.

Because it didn’t matter.

Not really.

She wasn’t the one who needed saving.

Wanda was.

Wanda had lost her dreams, the child that grew inside her.

Y/N? Y/N was just the support beam. Cracked, bent, tired—but still standing. That was the job.

She had no room for grief.

No right to fall apart.

So she swallowed the knot in her throat.

And in her mind, a voice she’d been living with for months whispered the truth:

You’re not the priority.

She is.

You’re just here to keep her breathing.

Y/N forced a nod, not trusting herself to speak.

Then she said quietly, “It’s okay. You don’t have to apologize.”

Wanda’s brows pulled together. “Yes, I do.”

Y/N gave her a small smile—one that barely reached her lips. “You were hurting. I understand.”

Wanda reached up to touch her face, and for a split second, Y/N flinched—not out of fear, but out of habit. As if she’d forgotten she was allowed to be held, too.

Her body stiffened, like it didn’t know what to do with tenderness anymore.

“Y/N,” Wanda said, more firmly now, her hand still hovering near her cheek. “You’re allowed to hurt.”

Y/N’s eyes dropped to the floor. Her voice was barely above a whisper. “No. You lost more.”

Wanda’s heart splintered.

“You were her mother too.”

“But not like you,” Y/N said quickly, eyes shining. “She was part of you. She… left you.”

Wanda stepped forward, closing the space between them. Her hand finally rested gently on Y/N’s cheek.

“She left us,” Wanda said. “And I left you, too. I know that. I abandoned you while you were breaking just as much as I was.”

Y/N tried to shake her head, but her body betrayed her—shoulders trembling.

Still she insisted, “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’re okay. That you’re—”

“I’m not okay,” Wanda whispered. “And neither are you.”

Y/N let out a shaky breath. Her hands stayed at her sides. Her body didn’t lean in. It didn’t fall into Wanda like it used to.

Because after four months of being invisible, of pushing her own grief into silence, she didn’t know how.

Didn’t know if she deserved to.

Y/N didn’t move.

Didn’t lean into Wanda’s touch. Didn’t brush her fingers against hers like she used to. Her hands hung at her sides like they didn’t belong to her anymore.

Wanda’s palm was warm on her cheek, but Y/N didn’t melt into it.

She endured it.

And that… that’s when Wanda saw it.

Really saw it.

Y/N hadn’t just been grieving alone.

She had been disappearing.

The quiet dimming of someone who didn’t believe she was worth being cared for anymore.

The slouched shoulders of someone who’d been bracing herself to be unwanted.

The forced smile of someone who had decided that her pain wasn’t important enough to be spoken aloud.

Y/N looked so much smaller than Wanda remembered. Thinner. Paler. Eyes duller. Her voice, quieter—not out of gentleness, but out of hesitation.

And Wanda realized, with a crushing wave of guilt, that this wasn’t just the loss of their baby.

This was what she had done.

Every time she turned away.

Every time she said nothing.

Every time she chose her pain and forgot that Y/N had been bleeding, too.

She didn’t just abandon her wife.

She made her believe she had no right to fall apart.

Y/N still stood in front of her—but she was far away, trapped behind months of careful survival, of selfless silence.

And Wanda’s touch, once a safe place, now felt unfamiliar to her.

That was the worst part.

The realization made Wanda’s chest cave in. She choked on a sob she didn’t mean to release and stepped even closer, her thumb trembling against Y/N’s cheek.

“I didn’t see,” Wanda whispered brokenly. “God, Y/N, I didn’t see what I was doing to you.”

Y/N’s eyes fluttered closed. “It’s not about me.”

“It was always about you too,” Wanda breathed. “But I was too wrapped in my own pain to remember that. You were here, carrying everything, and I never even asked if you were okay.”

Y/N gave a weak laugh. “You had enough to deal with.”

Wanda shook her head. “No. No more of that. Stop—please stop pretending that your grief doesn’t matter. That you don’t matter.”

She stepped back just enough to really look at her.

“You stopped smiling. You don’t sing anymore. You don’t sleep. You hardly eat unless I’m unconscious. I—I made you believe you had to be invisible so I could survive.”

Y/N looked at her, eyes wet but unreadable.

Wanda’s voice cracked. “I hurt you.”

Silence.

Then, Y/N whispered, “I knew you needed time.”

“But I needed you,” Wanda cried. “And I didn’t realize I was pushing you out of reach. And now I see you standing here like this—like you don’t even know how to be held anymore—and I don’t know how to forgive myself for that.”

Y/N’s lip trembled. Her breath hitched. But still, she said nothing.

And Wanda realized something else.

Her wife wasn’t just grieving.

She had stopped believing she deserved to be comforted.

Y/N’s eyes were wide, glassy, but distant. She didn’t cry. Didn’t tremble.

She just stood there—quiet in the way people get when they’ve been hurting for too long and stopped believing anyone would notice.

So Wanda stepped forward.

And held her.

Not delicately.

Not like she might shatter—but like someone who already had.

Wanda wrapped her arms around Y/N’s shoulders, buried her face in her neck, and clung to her like a lifeline.

For a long, breathless second, Y/N didn’t move.

Her arms stayed at her sides. Her breath stayed shallow.

It felt like hugging something already gone.

But Wanda didn’t let go.

“I’m here,” she whispered. “Please… let me love you.”

Then—barely audible, barely real—Y/N breathed out, “I’m sorry.”

Her voice cracked around it.

“I’m sorry, Wanda.”

And suddenly her body broke.

She sagged into Wanda’s arms, her knees giving out beneath her, and Wanda caught her as they sank to the cold bathroom floor together.

Y/N sobbed—violently, helplessly—hands clinging to Wanda’s shirt, fingers curled in the fabric like it was the only thing anchoring her to this world.

“I tried,” she gasped. “I didn’t want to make it worse—I just wanted to be strong for you—I didn’t know how else to—”

“Shh,” Wanda whispered, cradling her head against her chest. “Stop apologizing. You didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t.”

Y/N shook her head, burying her face against Wanda’s shoulder, still choking on apologies.

“I couldn’t fix it—I couldn’t save her—I couldn’t save you—”

Wanda kissed the side of her head, rocking them gently. “You saved me every day, Y/N. You saved me by staying. Even when I was gone. Even when I hurt you.”

“I didn’t know if I mattered anymore,” Y/N sobbed, the words tumbling out unfiltered, years of strength unraveling all at once. “I didn’t know if you saw me anymore.”

Wanda held her tighter, like she could stitch them back together with just the strength of her arms. “I see you now. I swear to you—I see everything now.”

And she just held her. Let her cry. Let her be small for once. Let her fall apart the way she had needed to for months.

On the cold tile floor, with nothing but the quiet hum of the house and the smell of Y/N’s damp shirt between them, they grieved together for the first time.

No roles.

No guilt.

Just them.

Two women who lost everything.

And still—somehow—found their way back to each other.

---

By the time Y/N’s sobs finally quieted, she was trembling and barely upright, her body drained of everything.

Her breath came in little hiccups, eyes swollen nearly shut, lashes stuck together with tears.

Wanda hadn’t moved.

She held her through every wave, every gasp, every broken apology until the storm finally gave way to silence.

Y/N sat slumped against her, cheek resting over Wanda’s heartbeat, her fingers still clutching the fabric of her shirt.

Wanda kissed the top of her head.

“We can stay here as long as you need,” she whispered.

Y/N shook her head faintly. “No… I can’t… I just—I need to breathe.”

Wanda helped her up slowly, carefully, her own limbs aching from the cold tile. She kept one arm around Y/N’s waist as they stepped out of the bathroom, moving like a single body held together by care alone.

The house was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the lamp in the living room.

And there—waiting on the couch, quiet and patient—was Natalya.

A tray rested on the coffee table. Two mugs of tea, still warm. A folded blanket.

She stood the moment she saw them.

Wanda didn’t speak. Just gave her mother a small, tired nod.

But Y/N froze halfway across the room, eyes wide with guilt.

Her throat tightened again. She rubbed at her face, as if trying to erase the evidence of her breakdown.

“I’m sorry,” she said hoarsely, voice barely a whisper. “I—I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t,” Natalya said softly, stepping forward.

Y/N opened her mouth to say more, but Natalya pulled her into a hug before she could.

Tight. Warm. Maternal.

“I heard you crying,” Natalya said into her hair, “and I still think you’re the strongest person I’ve ever met.”

Y/N’s chin quivered, but she didn’t cry again. There were no more tears left.

Only a quiet kind of grief.

The kind that clings like fog.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Natalya added gently, pulling back just enough to see her. “You loved that baby. You loved my daughter. You never needed to be perfect for either of them.”

Y/N gave a small, shaky nod.

Wanda stepped forward then, touching her back gently, grounding her.

“Come sit,” Natalya said. “I made tea.”

Y/N hesitated—but Wanda led her to the couch, guiding her down slowly.

They sat together, close, Wanda still keeping a hand on Y/N’s knee.

Natalya placed the tea in her hands. “Drink. You’ll feel better.”

Y/N nodded again.

And for the first time in months, someone else held the weight she didn’t know she was carrying.

---

They didn’t speak much after the tea.

Y/N was exhausted—physically, emotionally, spiritually.

The kind of exhaustion that seeps into the bones and makes words feel too heavy to lift.

So when Wanda gently suggested they go to bed, Y/N simply nodded and followed.

Their bedroom was quiet. The sheets still carried the shape of months of separation—Y/N curled at the edge, Wanda lost in the middle. The absence between them had stretched wide.

But not tonight.

Tonight, Wanda didn’t hesitate.

She slipped into bed and reached for Y/N.

Y/N paused only briefly, eyes flicking to her in the dark like she couldn’t quite believe it.

Then, wordlessly, she curled into her.

It was awkward at first—her body didn’t melt into it the way it once did. She was stiff, unsure, like she’d forgotten how to be held.

But Wanda didn’t let go.

She pulled Y/N in gently but firmly, until her head rested on Wanda’s chest and their legs tangled the way they used to.

Wanda’s arms wrapped around her with the care of someone handling something already broken.

And for the first time in months…

They slept in the same shape.

Y/N was out within minutes, her breath hitching now and then as the last of the tears wore off, but eventually settling into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Wanda didn’t sleep right away.

She stayed awake in the dark, holding her wife close, and let her eyes adjust to the soft shadows.

That’s when she saw it—really saw her.

Y/N had always been strong. Capable. Warm. Hers.

But tonight…

She was thinner than Wanda remembered. Her cheeks slightly sunken. Her collarbones sharper. The way her back curled into her chest didn’t feel like safety—it felt like retreat.

And her skin—so pale. Was it always like that? Or had the light left her over time, bit by bit, while Wanda was too far away to notice?

Wanda’s throat burned.

She blinked back tears, brushing her fingers gently over Y/N’s arm, her ribs, the curve of her waist.

How had she missed it?

How had she let her wife fade into the background while drowning in her own pain?

Y/N had carried both of their weight in silence.

She had stayed.

She had waited.

And now, lying here, fragile and asleep in her arms, she looked like someone who had given everything away just to keep Wanda breathing.

Wanda leaned down, pressed a kiss to her forehead, and whispered into her hair:

“I see you now. I promise I won’t look away again.”

And as Y/N slept, for the first time, Wanda didn’t think about what they’d lost.

She thought about what she still had.

And what she would do to never lose her again.

---

Wanda woke to cold sheets.

Her arms reached out instinctively, searching for warmth that wasn’t there. Her hand brushed only the worn softness of linen.

Her stomach sank.

The panic came before reason—not again, please not again.

She sat up quickly, breath catching in her throat. “Y/N?”

No answer.

She shoved the blankets back and got out of bed, barefoot, chest already tightening as she hurried down the hallway, calling again, quieter this time. “Y/N?”

She rounded the corner into the kitchen.

And froze.

Y/N stood there with her back half-turned, tank top hanging a little loose on her body, the soft cotton clinging just enough to show how much weight she’d lost. The sweatpants hung low on her hips, tied tighter than they used to be. Her frame looked too small for her clothes—familiar things now draped over unfamiliar frailty.

She had a plate in her hand. A folded napkin on top. Two slices of toast. Scrambled eggs. A few strawberries, cut the way Wanda liked them.

She was just about to reach for the tray.

To bring it upstairs.

Like she had, every single day, for the past four months.

Wanda stood frozen in the doorway, watching her wife quietly go through a routine no one had asked for—but one she had done anyway.

Y/N turned slightly and saw her standing there.

She startled. Just a bit. Caught in the act.

Their eyes met.

It was awkward. Gentle, but unfamiliar.

“Hey,” Y/N said softly, voice still raspy from sleep. “You’re… up early.”

She glanced down at the plate, then gave a tiny, awkward shrug. “I was just gonna bring this to you. Like usual.”

Wanda didn’t respond at first. Her heart was caught somewhere in her throat.

Y/N fidgeted, clearly unsure, her eyes flickering down. “It’s nothing fancy. I didn’t know if you’d want it, but… I made something. You haven’t really eaten in a while.”

She said it gently. Without blame. Without expectation.

Just quietly. Out of love.

Wanda’s voice shook when she finally spoke. “I panicked.”

Y/N blinked, confused. “What?”

“When I woke up and you weren’t there,” Wanda whispered, stepping closer, “I thought something happened. I thought maybe last night didn’t mean as much to you as it did to me.”

Y/N’s face changed instantly—softening into something vulnerable. “Wanda… no. I just didn’t want to wake you. You finally slept. I thought I’d bring breakfast, like always.”

Wanda’s gaze dropped to the tray. Then to the sharp line of Y/N’s collarbone, the way the tank top hung too loosely from her shoulders. How her arms looked thinner now, like they’d carried too much weight for too long.

“You were still taking care of me,” Wanda whispered.

Y/N didn’t respond. She just looked down, a little ashamed.

“Even while I ignored you.”

“Because I love you,” Y/N said, quietly but firmly.

Wanda didn’t hesitate.

She crossed the space between them and wrapped her arms around Y/N’s neck—soft but certain, like anchoring herself to the only thing that had never let go, even when she had.

And Y/N held her.

Without question.

Her arms came around Wanda’s waist, a little too loose at first—like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed.

But Wanda leaned in fully, resting her cheek against Y/N’s shoulder, and whispered, “Please.”

That was all it took.

Y/N’s grip tightened.

She held Wanda like she’d been waiting for this—aching for it. Like her body remembered something her heart had stopped hoping for. Her arms locked around her wife’s back, pulling her close, grounding them both.

“I’ve missed you,” Wanda whispered.

“I never left,” Y/N murmured.

“I know. That’s what hurts.”

They stood there in the kitchen, tangled up in each other, Wanda’s arms around Y/N’s neck, Y/N holding her like something precious—something breakable, but not broken.

And for the first time in a long time, their silence didn’t feel heavy.

It felt like healing.

Y/N’s arms were still around her, warm and strong despite the way her body had withered with grief. And Wanda stayed there, tucked into the curve of her wife’s neck, where everything still felt familiar—safe, even now.

She hadn’t realized how much she missed being held like this.

Not just the comfort of touch…

…but this.

Being loved.

Being known.

And knowing she still mattered enough to be reached for.

Wanda’s fingers curled gently into the back of Y/N’s tank top, and her eyes stung again—not with grief this time, but with something she hadn’t felt in far too long.

Tenderness.

“I don’t know why I couldn’t say it,” Wanda whispered, voice raw against Y/N’s skin. “Maybe I was scared. Maybe I didn’t think I deserved you anymore.”

Y/N’s hand smoothed up her back. “You don’t have to explain. I didn’t need—”

“Yes, you did,” Wanda breathed. She pulled back just enough to see her face, her hand rising to cup Y/N’s cheek. “You needed to hear it.”

Y/N’s eyes searched hers, unsure.

So Wanda said it.

Finally.

Gently. Honestly.

“I love you too.”

The words fell quiet, but they landed with weight—real and grounding.

Y/N blinked fast, her jaw trembling again.

“Wanda…”

“I always did,” Wanda said, thumb brushing softly beneath her wife’s swollen eyes. “Even when I forgot how to feel anything, I still loved you. You never stopped being my heart.”

Y/N exhaled slowly, something inside her visibly releasing.

Not the grief. Not all the pain.

But the fear.

The fear that she had been forgotten. Replaced. Or worse—unloved.

And now, here it was.

“I love you too.”

It settled in the space between them like light returning to a long-dark room.

Y/N pulled her into another embrace—this time stronger, fuller, like she finally believed she could.

And Wanda held her just as tightly.

Together. Finally.

---

Two Years Later

The late afternoon sun poured golden light into the nursery, casting soft shadows across the walls where little stars had been hand-painted long before he arrived.

Wanda stood near the window, gently swaying with their baby boy in her arms. He was bundled tightly in a pale green blanket, no more than two days old, his tiny face relaxed in sleep, mouth twitching now and then with a dream he couldn’t yet understand.

She looked down at him with a love so vast, so fierce, it filled her chest like oxygen.

Then she felt arms wrap around her waist from behind.

Y/N.

Barefoot, warm, steady—pressing in softly until her chest touched Wanda’s back, her chin resting on Wanda’s shoulder.

Wanda leaned into her without hesitation, the way her body always had. The ease of it, after everything, still made her breath catch.

“Hey,” Y/N whispered, kissing her shoulder. “How’s our little man?”

“Still dreaming,” Wanda said, smiling. “He hasn’t let go of my finger once.”

Y/N smiled too, peeking over her shoulder at the small bundle cradled so perfectly in Wanda’s arms. “Smart kid. Knows exactly where he belongs.”

Wanda’s eyes shimmered, full of quiet wonder. “He looks like you when he sleeps.”

Y/N chuckled softly. “Poor thing.”

Wanda elbowed her gently, and Y/N kissed her temple in apology.

The room was quiet for a while—only the hush of the breeze through the open window and the sound of their child’s tiny breaths. Peaceful in a way neither of them had truly known in years.

Wanda broke the silence with a whisper. “I never thought we’d get here.”

Y/N tightened her arms around her. “I know.”

There was a pause.

Then Wanda added, even softer, “But I never stopped wanting to.”

She turned slightly in Y/N’s embrace, just enough to see her—really see her.

And for a moment, she forgot to breathe.

Y/N looked… whole again.

Her color had returned. The shadows beneath her eyes were long gone. Her body, once thin and trembling from quiet collapse, had filled out again—her strength returned, her muscles firm beneath the fitted tank she wore. Her eyes, warm and steady, sparkled with life.

Wanda reached up with her free hand and touched her cheek, smiling.

“You came back to me,” she whispered.

“I never left,” Y/N said gently.

But before Wanda could reply, a small sound rose between them.

Yawwnn.

Their baby stirred in her arms, stretching his tiny fingers with a big, sleepy yawn that scrunched his whole face.

Both of them stilled.

Then melted.

“Oh my god,” Wanda whispered with a teary laugh, clutching him closer. “Did you see that?”

“I think my heart just exploded,” Y/N murmured, leaning down to kiss the crown of their son’s head. “Okay, Eli. You’re gonna have to tone down the cuteness if you want your parents to survive.”

Elian Maximoff-L/N.

Eli, for short.

The name they chose together, months ago—after a quiet evening under the stars where they’d promised never to stop hoping.

And now he was here.

Real.

Safe.

Home.

Wanda smiled so hard her cheeks ached. Y/N buried her face in her hair, arms tightening protectively around both of them.

Their son gave a sleepy sigh and snuggled deeper into Wanda’s chest.

And in that moment—sunlight dancing across the walls, the soft weight of Eli in their arms, and each other held close—they both knew:

This was what healing looked like.

Not forgetting.

Not replacing.

But holding joy and grief in the same breath—and choosing love anyway.

---

Let me know your thoughts in the comment.

[ilovemarvel97]

Marked By You - Chapter 7

Burgers and Red Magic

Wanda Maximoff x G!P Wolf Reader

Summary: Wanda and Y/N continue to follow Nat’s order.

Words: 9,737

Warnings: Fluff, Angst, Mention of death, Soulmate AU

A/N: I know you all are waiting for this. Hope you enjoy 😉

Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist

---

---

Somewhere in Romania

Natasha’s POV

The storage unit smelled like dust, motor oil, and old cardboard.

Natasha nudged the metal door shut behind her with her foot, a plastic grocery bag swinging lightly from her hand. The single fluorescent strip overhead flickered before settling into a steady, tired buzz.

Across the room, Steve and Bucky stood near the center. Between them sat the man they’d grabbed during the escape from the warehouse. He was tied to a metal chair—hands zip-tied behind the backrest, ankles secured, posture rigid but unharmed. His face was tense, eyes darting between the two super soldiers towering over him.

Nat paused a moment, reading the room. No blood. No bruises. Just pressure.

Good.

“Anything?” she asked.

Steve glanced over at her. “No.”

Bucky shook his head slightly. “He hasn’t said much.”

The man shifted uncomfortably in the chair but stayed silent.

Nat set the grocery bag down on an overturned crate and began pulling things out—wrapped sandwiches, bottled water, a couple bags of chips. “Good news,” she said dryly. “I brought food.”

She tossed a sandwich toward Bucky. He caught it easily.

Steve took the other.

The man in the chair watched the food like a starving dog.

Nat noticed immediately. She grabbed the last sandwich, unwrapped it slowly, then took a bite while maintaining eye contact with him.

The message landed.

He swallowed.

Steve wiped his hands on a napkin and stepped back a little, giving Nat room. Bucky followed, leaning casually against a support beam—but still close enough that the prisoner knew exactly where he was.

Nat dusted crumbs from her fingers and dragged another crate across the concrete floor. The scrape echoed through the storage space. She sat down in front of the man, elbows resting on her knees. Calm and patient.

“Alright,” she said.

The man tried to hold her gaze. He lasted about three seconds before looking away.

Nat smiled faintly. “Let’s try this again.” She tilted her head slightly. “Who told you we were coming?”

The man said nothing. Not even a shrug.

Just silence.

Nat studied him for a moment, expression unreadable.

Steve leaned against a nearby crate, arms crossed, watching quietly. Bucky stood a few steps behind the chair, metal arm resting loosely at his side. Neither of them intervened.

Nat exhaled softly. “Okay.” She reached down to the holster at her thigh and drew one of her guns in a smooth, practiced motion. The man’s eyes tracked the weapon instantly.

Nat raised the gun slowly. Then aimed it directly at his groin.

The man froze.

For the first time since she’d walked in, he made a sound.

“…What are you doing?”

Nat didn’t answer. She simply watched him.

“You wouldn’t,” he said quickly, trying to recover his confidence. “You’re not gonna—”

The metallic rack of the slide cut him off as Nat chambered a round. The sound echoed sharply through the storage unit.

His confidence vanished. “Wait—”

Nat’s voice remained calm. “I’m going to start counting,” she said.

Both Steve and Bucky didn’t move. Neither of them looked surprised.

“Ten.”

The man swallowed.

“You can’t—”

“Nine.”

His breathing sped up.

“Eight.”

“Okay, okay—”

“Seven.”

His voice cracked. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Six.”

The barrel didn’t waver.

“Five.”

The man started shaking.

“Four.”

“WAIT.”

Nat’s finger rested lightly on the trigger.

“Three.”

“Okay! Okay!”

He leaned forward against the restraints, panic breaking through.

“I’ll talk!”

Nat didn’t lower the gun.

“Two.”

“Someone tipped them off!” he blurted.

Nat stopped counting.

“Go on.”

The man’s breathing was uneven now.

“I don’t know who it was,” he said quickly. “We never got a name.”

Nat’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Who gave the order?”

“A handler,” he said. “Remote. Voice only. But he said the intel came from someone who knew your team.”

Steve straightened slightly.

“Define knew,” Nat said quietly.

The man shook his head frantically.

“That’s all I got! I swear!”

Nat kept the gun steady.

“He said the source knew how you operate,” the man rushed on. “Your response times. Your entry patterns. That you’d come after the backup drive.”

Silence settled over the storage unit. Natasha’s eyes hardened slightly. “Then explain something to me,” she said calmly.

The man shifted in the chair.

“Why separate us?”

He didn’t answer.

Nat tilted her head, studying him.

“Why split Wanda and Y/N from us?” she continued. “And why bring thirty men for a retrieval mission?”

Still nothing.

The man stared at the floor.

Nat sighed softly. Then she lifted her gun again and pressed the barrel firmly against his groin.

The reaction was immediate.

“HEY—!”

“Answer the question,” Nat said quietly.

His breathing spiked.

“I—I told you everything—”

Nat pressed the gun harder.

The metal clicked lightly against the chair frame.

“You’re holding back.”

“NO, I—”

Nat’s voice remained calm. “Three seconds.”

The man panicked instantly.

“WAIT!”

Nat didn’t move the gun.

“One—”

“Okay! Okay!”

He leaned forward against the restraints, shaking now.

“They wanted enhanced targets!” he blurted.

Nat’s eyes narrowed. “Which ones.”

“They said if the trap worked we were supposed to split the team and grab whoever we could!”

Bucky straightened slightly behind the chair.

“Who,” Nat repeated.

The man swallowed hard.

“The brief listed priorities,” he said quickly.

Nat pushed the barrel a fraction closer.

“Say them.”

“The Winter Soldier!” he said immediately.

Bucky’s jaw tightened.

“And the wolf,” he finished quickly.

Silence fell again. Steve looked at Nat. The man kept talking now, words tumbling out. “They said those two were the priority targets if separation happened! Especially the wolf. That’s why there were so many of us—we were supposed to overwhelm you long enough to isolate the wolf and him!” The man signal to Bucky.

Nat lowered the gun slightly. “Capture,” she said.

The man nodded frantically. “Alive.”

Another heavy silence settled over the storage unit.

Steve’s voice came low. “Why those two?”

The man shook his head. “I don’t know! That wasn’t my clearance!”

Nat slowly stepped back. Her mind was already moving through the implications. Separate Y/N and Bucky, and capture them. Someone hadn’t just studied the Avengers. They’d built an operation around their specific weaknesses. And that meant the man had been right about one thing. The source didn’t just know the Avengers.

They knew them very well.

---

Wanda & Y/N’s POV

The next few days became a pattern.

Move.

Disappear.

Move again.

They followed Nat’s instructions exactly. Twenty-four hours in one place—no more. Then gone.

The first motel lasted one night. By morning they were already back on the road. 

A small bus station two towns over. Cash tickets. No questions asked. They sat near the back, backpacks at their feet, heads down. The bus rattled through farmland and sleepy towns while Wanda watched reflections in the windows and Y/N quietly tracked every movement around them.

No Avengers tech.

No powers in public.

No patterns.

Just two travelers moving west.

The second stop was a roadside inn near a truck route. Cheap carpet. Cigarette burns in the dresser. The kind of place where nobody remembered faces.

Y/N checked the room first. Habit. Door frame. Windows. Bathroom vent. Under the bed. Only after she gave a small nod did Wanda close the door.

They slept a little easier that night. Not much.

By the third day they were already crossing state lines.

Gas stations. Diners. Greyhound routes. Rides from strangers who didn’t care who they were as long as they paid for gas.

Y/N drove when they rented cars under fake names Wanda created with careful magic. Wanda navigated and watched the rearview mirror for the same headlights appearing twice.

Every town looked the same. Every night felt temporary.

Somewhere on the fourth evening they stopped at a diner outside a highway junction. The neon sign flickered. Inside smelled like coffee and frying oil. They took the booth closest to the exit.

Y/N automatically slid into the booth seat facing the door.

Wanda noticed. She always noticed.

It had become instinct now—Y/N’s back to the wall, eyes on entrances, every reflection in the diner windows giving her another angle of the room.

The waitress approached with a coffee pot and paused for half a second. Her eyes flicked over Y/N—taking in the height, the broad shoulders, the sharp features. A quick once-over, not hostile. Just… appreciative.

Wanda raised a brow.

The waitress didn’t linger long. She poured their coffee and walked away.

Wanda took a slow sip, pretending she hadn’t seen it. Then she set the mug down.

“Do you think they’re still looking for us?” she asked quietly.

Y/N didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes were already moving around the diner—the trucker at the counter, the couple arguing softly near the window, the cook passing plates through the kitchen window. She catalogued every movement before finally looking back at Wanda.

“Yeah,” she said simply. Honest.

Wanda exhaled slowly.

Y/N tilted her head slightly, lowering her voice. “But we’re moving. Different states. Different routes.”

Her fingers tapped lightly against the coffee mug. “Makes it harder.”

Wanda nodded. Before she could respond, the waitress returned with a small notepad.

“Ready to order?”Her attention went immediately to Y/N. Not subtle about it either.

Wanda noticed. Of course she noticed.

Y/N, meanwhile, was still studying the menu like it required serious analysis. She didn’t even look up.

The waitress shifted her weight slightly, waiting.

Wanda watched the exchange over the rim of her coffee cup, expression carefully neutral.

Y/N finally spoke. “Burger,” she said, still looking at the menu. “Fries.”

The waitress lingered half a second longer than necessary. “Sure thing,” she said, voice a little brighter.

Wanda ordered next. “I’ll take the grilled chicken sandwich.”

The waitress scribbled it down but her attention kept drifting back to Y/N.

Y/N finished scanning the menu, apparently deciding nothing else on it was worth further thought. She closed it and handed it back. Only then did she look up.

Their eyes met briefly as she passed the menu across the table.

The waitress smiled. A wider one this time. “Be right back with that,” she said.

She walked away.

Wanda watched her go.

Then she slowly turned back to Y/N.

“…You have no idea that just happened, do you.”

Y/N frowned faintly. “What happened?”

Wanda leaned back in the booth.

“The waitress.”

Y/N blinked once.

“What about her.”

Wanda studied her for a moment, then shook her head slightly.

“Nothing.”

Wanda reached for her coffee again.

Y/N watched her for a moment, still slightly suspicious, like she knew there was information she was missing but couldn’t identify what it was.

“…Okay,” she said eventually.

The diner hummed around them—silverware clinking, a trucker laughing at something on the small TV above the counter, the steady hiss of the grill from the kitchen.

Y/N picked up her coffee mug but didn’t drink.

Instead she scanned the room again.

Door.

Kitchen exit.

Windows.

Same routine.

After a moment she set the mug down.

“I need to use the restroom,” she said quietly.

Then she glanced at Wanda, expression serious in that automatic, protective way she always had now.

“You okay here?”

Wanda blinked at the question.

They were sitting in a diner in the middle of the afternoon.

Still—She understood why Y/N asked.

“I’ll survive,” Wanda said lightly.

Y/N studied her another second just to be sure. “You’re sure?”

Wanda gave a small smile. “Yes.”

That seemed to satisfy Y/N. “Okay.”

Y/N slid out of the booth, stretching slightly as she stood. The movement drew a couple quick glances from nearby tables—mostly because of her height. She ignored them completely. Her attention stayed on the room as she walked toward the back of the diner where the restroom signs hung above a short hallway.

Wanda watched her go. Then leaned back against the booth seat.

For a few seconds everything felt… normal. Just another roadside diner. Just another quiet stop on the road.

Then the waitress returned with their drinks refilled. And her eyes immediately flicked toward the hallway Y/N had disappeared into.

Wanda noticed that too.

---

The waitress returned a few minutes later balancing two plates. The smell hit the table before the food did—grilled meat, fries, toasted bread.

“Burger and fries,” she said, placing the plate in front of the empty seat.

“Chicken sandwich,” she added, sliding the other plate toward Wanda.

Wanda thanked her quietly, though her eyes flicked briefly toward the hallway again.

Right on cue—Y/N appeared, walking back toward the booth. She slowed when she saw the waitress still standing at the table and stopped a step behind her, waiting patiently so she could sit once the woman moved.

The waitress finished placing the condiments. Then she turned. And immediately walked straight into Y/N.

Not a full collision. Just enough.

“Oh—!” the waitress said, stumbling forward like she’d been surprised.

Wanda saw it perfectly. Too perfectly.

It was deliberate.

Y/N reacted instantly, hands coming up to catch the woman by the arms to steady her before she could fall.

“Sorry,” Y/N said automatically.

The waitress looked up at her with wide eyes.

“Oh my god, that was my fault,” she said quickly.

But she didn’t step back. Instead, her hands slid up Y/N’s arms where Y/N was holding her. She squeezed lightly at Y/N’s biceps. “Wow,” she laughed softly. “You’re strong.”

Wanda’s chair scraped half an inch against the floor. Her hand had already tightened around the edge of the table.

For a split second she was very close—very close—to standing up and slapping the woman across the diner.

Y/N, meanwhile, looked completely confused. She released the waitress immediately.

“…Sorry,” she repeated, stepping aside so she could pass.

The waitress smiled again, clearly not bothered in the slightest. “No worries.”

Then she walked away toward the counter.

Wanda was still staring at her.

Hard.

Y/N slid back into the booth across from her and reached for the ketchup bottle like nothing unusual had happened.

“…What?” she asked after noticing Wanda’s expression.

Wanda inhaled slowly. Very slowly. She picked up her fork.

“Nothing.” But the word came out tight.

Very tight.

Y/N frowned slightly. “…What’s wrong?”

Wanda didn’t look up from her plate.

“Eat,” she said.

Cold. Flat.

Y/N paused for a second, clearly sensing the shift but not understanding it.

“…Okay.”

She nodded once and picked up her burger.

The rest of the meal passed in silence. Not the comfortable kind they’d had the past few days. This one was stiff and heavy. Y/N ate slowly, occasionally glancing up at Wanda like she was trying to figure out what had changed. Wanda kept her eyes on her food, expression controlled.

When they finished, Y/N reached for the bill before Wanda could.

“I’ve got it,” she said.

Wanda didn’t argue.

The waitress came back a minute later to collect the cash.

Y/N handed it over politely.

“Thanks,” she said.

The waitress smiled again. The same smile.

“Of course.”

Then she did something else.

As she handed back the change, she slipped a small folded piece of paper into Y/N’s hand. And winked.

Wanda saw it. Every second of it.

Y/N blinked down at the paper in confusion.

Before she could even open it—

Wanda snatched it out of her hand.

Y/N startled slightly.

Wanda unfolded it just enough to see the phone number scribbled inside. Her jaw tightened. Without a word, she shoved the paper straight back toward the waitress.

“You dropped this,” Wanda said sharply.

The waitress blinked, clearly caught off guard.

Wanda didn’t wait for a response. She grabbed Y/N’s wrist.

“Come on.”

Y/N barely had time to stand before Wanda was already pulling her toward the diner door. They pushed outside into the cool evening air. Wanda released her hand the second they hit the sidewalk and started walking toward the motel across the road.

Fast.

Y/N stood there for a moment, completely confused. “…Wanda?”

No answer.

Wanda kept walking.

Y/N hurried after her.

“What just happened?” she asked.

Still nothing.

Wanda reached the motel walkway and kept moving toward their room.

Y/N followed a few steps behind, brow furrowed.

“…Did I do something?” she asked finally.

Wanda didn’t stop walking.

And Y/N still had absolutely no idea why Wanda was angry.

---

They reached the motel room in silence.

Wanda pushed the door open harder than necessary and walked inside. The door shut behind them with a sharp click.

Y/N watched her for a second.

Wanda paced once across the small room, still wound tight with irritation.

Before she could start pacing again, Y/N stepped forward and gently caught her hand. Not forceful. Just enough to stop her.

“Wanda,” she said quietly. “What’s wrong?”

Wanda turned around sharply.

Her eyes flashed.

“You kept letting that bitch flirt with you,” she snapped.

Y/N blinked. “…What?”

“The waitress,” Wanda continued, words coming faster now. “She kept staring at you and bumping into you and touching you and you just—stood there!”

Y/N looked even more confused. “I didn’t even look at her.”

“That’s not the point!”

The jealousy clouding Wanda’s thoughts pushed the words out before she could stop them.

“You just let her do it!”

Y/N opened her mouth again. “I didn’t—”

Wanda slapped her arm.

Not hard. Just frustrated.

“You’re impossible!”

Y/N stared at her like she was trying to translate a language she didn’t speak.

Wanda kept going.

“You’re smiling at her and letting her grab your arms and taking her stupid number—”

“I didn’t take—”

“You might as well have!”

The room went quiet for half a second.

Wanda’s chest rose and fell quickly. Then the words slipped out.

“You’re my little wolf.”

The moment they left her mouth—She froze.

Oh.

Oh no.

Her eyes widened slightly. She hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

The silence stretched.

Y/N looked at her—

But before she could say anything, Wanda turned abruptly, tripping over her own thoughts. “I’m—” she started, then stopped, clearly flustered. “I’m going to shower.” It came out too fast, too sudden. She didn’t wait for a response. She walked straight to the bathroom, pushed the door open, and slipped inside. The lock clicked.

The room fell quiet.

For a second, Y/N just stood there.

Then she smiled—soft, slow, something warm settling deep in her chest as Wanda’s words replayed in her mind.

You’re my little wolf.

The feeling spread through her, grounding and steady, making everything else go quiet. Mine.

Y/N leaned back against the wall, arms crossing loosely, gaze still fixed on the closed bathroom door. A faint, almost unconscious purr started low in her chest.

“Oh,” she murmured softly.

The sound of the shower turning on filtered through the door. Y/N tilted her head slightly, listening, then pushed herself off the wall and sat on the edge of the bed, still facing the bathroom.

Waiting. Patient. Content.

Because for the first time since all of this started—

She understood.

And she liked it.

---

Wanda’s POV

The moment the door locked, Wanda pressed her back against it and exhaled sharply.

“What is wrong with me,” she muttered under her breath.

The question didn’t go away.

If anything, it got louder.

She turned on the shower too quickly, the pipes rattling in protest before hot water finally rushed through. Steam began to fill the small bathroom, curling against the mirror as Wanda stepped under the spray.

She braced her hands against the tile, head dipping forward.

Jealous.

The word sat heavy in her chest.

No.

That wasn’t right. They were friends. That’s all this was supposed to be.

She had just ended a relationship. Everything was already complicated enough without… this.

So why did it feel like that?

Why did her chest tighten when the waitress touched Y/N?

Why did she want to—God—hit her?

Wanda groaned softly, letting the water run over her face.

“It’s just because it’s us,” she told herself. “We’re on the run. We only have each other right now.”

That had to be it.

Proximity. Stress. Adrenaline.

Not jealousy.

Not anything else.

She straightened, scrubbing her face harder than necessary, frustration building the more she tried to make it make sense.

“I’m not jealous,” she insisted quietly.

But the words didn’t feel convincing.

Her jaw tightened.

She finished the shower quicker than she meant to, movements sharper now, controlled in that way she used when her emotions got too close to the surface.

By the time she dried off and got dressed, her expression was set.

Neutral.

Composed.

Controlled.

She opened the door.

Steam followed her out into the room.

And immediately—Y/N was there.

Close. Too close.

With that soft, bright smile—open, warm, unmistakably happy in a way that hit Wanda straight in the chest.

Like a puppy waiting at the door. Like nothing had happened. Like everything was simple.

Wanda’s stomach flipped, but she shut it down instantly. Her expression cooled. “What?” she said, tone flat.

The shift was immediate.

Sharp.

Deliberate.

Y/N’s smile didn’t disappear—but it faltered, just slightly.

Wanda stepped past her without another word, moving toward the bed like the moment hadn’t mattered.

Like she hadn’t just—

No.

She wasn’t going to think about it.

Not now. Not like this.

---

Y/N’s POV

Y/N blinked as Wanda brushed past her.

The shift was immediate.

Cold and distant.

Wanda didn’t look at her again—just went straight to the bed, pulling the blanket over herself and turning onto her side, back facing the room.

Y/N stood there for a second, confused.

A few minutes ago—

Wanda had said you’re my little wolf, after getting mad that the waitress flirted with Y/N.

She’d been flustered, sure—but there had been something real in it. Something that made Y/N’s chest feel full and steady and right.

Now—

This?

Y/N hesitated, then smiled again—soft, careful—and walked over to the bed.

“Hey,” she said gently. “Do you want to… talk about what happened?”

She kept her voice light.

Not pushing. Just offering.

Because she knew what it was.

Jealousy.

And that—that made her happy.

Not in a smug way. Not in a selfish way. Just… relieved. Because it meant Wanda was starting to feel it too.

Even if she didn’t understand it yet. Even if she didn’t have a name for it.

The imprint didn’t need words.

It just was.

Y/N’s chest warmed at the thought.

But Wanda didn’t turn around. “I don’t want to talk, Y/N.”

The words were cold.

Sharp and final.

Y/N’s smile faltered. “…Okay,” she said quietly.

But Wanda wasn’t done.

“I said I don’t want to talk,” Wanda added, more irritated now, pulling the blanket tighter around herself. “Just—drop it.”

Then she shifted further away, like she was putting distance between them even on the same bed.

Y/N went still. The warmth in her chest flickered. Confusion took its place.

She stood there beside the bed, unsure what she’d done wrong.

Had she pushed too much?

Misread something?

…Misread everything?

The silence stretched.

Wanda didn’t move. Didn’t look back.

Y/N stayed there for a while, just standing, trying to make sense of it.

Then, slowly, she nodded to herself.

“Okay,” she murmured softly.

Maybe… she was wrong. Maybe Wanda wasn’t ready. Maybe she didn’t understand what she felt yet—or maybe she didn’t feel it at all. The thought stung more than Y/N expected.

She turned away from the bed and headed for the bathroom instead. “I’ll—shower,” she said quietly, though she wasn’t sure Wanda was even listening.

No response.

The door closed behind her with a soft click.

Inside, Y/N leaned her hands against the sink for a moment, head lowered.

Was she mistaken?

The question lingered, heavier than anything else.

Maybe the imprint… wasn’t something Wanda was ready to know.

Not yet.

So Y/N did the only thing she could think of.

She gave her space.

Let her breathe.

Let her calm down.

Even if it meant standing on the outside of something she felt so deeply, so instinctively—Alone.

---

Unknown POV

The room was silent in the way only places built for control could be. Cold metal. Harsh white light. No windows. No distractions. Only consequence.

“You had them.”

The voice was low. Not raised.

That made it worse.

The subordinate stood rigid in the center of the room, hands clasped behind his back, shoulders locked, every muscle screaming not to move.

“You had the Avengers contained,” the man continued, pacing slowly in a tight circle around him. “You had numbers. You had positioning. You had advance knowledge of their movements.”

A pause.

“You had everything.” The man stopped behind him. “And you still failed.”

The word dropped like a blade.

The subordinate swallowed. “Sir, the operation encountered unexpected—”

A sharp crack echoed—

Not a strike. Not yet.

But the man’s hand slamming against the metal table hard enough to dent it.

“Do not insult me,” he said quietly.

The subordinate froze.

“Do not reduce incompetence to unexpected variables.”

The man moved again, stepping into his line of sight now. His expression was calm—too calm. His eyes, however, were not.

“You knew the wolf would be there,” he said. “You knew the witch would follow her. You knew exactly how the team would respond.”

Another step closer.

“And still… you lost them.”

The subordinate’s voice faltered. “We deployed recovery units immediately. We—”

“You lost the wolf,” the man cut in. The words sharpened. “You lost the primary target.”

The air in the room seemed to tighten.

“And instead of correcting that failure,” he continued, voice dropping further, “you allowed one of your men to be captured.”

A flicker of something dangerous crossed his face.

“They are probably talking to him right now.”

The subordinate’s breathing grew shallow. “We are attempting to contain that breach—”

“It has been,” the man said slowly, each word deliberate, “almost a week.”

A week.

“And you have nothing. No sightings. No trails. No recoveries…Nothing.”

The man stepped back, running a hand slowly across his mouth as if physically restraining something darker.

“They are moving,” he said quietly. “Constant relocation. No patterns. No signals.”

He looked back at the subordinate.

“They are learning.”

A beat.

“And you are not.”

Silence pressed in.

The subordinate forced himself to speak. “We’ve expanded the search grid. Transit hubs, rural motels, highway surveillance—”

“Not enough.”

The words snapped this time. The man’s composure cracked—not outwardly, but in the sharpness of his tone, in the way his hand flexed like he wanted to tear something apart.

“You think this is about the Avengers?” he asked, almost incredulous.

A humorless smile tugged at his lips.

“They are distractions.”

His gaze darkened.

“The wolf is the objective.”

The way he said it—

Not just interest.

Obsession.

“The wolf is essential,” he continued, voice quieter now, but far more dangerous. “Not as a soldier. Not as a weapon.”

He stepped over the spreading blood without looking down.

“As a source.” A slow breath.

“You all keep making the same mistake,” he went on. “You see what she can do and think that is the value.”

His gaze hardened.

“It isn’t.”

He paced once, measured, controlled. “She was born with it,” he said. “Not injected. Not engineered. Not grafted onto a failing host.”

A faint tilt of his head. “Natural integration.”

That word carried weight. Reverence twisted into something clinical. “Do you understand how rare that is?” he asked softly, though there was no answer. “Her physiology didn’t reject it. Didn’t degrade. It stabilized. Adapted. Perfectly.”

His jaw tightened.

“We were going to begin replication.”

A pause.

“The first stage—serum extraction and synthesis—should have been complete by now.”

His fingers flexed once at his side.

“But every attempt since her escape has failed.”

Another step.

“Unstable subjects. Rejection. Collapse within hours.”

His voice dropped further.

“Because we don’t have the original anymore.”

Silence pressed in.

“She is the source,” he said. “Without her, we are guessing.”

A beat.

“And Hydra does not guess.” His eyes flicked once more to the body on the floor. “They let her slip through containment once,” he continued coldly. “Interference from the Avengers.”

Another pause.

“Unacceptable.”

His gaze sharpened.

“And now—after we found her again—after we rebuilt the trail, reestablished surveillance, positioned an entire operation around reacquiring her…”

His voice thinned into something lethal.

“You lost her.”

The words echoed.

Flat. Final.

“She should have been back on a table,” he went on. “Sedated. Contained. Ready for extraction.”

His lips pressed into a hard line.

“Instead, she is out there. Moving. Adapting. Surrounded by variables we cannot control.”

A flicker of anger surfaced again—colder this time, refined into something precise.

“And because of that,” he said quietly, “your failure is not a mistake.”

He turned.

There was already a gun in his hand, pointed directly at the subordinate’s head.

For the first time, the man broke.

“Sir—wait—please,” he stammered, composure shattering instantly. “I can fix this. I’ll find her. I’ll—”

The safety clicked off.

“I’ll do better,” he rushed, voice cracking now. “Just give me another—”

The shot cut him off.

Clean.

The bullet snapped his head back, and he dropped where he stood, body hitting the metal floor with a dull, lifeless thud.

Silence followed.

The smell of gunpowder lingered.

The man didn’t move for a moment, gaze resting on the corpse like he was evaluating the result of an experiment.

Then—

He exhaled slowly.

Calm again. Controlled.

He lowered the gun and turned his head slightly toward the far side of the room.

Another subordinate stood there.

Frozen. Eyes wide. Waiting.

“Clean this up,” the man said, tone almost bored now.

A pause.

Then his gaze sharpened again.

“And listen carefully.”

The subordinate nodded immediately, too fast. “Yes, sir.”

“Bring me the wolf,” he said. “Within a week.”

The weight of it settled instantly.

The subordinate swallowed hard.

“Yes, sir.”

A step forward.

The man’s voice dropped—low, lethal.

“Or you will join him.”

A glance toward the body on the floor. The message didn’t need repeating.

The subordinate nodded again—frantic now. “Understood.”

“Go.”

He didn’t wait. He turned and hurried out of the room, the door sliding shut behind him with a sharp hiss.

Silence returned.

The man stood alone again. Gun still in hand. Eyes distant. Calculating.

“Run stupid wolf,” he murmured under his breath. “Let’s see how far you make it.”

---

Wanda’s POV

Wanda woke suddenly.

Not fully—just enough for her body to shift, mind still caught somewhere between sleep and awareness. She turned slightly on the bed, instinct guiding her more than thought, one hand drifting across the sheets beside her. Her hand searched for the warmth beside her, just to find nothing.

Her eyes snapped open. In an instant, she was upright—heart racing, breath catching as alertness slammed into her system. The room was dim, washed in faint red from the flickering neon outside. Shadows stretched across the walls.

“Y/N—?”

Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

Then she saw her.

On the floor.

Curled beside the bed in her wolf form, massive body tucked in tight, fur rising and falling slowly with steady breaths. Sleeping.

Wanda exhaled sharply, the tension leaving her all at once. Relief flooded through her chest, heavy and immediate.

“…Okay,” she murmured softly.

Her shoulders eased as she leaned back slightly against the headboard, gaze lingering on the familiar shape beside her.

And then—she remembered what happened, the diner, the argument, her voice—sharp, jealous, unfair, the way Y/N had looked at her confused…hurt.

Wanda’s chest tightened.

“I didn’t mean to…” she whispered under her breath.

But she had.

Not the words exactly. But the anger.

The jealousy.

The part of her that didn’t make sense.

Her gaze dropped again to Y/N.

Sleeping on the floor because of her.

Guilt settled in, quiet and heavy.

Slowly, Wanda shifted closer to the edge of the bed. She leaned down, reaching out carefully, fingers sinking into thick fur between Y/N’s ears.

Warm.

Soft.

Familiar.

Y/N stirred faintly at the touch but didn’t wake, only letting out a low, content huff, leaning subtly into Wanda’s hand even in sleep.

That small reaction made something ache in Wanda’s chest.

“…You always do this,” she murmured.

Always close, always there. Even when pushed away.

Her fingers moved gently, slow strokes through the fur, through the fur that now had a different color. The same color of Y/N hair now. Wanda continue to move her fingers through the fur, the motion grounding both of them as Wanda found black spots here and there, making her giggle.

Wanda bury her nose into the fur and the action reminded her of the compound—quiet nights, soft breathing, the steady presence that had become something she relied on without ever admitting it out loud.

Back then, it had been simple. Or at least—it had felt like it. Now everything was… tangled.

Wanda swallowed. Her hand didn’t stop moving.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, barely audible.

Y/N’s ear flicked once under her touch. Still asleep.

Wanda hesitated for a moment before she slid off the bed slowly, careful not to startle her. The cold floor barely registered as she moved closer, settling beside Y/N instead of above her.

For a second, she just sat there.

Looking.

Then she leaned in. Carefully. She curled into Y/N’s side, pressing into the warmth of her thick fur, one arm draping over her neck as she tucked herself close.

Y/N reacted instantly—even asleep. Her body shifted just enough to accommodate her, a low, protective rumble vibrating faintly in her chest as she curled slightly around Wanda without waking.

Instinct.

Always instinct.

Wanda closed her eyes, cheek resting against soft fur, breath evening out as the warmth seeped into her.

Safe.

The word came unbidden. Her fingers curled lightly into Y/N’s fur. “…Just for tonight,” she whispered to no one.

But she didn’t move away.

---

Next Morning

Morning came slowly. Not with sunlight—just the soft shift in the air, the faint hum of the motel AC, and the quiet rhythm of something steady beneath her cheek.

Warm.

Wanda stirred, still half asleep, her mind slow to catch up with her body. Her face was buried in something soft—thick, warm, familiar. Her fingers were tangled in it, her legs tucked close, her entire body cocooned in heat. 

She didn’t think. She just… moved closer. A quiet sigh slipped past her lips as she nuzzled in, pressing her face deeper into the fur, seeking more warmth, more comfort. One arm tightened instinctively where it rested, pulling herself in like she belonged there.

For a few seconds, nothing existed beyond that.

Then—

A soft huff.

Warm air brushed against the top of her head as a large muzzle shifted, nudging lightly into her hair.

Wanda stilled. Barely.

Still half-asleep, still not fully pulling away.

A pause.

Then—

Are you feeling better?

The thought was gentle. Careful.

Right there in her mind.

Wanda blinked her eyes open slowly. Reality slipped back into place.

Motel room.

Last night.

The argument.

The way she’d ended up here—

Curled against Y/N. Her breath caught softly. But she didn’t move away.

Not yet.

Instead, she let her hand slide a little further into the fur at Y/N’s chest, fingers curling there as she tilted her head slightly.

“Mm…” she murmured, voice still thick with sleep.

A small, sleepy nod followed. “…yeah.”

Her lips curved faintly, barely there. “Better.”

Y/N’s nose brushed her hair again—gentler this time. A quiet, satisfied huff followed, the kind that felt like relief more than anything else.

Wanda closed her eyes again for a second. Just one more second.

She shifted slightly, this time aware of what she was doing—but still choosing it—pressing closer into Y/N’s warmth, her forehead resting against soft fur.

“…you’re warm,” she mumbled.

A beat. Then, softer—“Don’t move.”

For a moment, there was only quiet. The steady rise and fall beneath her cheek. The warmth wrapped around her like something solid, something real.

Then, a small shift.

Y/N’s head tilted slightly above her, breath brushing warm against Wanda’s hair.

…You’re not mad anymore?

The thought came softer this time. Careful. Like she was testing the ground before stepping on it.

Wanda’s chest tightened, but she didn’t answer right away. Her fingers curled a little deeper into the fur at Y/N’s chest, grounding herself before she let out a slow breath. “I…” she started, voice still quiet from sleep.

She exhaled. “No,” she admitted softly. “I’m not mad.”

A pause.

“…I wasn’t really mad at you.”

That part felt important.

She shifted slightly, just enough to tilt her face up, though she still didn’t fully pull away. Her cheek brushed along Y/N’s fur as she moved, lingering close.

“I just—” she frowned faintly, searching for the right words. “I didn’t understand what I was feeling.”

Another pause.

Then—

Y/N’s nose nudged her again. Gentler this time.

Okay…Why are you on the floor too?

Wanda blinked. The question caught her off guard. For a second, she just stared—processing—before a small, breathy sound escaped her. Not quite a laugh. More like embarrassment. She glanced down briefly, suddenly very aware of their position.

“…I didn’t mean to fall asleep here,” she said at first, a weak excuse.

Then she sighed.

Her fingers resumed their slow movement through Y/N’s fur.

“…I just didn’t like that you were down here alone.”

The honesty slipped out before she could stop it.

She swallowed, gaze softening.

“You always sleep next to me,” she murmured. “And last night… I pushed you away.”

Her hand stilled. “I didn’t like that.”

A quiet beat passed.

Then, softer—“So I came down.”

Wanda let her forehead rest more fully against Y/N’s chest again, eyes half-lidded now.

“…if that’s okay.”

Another small pause.

Then, almost as an afterthought—barely above a whisper—

“I didn’t want you to feel alone.”

The question came almost immediately.

…So you like when I sleep next to you?

Wanda froze. Not physically—she was still tucked against Y/N, still warm, still close—but something inside her stilled completely.

Her breath caught. That… was not a complicated question. It should have been easy.

Yes or no.

Simple.

But her mind didn’t feel simple right now. Her fingers tightened slightly in Y/N’s fur, the motion unconscious.

“I—” She hesitated.

And that hesitation said more than she wanted it to.

Wanda swallowed, eyes dropping for a second before she forced herself to answer.

“…Yes.”

Quiet. Honest. No deflection this time. She shifted slightly, enough to rest her chin more comfortably against Y/N, still not pulling away.

“I do,” she added, softer now. “I sleep better.”

A small pause.

Her lips pressed together faintly before she continued, voice even quieter—“It’s… easier to breathe.”

The admission lingered in the space between them. Wanda let out a slow breath, almost like she was letting something go along with it. Then, as if trying to balance the weight of what she’d just said, she added lightly—“…and you’re warm.”

A faint, sleepy smile tugged at her lips, and she didn’t move away. Didn’t create distance. Didn’t take it back.

If anything—She leaned in just a little more.

They stayed like that for a while.

Quiet. Warm.

No urgency, no danger pressing in—just the steady rhythm of breathing and the soft hum of the room around them.

Y/N didn’t move, careful not to disturb her. But after a moment, her ears flicked slightly, attention shifting just enough for her thoughts to brush against Wanda again.

Where are we going next?

Wanda let out a small hum against her fur, still half-lost in the warmth, not quite ready to leave it behind.

“We should cross the border,” she murmured, voice muffled slightly where her face rested. “Soon.”

Her fingers traced absent patterns into Y/N’s fur as she spoke, slow and lazy.

“If we keep moving west… we can get out of the immediate search radius,” she continued. “Less pressure. Fewer eyes.”

A small pause. Then, softer—“Our next stop should be in Hungary.”

The word lingered, heavier than the rest.

Another country. Further from everything familiar.

Wanda shifted slightly, just enough to glance up without fully pulling away, her expression still soft with sleep.

“Small town,” she added. “Same plan. Cash. No patterns.”

Y/N’s presence remained steady beneath her—solid, listening, processing.

Wanda let her gaze drift for a second before it softened again.

“…but not yet,” she said quietly.

Her fingers curled gently into the fur at Y/N’s chest.

“Just… a few more minutes.”

She settled back down, cheek pressing into warmth again.

Because for now—This was enough.

---

A few hours later, they were on the road.

The motel was behind them—already fading into something distant and unimportant. Now, it was just asphalt stretching into nothing. Open land.

Y/N drove, hands steady on the wheel, eyes forward. The car moved along a worn road that slowly gave way to something rougher, less defined. Dry terrain stretched endlessly on either side, broken only by scattered trees and low hills in the distance.

No traffic.

No signs.

No cameras.

Exactly what they needed.

Wanda sat in the passenger seat, her elbow resting against the door, fingers loosely curled near her chin. She watched the landscape pass by in silence for a while, the quiet settling between them in a way that no longer felt strange. Just… shared. They were taking a route that avoided everything official. No checkpoints. No records. Just empty land and instinct.

After a while, Wanda shifted slightly, glancing at Y/N.

“You’ve been really quiet,” she said softly.

Y/N’s lips twitched faintly. “I’m driving.”

“That’s never stopped you before.”

A small huff of amusement.

Silence stretched again—but this time, it felt different. Not empty. Just… waiting.

Wanda tilted her head slightly, studying her profile.

“…Can I ask you something?”

Y/N glanced at her briefly, then back to the road. “Yeah.”

A pause.

Wanda hesitated—not because she didn’t want to ask, but because she realized she didn’t actually know the answer.

“What were you like… before all of this?” she asked quietly. “Before Hydra. Before the Avengers.”

Y/N stilled slightly.

Just a fraction.

Then—she exhaled.

“I lived in a small place,” she said after a moment. “Far from cities. Mostly forest. Mountains not too far off.” Her voice was calm. Not distant. Just… remembering. “My mom liked it that way,” she continued. “She said it was quieter. Safer.”

Wanda listened, eyes softening.

“She was…” Y/N paused, searching. “…gentle. Really gentle. But not weak.” A faint smile touched her lips. “She had this way of making everything feel… calm. Like nothing bad could touch you if she was there.”

Wanda’s chest tightened slightly. “And your dad?” she asked softly.

Y/N’s grip on the wheel shifted—not tense, just grounding. “He was strong,” she said. “Not just physically. Just… steady. You always knew where you stood with him.”

A small pause.

“He’s the one who taught me about the wolf.”

That caught Wanda’s attention. She turned slightly in her seat.

“You knew about it?” she asked.

Y/N nodded once.

“Yeah.”

Another quiet breath.

“It runs in my family,” she explained. “Not everyone has it—but it’s there. Generations back.”

Her eyes stayed on the road, but her voice softened just a little. “He started teaching me when I was young. How to control it. How to listen to it without letting it take over.”

Wanda’s fingers stilled in her lap. “…So you weren’t afraid of it?” she asked.

Y/N shook her head faintly.

“No.”

A beat.

“I was taught not to be.”

Another pause.

“He used to say it wasn’t something to fight,” she added. “It’s part of you. If you treat it like an enemy, it becomes one.”

Wanda let that sink in. It sounded… nothing like the files. Nothing like Hydra.

Her voice came quieter now. “They sounded… good.”

Y/N nodded once.

“They were.”

Simple.

Certain.

Wanda swallowed, gaze drifting out the window for a second before returning to her. For a moment, she thought that was the end of it—but Y/N spoke again.

“It was peaceful,” she said quietly. “For a long time… until Hydra found us.”

The shift was immediate. Not louder, not sharper—just heavier. Wanda stilled, her fingers curling slightly in her lap as Y/N kept her eyes on the road, expression steady.

“They didn’t come subtle,” Y/N continued. “No warning. No negotiation. They came prepared.” She exhaled slowly. “My parents fought. They didn’t hesitate. They knew what Hydra wanted the second they saw them.”

Wanda’s chest tightened. “…What happened?”

Y/N’s grip on the wheel shifted just slightly. “They told me to run. My dad—he didn’t explain. Just told me to shift and go.” A small pause. “So I did. I didn’t want to… but I listened.”

Her voice stayed calm, but something underneath it pressed harder.

“I ran into the forest. As fast as I could. Didn’t look back.” A breath. “But I heard it anyway.”

Wanda’s throat closed.

“The gunshots.”

Silence filled the car.

“They bought me time,” Y/N continued, quieter now. “That’s all it was supposed to be. But Hydra wasn’t just after them. They tracked me. They had teams already set up, equipment, vehicles… I was faster, but I was still a kid. I didn’t know how to hide yet.”

The road stretched endlessly ahead.

“They caught me before I made it out of the forest.”

The words landed simply. No anger. No dramatics. Just truth.

Wanda stared at her. “…You were alone.”

Y/N nodded once. “Yeah.”

Silence settled again—thicker this time.

“…I’m sorry,” Wanda whispered.

Y/N glanced at her briefly, just for a second. “…Me too.”

Wanda didn’t think before she moved. Her hand came to rest lightly on Y/N’s arm where it held the wheel. Y/N stilled at the contact—but didn’t pull away.

The car kept moving.

And neither of them spoke again for a while.

The car kept moving, tires crunching softly over uneven ground as the landscape stretched wide and empty around them. Wanda didn’t pull her hand away. For a while, she just let it rest there, feeling the steady strength beneath her palm, grounding herself in something real after everything Y/N had just said.

After a moment, she spoke again—quieter this time.

“…Can I ask you something else?”

Y/N glanced at her briefly. “Yeah.”

Wanda hesitated, choosing her words more carefully now.

“Your wolf,” she said. “What is it… exactly?”

Y/N didn’t answer right away. Her gaze stayed forward, but Wanda saw the way her shoulders shifted slightly—not tense, just thoughtful. “It’s not separate,” Y/N said after a moment. “Not like… another personality or something.”

Wanda listened closely.

“It’s me,” Y/N continued. “Just… more.”

A small pause.

“More instinct. More awareness. Everything is sharper—sounds, scent, movement. Emotions too.”

Wanda’s fingers stilled slightly against her arm.

“…Is that why you always know when something’s wrong?” she asked.

Y/N huffed faintly. “Partly.”

Another beat.

“I can hear things before they happen sometimes. Not literally—but changes. Heartbeats, breathing, tension. It tells me when something’s off.”

Wanda thought about that. About the way Y/N always reacted just a second faster than everyone else. The way she always seemed to know.

“…And control?” Wanda asked softly. “You never lose it.”

Y/N shook her head slightly. “I was taught not to.”

A pause.

“My dad made sure of that.” Her voice softened just a fraction at the mention. “It’s not about suppressing it. It’s about… working with it. If I try to force it down, it pushes back harder.”

Wanda nodded slowly. “That’s why Hydra couldn’t control you,” she murmured.

Y/N’s jaw tightened faintly. “They tried,” she said simply.

Wanda didn’t miss that. “…Does it ever feel like too much?” she asked after a moment. “Feeling everything that strongly?”

Y/N thought about it. “…Sometimes,” she admitted. “But not in the way you think.”

Wanda tilted her head slightly.

“How?”

Y/N glanced at her again—longer this time.

“It’s harder to ignore things,” she said. “Feelings. People. You can’t just… shut it off.”

Wanda’s breath caught slightly. Because that sounded familiar. “…That sounds exhausting,” she said quietly.

Y/N gave a small shrug. “It can be.”

A pause.

“But it also makes things… clearer.”

Wanda studied her for a second.

“Clearer how?”

Y/N looked back at the road. “…You know what matters,” she said.

The words settled between them. Wanda didn’t respond right away. Her hand was still resting on Y/N’s arm.

And for some reason—she didn’t want to move it.

---

About an hour later, the road began to thin out. Less pavement. More dirt. Fewer signs of anything human. Y/N slowed the car gradually, eyes scanning the area—not just what was visible, but everything beyond it. Her head tilted slightly, senses stretching outward, listening for anything out of place.

“Here,” she said quietly.

The car rolled to a stop just off the side of the road, half-hidden by dry brush and uneven terrain. The engine idled for a second—then Y/N turned it off. Silence settled immediately. No other cars. No distant engines. Just wind moving through dry grass.

Wanda unbuckled her seatbelt slowly, glancing around as she opened the door. The air outside was cooler, carrying that empty, untouched feeling that meant no one had passed through here recently.

Y/N stepped out on her side, already scanning.

“We don’t take it any further,” she said. “Too easy to track.”

Wanda nodded. “Agreed.”

They moved quickly but without panic, grabbing what they needed from the back—two backpacks, water, basic supplies. Nothing excessive. Nothing that would slow them down.

Wanda glanced at the car one last time and closed the door gently, then stepped back.

Y/N adjusted the strap of her bag over her shoulder, eyes already shifting toward the terrain ahead—rough land, uneven paths, and no clear direction unless you knew how to read it.

Wanda followed her gaze.

“Which way?”

Y/N didn’t answer immediately. She crouched slightly, brushing her fingers against the ground, then lifted her head, inhaling deeply. Her eyes narrowed just a fraction as she mapped out the space around them—distance, elevation, possible routes. Then she stood.

“West,” she said.

Wanda nodded once.

No map. No GPS. Just trust.

They started walking.

The further they moved from the road, the quieter everything became. No tire tracks. No clear paths. Just open land stretching ahead, forcing them to rely on instinct instead of direction signs.

Wanda adjusted her pace to match Y/N’s as they kept moving further from anything that could find them. And closer—To whatever came next.

---

Hours Later

They had been walking for hours.

The road was long gone behind them, swallowed by distance and darkness. What little light remained had faded completely, leaving only the dim outline of trees and the faint glow of the sky above to guide them.

By the time they reached the woods, Wanda’s legs ached and her steps had slowed—not enough to stop them, but enough that Y/N noticed.

They moved deeper between the trees, branches brushing past, the ground uneven beneath their feet. The air grew cooler, quieter. The kind of quiet that felt like it was listening back.

After another stretch of silence, Y/N spoke.

“We should move faster.”

Wanda glanced at her. “You’re thinking the same thing.”

Y/N nodded once. “If we cross while it’s still dark, we lower the chances of anyone picking us up.”

Wanda didn’t argue. “Do it,” she said.

Y/N didn’t hesitate. She stepped slightly ahead, setting her bag down and rolling her shoulders once. Then the shift came—controlled, fluid. Bone reshaped beneath skin, muscles expanding, fur cascading outward as her form grew, stretched, transformed. Seconds later, the wolf stood where she had been.

Massive.Powerful. Golden eyes glowing faintly in the dark.

Wanda didn’t waste time. She stepped forward, fingers finding familiar purchase in thick fur as she climbed onto Y/N’s back. The wolf adjusted instantly, lowering just enough to steady her before rising again, muscles coiling beneath her like restrained energy.

Hold on, Y/N thought, steady and clear.

Wanda tightened her grip. “I’m good,” she murmured.

And then—Y/N moved.

She didn’t just run.

She launched.

The forest blurred around them as she sprinted through the trees, paws hitting the ground in powerful, silent strides. Branches whipped past, shadows breaking and reforming with every movement, but Y/N didn’t falter.

She navigated effortlessly. Roots. Rocks. Uneven ground—none of it slowed her.

Wanda leaned closer instinctively, one hand buried deep in fur, the other braced as the wind rushed past her face. Her heart pounded—not from fear, but from the sheer speed of it.

Freedom.

That’s what it felt like.

Y/N cut through the forest like she belonged to it—like the terrain itself bent to her will.

The forest began to thin. Not completely—but enough that the air shifted, that subtle warning Y/N always seemed to feel before anything became visible. Her pace slowed slightly. Then she stopped.

Wanda felt it immediately and leaned forward a fraction. “What is it?”

Y/N’s ears angled forward, body still as she listened.

Patrol, she said. Ahead. Two… no—three. Rotating along a fence line.

Wanda’s focus sharpened instantly. She lifted her head, but all she could see through the dark were shadows and open ground beyond the trees.

“…Border?” she asked.

Yeah.

A beat.

Wanda exhaled slowly, mind already shifting—not planning steps, just… reaching for that familiar current inside her.

“Wait for them to move,” she said. “I’ll handle it.”

Y/N shifted her weight slightly beneath her. You want me to jump it?

Wanda shook her head. “No. Too visible.”

Her fingers curled into the fur at Y/N’s neck. “I’ll lift us,” she murmured. “Higher than their sightline.”

A pause.

“And I’ll keep us hidden.”

Y/N didn’t question it.

Okay.

She lowered herself slightly. Go down.

Wanda slid off her back, boots hitting the ground softly. The cold air brushed against her as she stepped aside, giving Y/N space.

The shift came quickly—controlled, quiet. Fur receded, bones reshaping until Y/N stood there again in her human form, breathing steady, eyes fixed toward the patrol.

Wanda stepped closer. She raised her hand and the red energy was already there—low, steady, humming beneath her skin. Scarlet bled softly into the air around them. It wrapped around Y/N first, then around herself, bending light, softening edges, pulling them out of sight.

The ground fell away as Wanda’s power carried them upward, smooth and weightless. The trees dropped beneath them, the fence line coming into view—a stark barrier cutting across the land. Patrol lights swept lazily across it, three figures moving along their route, unaware.

Wanda held steady, her focus narrowing.

“Now,” she whispered.

They drifted forward, over the fence and above the patrol. Close enough to hear them talking—something mundane, careless. One of them laughed. They had no idea.

Wanda didn’t lower them. Not until they were well past the perimeter. Only then did she ease them down, letting their feet touch the ground far from the border.

Wanda exhaled, shoulders dropping slightly as the effort caught up with her.

“…Okay,” she murmured. “That worked.”

Y/N looked at her for a second—really looked—then nodded.

“Yeah. It did.”

A brief pause.

Then, softer—

“Thank you.”

Before Wanda could respond—

Y/N stepped forward and lifted her effortlessly. One arm under her knees, the other supporting her back.

Wanda blinked, startled. “What—?”

Y/N adjusted her hold slightly, secure, steady.

“I know you’re tired,” she said simply.

Wanda opened her mouth to argue—

Then stopped.

Because she was. Hours of walking. Uneven ground. Constant awareness. The kind of exhaustion that settled into muscles and bones, quiet but persistent. The kind that didn’t announce itself until you finally stopped moving.

Her shoulders eased just slightly as she let herself sink into Y/N’s hold.

“…We’ve been walking for hours,” she admitted under her breath, almost like she was justifying it.

Y/N didn’t answer.

She just adjusted her grip—subtle, careful—so Wanda was more comfortable against her, one arm secure beneath her knees, the other steady at her back.

Wanda let her head tilt slightly, resting near Y/N’s shoulder.

The night air brushed past them as Y/N moved, steady and unrelenting, her pace unbroken even with Wanda in her arms.

“You don’t get tired, do you?” Wanda murmured after a moment.

A faint huff.

“I do,” Y/N said. “Just not like this.”

Wanda glanced up at her briefly, studying the way she moved—controlled, efficient, like her body was built for endurance.

“…Show off,” she muttered.

Y/N’s lips twitched faintly.

Silence settled again—but softer now.

Wanda’s grip on her shirt loosened slightly as her body relaxed despite herself. Her eyes drifted half-closed, the steady motion, the warmth, the quiet rhythm of Y/N’s breathing grounding her in a way she didn’t question anymore.

“You can tell me if I’m heavy,” she added sleepily.

Y/N didn’t even hesitate.

“You’re not.”

A beat.

“Not even close.”

Wanda hummed softly, too tired to argue, too comfortable to care. She shifted just slightly closer, and let Y/N carry her forward.

---

When Wanda woke again, it was slow.

No panic.

No sharp inhale.

Just warmth.

Soft.

Everywhere.

Her body felt heavy in that comfortable, sinking way—like she’d been asleep for longer than she realized. For a moment, she didn’t open her eyes. She just… stayed there, letting the feeling settle. Warmth at her back. A steady arm around her waist. Another resting just beneath her head.

Her breath caught—just slightly. Then her eyes opened.

Dim light filtered through thin curtains. A ceiling she didn’t recognize. A faint hum of an air conditioner.

Motel. Again.

Memory slipped back into place.

The forest.

The border.

Y/N carrying her—

Wanda went still.

Because—

Y/N was still holding her.

Wrapped around her from behind, body pressed close, arms secure but not tight—just enough. A quiet, protective hold. The blanket pulled over both of them, trapping warmth between them. Too much warmth.

Wanda’s cheeks flushed instantly. Her heart picked up—just a little. She became very aware of everything.

How close they were.

How Y/N’s breath brushed lightly against the back of her neck.

How solid she felt behind her.

How easy it would be to move away.

She didn’t.

Instead—

She shifted. Just a little closer.

Her back pressing more fully into Y/N’s chest, fitting into the space like it had always been meant for her.

The arms around her tightened instinctively in response—even in sleep. A soft, unconscious reaction.

Wanda swallowed.

Her fingers curled lightly into the blanket.

“…warm,” she murmured under her breath.

The word was barely audible.

But it wasn’t just the temperature.

Her eyes drifted closed again. The embarrassment didn’t leave—but it softened, melting into something quieter. Something she didn’t question as much as she should.

Safe.

That word again.

She exhaled slowly, letting her body relax completely this time, sinking back into the warmth behind her.

Just for a little longer. Just for now. 

And with that—Wanda let herself fall back asleep.

---

Leave your comments!

[euphocassie]

Hi! Can I request a fic where Cassie and Male!Reader have some like feral sex after they get married?

𝜗𝜚 feral sex between newlyweds

cassie’s wedding dress is still on, the veil hanging in her hair by a single stubborn pin as she rides you, the filthy slap, slap, slap of skin to skin echoing through the otherwise quiet hotel room. the bed groans beneath you, springs creaking in protest every time she drops down on you.

“oh—fuck—” you choke, breath punched clean out of your lungs as she picks up the pace, your head knocking back against the headboard with a dull thump. “jesus, cass, slow down—”

she wouldn't even dream of it. cassie grins, her hands braced on your chest as she rolls her hips harder.

“your dick feels so good,” she taunts. “don’t make me slow down.”

“fuck, you’re—” you groan, voice breaking. “you’re so pretty. so fucking pretty like this, baby. fuck— look at you.”

your hands fumble at the dress, pushing up handfuls of fabric, lifting the multiple layers of silk and tulle that spread across your chest to access underneath, frustrated groans slipping from your lips as the layers fight back. “so much fucking fabric."

cassie laughs and your thumb finally finds her clit. she gasps, a startled little sound escaping as her rhythm stutters, only to pick back up after a second, more frantic now. the bed complains louder, springs squealing under the strain, the headboard knocking softly against the wall. cassie's head drops back, mouth falling open.

“oh my god— fuck, you feel so good. so big, baby—”

at the same time, your other hand reaches up to tug down the top of her dress until her breast spills free. you lean up just enough to latch your mouth onto her nipple, moaning around it as you suck and lick, teeth grazing lightly, finger staying hooked in the fabric, holding it out of the way.

“take it off,” you groan against her skin, hips twitching helplessly. “I need you out of this fucking thing now.”

casse whines, the sound needy as she nods. you watch, hissing softly as she lifts herself off your cock, the sudden emptiness making her whine. she shifts, turns - her movements clumsy with the dress and her own impatience, until finally her back is to you, the zipper right within reach.

“help me,” she says, looking over her shoulder. by the time she's done speaking she’s already reaching down, lining herself up again without even looking.

you don’t even register it until she starts sinking down again, slow at first then deeper, until you’re buried all the way inside her once more.

“oh fuck!" you groan, hands flying to her hips on instinct as she starts riding you in reverse, her soft, breathy moans mixing with the noises you can’t seem to hold back as she fills herself on you again.

her hands brace on your thighs for leverage, fingers digging in as she sets a rough, relentless rhythm. finally, you fumble for the zipper, fingers clumsy and shaking as you drag it down inch by inch.

“fuck yeah, baby,” you hiss, hips jerking up in sharp, needy thrusts to meet her every time she drops. “just like that— uhuh. that's it, bounce on it, fuck.”

cassie gasps at that, her pace stuttering for half a second before she rides you harder. it isn’t long before the dress finally gives in, the fabric parting completely an slipping off her shoulders to bare her back to you. the sight pulls a groan from your chest, your cock twitching deep inside her as she clenches around you in response.

“jesus—”

your palm comes down against her skin, splaying wide - roaming to feel the warmth there, tracing over her shoulder blades feeling the way her body moves and flexes as she rides you, the room filling with the sounds of louder gasps and moans that neither of you bother to quiet.

“fuckkk... that’s it, good girl.” you murmur, voice softer now.

your hands slide around her waist to pull her back against you, keeping her close as she chases her pleasure. your lips press to her skin like muscle memory, peppering slow, reverent kisses over her shoulder blades, along the curve of her shoulders, anywhere you can reach while your hands slip forward - cupping and kneading her perfect breasts, thumbs brushing over each sensitive nipple until she shivers in your arms.

"lay down,” you murmur, mouth hovering near her ear. “ass up, princess.”

cassie freezes for half a second, a needy little whine slipping out before she can stop it. her breath stutters, the commanding tone in your voice sending another rush of arousal dripping down your cock. she turns her head just enough to catch your mouth in a quick, desperate kiss - sloppy, all teeth and breath before she obeys and lowers herself onto the bed. your cock slips free again, the two of you letting out matching frustrated sounds.

“I hate when you pull out,” cassie whines, already pouting.

“I know,” you say softly. “be good.”

she takes a moment to finish what you started - tugging the dress the rest of the way off her body and letting it fall to the floor, leaving her bare except for the delicate garters hugging her thighs and the veil that's still somehow attached to her hair. finally - she gets on all fours, her back arching naturally, perfect ass lifted as she looks back at you over her shoulder.

“like this?” she asks.

“yeah, just like that.” you breathe, moving in behind her. you lean down, pressing one last kiss to her back for good measure, right between her shoulder blades. “good girl. so pretty like this.” she shivers at that, a soft sound falling from her lips.

then you pull back, spit-slicking your fingertips before reaching down between her thighs, smearing your saliva along her pussy and groaning at how drenched she already is for you. you withdraw your hand only to wrap it around yourself and guide yourself back where you belong.

cassie cries out when you press inside inch by torturous inch, her hands scrambling for the bedding. you pause for just a moment, savoring the feeling of being fully sheathed inside her tight, wet heat again. then you begin to move, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in with a low groan, balls pressed flush against her ass.

your hands grab onto her hips, using them as leverage to slam into her deeper, harder, fingertips digging in hard enough to leave marks. the veil in her hair trembles with each snap of your hips, fluttering uselessly against her back as the bed starts creaking again - the frame hitting the wall loudly as cassie takes every thrust, her body rocking forward with the force of it.

“fuck, cassie!” you groan, teeth clenched. “look at you, shit— pretty pussy’s taking me so fucking good, baby. so hot and wet for me." you pant, hips snapping forward brutally. "gonna fuck you so hard— hah, gonna pump you so full of my cum."

cassie's mouth hangs open - lips parted and slick as you speak filth, a thin string of spit clinging to her bottom lip as she pants. when she tries to speak it comes out messy, slurred, barely words.

“uh— fuck— mm—” she babbles, cheek pressing into the mattress. “feels— feels so good—” her hands claw into the sheets, knuckles whitening as she pushes back to meet you, desperate to keep you exactly where you are. her hips stutter when you hit just right, a broken whine spilling out of her. "harder,” she cries out, voice cracking. “please— harder— don’t stop, don’t stop, please," the words tumble over each other, drool smearing against the sheets when she nods helplessly. "please—"

"fuck, you're gonna make me come already,"

you can feel your climax building, your balls tightening as pleasure coils tight in your core. you slow your thrusts - pulling almost all the way out before pushing back in deliberately slow. you want to draw out her pleasure, to make her feel every inch of your cock as it glides in and out of her soaked pussy. you groan as her walls clamp down around you, squeezing you like a vice.

every sharp thrust of your hips pulls another broken sound out of her, half-moan, half-sob, completely undone. the sight of your cock driving in and out of her sopping pussy makes you moan, her babbling getting softer, messier, more incoherent as she melts under you.

cassie's orgasm crashes over her like a wave, body trembling and shaking as she comes undone beneath you and then you're coming too, your movements becoming short and jerky as your orgasm hits. your cock throbs and pulses inside her, spurt after spurt of hot cum filling her up to the brim until it starts to leak out.

"holy fucking shit." you gasp, collapsing against her, your weight pinning her to the mattress as you ride out the aftershocks of your climax. "I love you. fuck, i love you. my perfect girl. my wife." you pant against her neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses to her sweat-dampened skin. your combined fluids leak out around your cock, dripping down to soak into the sheets beneath you. you pant against her neck, your breath gradually slowing as the afterglow washes over you.

your hand lifts to tuck her hair gently behind her ear, fingers brushing against the soft strands as her cheek remains pressed against the mattress. you lean down, letting your lips ghost over her temple in a tender, fleeting kiss.

"you did so good, baby. you okay?"

cassie can only manage a little whine in response, nodding her head as she catches her breath.

[persevereforahappyending]

Luck Runs Out |Stray|

Pairing: Mabel x Reader

Summary: When your luck runs out you unknowingly drag Mabel back into the life, she's so desperate to escape.

Warnings: None

Word Count: 4.5k+

Main Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Epilogue

You squinted as the morning sun shined down on you. You had made the journey across the ocean and were finally about to make your way into port, finally almost at Greece. You felt hands wrap around your mid-section and smiled, already knowing who it was, even if you two weren’t the only ones on the boat you’d know her touched anywhere.

“Morning,” Mabel mumbled into your back.

“Morning,” you replied. “What are you doing up?” You glanced back at her, knowing how much she was not a morning person.

“I rolled over and you were gone.” You chuckled at that. Mabel could be incredibly grumpy if woken up to early, but if she woke up without you, she could get awfully clingy.

“I figured I’d let you sleep in; guess I won’t make that mistake again.” You smiled to yourself knowing what was coming next.

“You better not wake me up,” Mabel mumbled again but didn’t remove her face that was pressed into your back. You chuckled and turned around in her grasp.

“Morning,” you whispered again, this time looking into her big brown eyes.

“Morning,” she smiled and leaned forward and captured your lips in her own.

When you broke the kiss Mabel buried her head in your chest again. You spent so many mornings exactly like this, you didn’t see yourself ever getting tired of it. “Are we there yet?”

“Really? Are we there yet?” You teased.

“Shut up,” she whined but she made no move to get away from you.

“We’re not too far away, actually…” you couldn’t help but smile. “We can finally see land,” you pointed across the sea to the little bit of land that could finally be seen on the horizon.

Mabel whipped around so fast; you had never seen her eyes so wide as she stared across the ocean. You couldn’t help the small smile on your face as you watched Mabel slowly walk forward, trying to get a better visual of the horizon. Her eyes were on land, but your eyes were only on her.

You followed her, draping your arms over her shoulders as she leaned back into you. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

You couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah,” you whispered back. You couldn’t make out any details, but it was enough, the sun still rising made it even more beautiful. This was what you had always dreamed of, as much as you wanted this, you never actually thought it was possible. You definitely never imagined having the girl you were madly in love with right by your side.

You stood there, appreciating the moment until you had to run back to the wheel. It wouldn’t be good for you to get all this way and then never actually make it. While you continued to drive the boat, Mabel went to cook something up for breakfast. You had plenty of food stocked up, but you couldn’t wait until your feet got on land and you could find a restaurant or a café or some sort to take Mabel to.

Mabel came up from under the boat, showing you a bowl of oatmeal. “Take the wheel?” You asked, already holding out your hand to take the bowl and switch positions.

Mabel shook her head and before you could even pout, she scooped up some oatmeal and held the spoon out for you. You rolled your eyes but happily ate it off the spoon. Mabel took classes, she knew very well how to take over for you. She had done it several times, she mostly did it when you needed a nap, but if you were awake then you were in charge of driving the boat, Mabel would do anything to not have to do it, including feeding you.

After a few bites you stole the bowl from her. You appreciate when she’d feed you like that but sometimes, she just didn’t move fast enough for your liking. You shoved three quick spoonfuls in your mouth and handed her back the bowl so you could grab the wheel again.

After a few more hours you finally reached land and docked the boat. Mabel came up from below deck with each of your passports and everything else you’d need to be allowed to officially enter Greece.

By the time you went through everything and were officially standing on dry land again it was early afternoon. The two of you decided to take it easy and just walk around, see the sights and enter a few shops. You were going to be there for almost a month, so you had time to see everything, you just needed a day to regain your land legs after being on the ocean for so long.

After some shopping, mostly done by Mabel, the two of you took a break at a small café. You each got a pastry to snack on and some coffees. Mabel’s eyes were wide as she watched the people pass, a mix of tourists and locals. Your eyes stayed on her though. You were the one who had always wanted to go to Greece, but you couldn’t stop staring and Mabel as she took everything in for the first time.

“So, what’s the plan for the rest of the day?” Mabel asked before taking a sip of her coffee. “Exploring old ruins and pretending you’re a Greek hero?” She tried to hide her smirk behind the cup.

You chuckled with a shake of your head. She could joke all she wanted; she was still the one who not only chose to date you, but also travel the world with you.

“That is definitely on the agenda,” you said seriously.

Mabel sat the cup down and her smirk completely disappeared. She opened her mouth but eventually let out a sigh. She clearly knew when it was a losing battle.

Your mind started to wander, you went through a lot of shops, all with amazing stuff. You hadn’t bought anything, but you could probably go back and buy stuff to dress up, maybe even find a place that sold swords. You started nodding to yourself, it would be an epic photo shoot, but there was a chance Mable would break up with you. You shrugged; some risks were worth taking.

You mentally patted yourself on the back at the image of the Greek hero you created in your head. You’re sure you could come up with something amazing. Your eyes widened, the sword was a priority, but you definitely wouldn’t walk away from a shield as well.

You would work on buying all the stuff, see the sights and scope out good locations, and then once you had everything and your locations picked out you would force Mable to help with the photoshoot.

With a game plan set you looked up to see Mable narrowing her eyes at you. You quickly shifted your eyes away and brought your own coffee to your lips. You would wait to tell her; she couldn’t try and stop you if you already had everything bought after all.

You cleared your throat and sat up a bit straighter. “Just want to take it easy today, maybe turn in early,” you finally continued, letting out a yawn as if to prove your point.

“We can come up with a plan tonight?” You suggested. “We’re here for a bit but there’s a lot to see,” a smile slowly started to spread across your face. “And I want to take the boat to some islands nearby, explore a bit, maybe have a picnic.”

Mabel’s eyes softened at that, no longer seeming suspicious about what you were planning. She gave a small smile as she nodded in agreement to the plan.

The two of you finished up your coffees and went on your way again. You hit up multiple shops as you made your way back to the boat. Once again Mabel seemed to buy from almost every single store. You didn’t purchase anything but made note of a few places to come back to.

Before getting back on the boat the two of you stopped by a nearby restaurant. You had an early dinner, filled with discussions about what you both wanted to do. A lot of your interests overlapped, and you were going to be there for a while, so you had time.

When you got back to the boat the sun was just beginning to set. Mabel forced you to take a picture, the two of you together with the sunset behind you. You didn’t put up much of a fight and were quick to pull her into a kiss before she could make sure the picture was satisfactory.

While you went down to get the few things settled for the night, Mabel made a post with the picture. It was only a moment later when you could hear her walking around up top, talking to what was probably Charlie, and the other guys, if you knew them as well as you thought you did.

You laid down in bed and started scrolling through your phone when Mabel came down. You tilted your head, looking past your phone as she made her way over to you, gracelessly jumping onto the bed beside you.

“How’s everything back home?” You asked.

“Good,” Mabel mumbled sleepily. With half closed eyes she slipped under the covers and cuddled into your side.

“They miss you,” Mabel said. “Asked that we bring them presents.”

You let out a silent chuckle. You clicked off your phone and plugged it in for the night above your head. You got comfortable and wrapped an arm around Mabel so you could pull her closer. It was much earlier than either of you usually went to sleep but it had been a long day and a long journey, as soon as you closed your eyes it was as if sleep took you.

You slept soundly through the night, the ease of the boat gently rocking back and forth at the dock bringing you a familiar comfort. Even the various noises around the port and from other boats coming and going didn’t seem to bother you.

When you woke up, you sleepily opened your eyes, quickly noticing the lack of warmth beside you. You sat up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes to clear your vision. Mabel was nowhere to be found and based on how cold that side of the bed felt she hadn’t just woken up.

When your vision cleared you flung your legs over the side, stretching as best as you could as you stood up. You looked around, still not finding any sign of Mabel. You grabbed your phone and saw a text from her saying she got up early to go for a morning walk and get breakfast at a café, but she would make sure to bring you something back.

You smiled and shook your head. For someone who practically hated sunlight and would black out her windows so she could sleep the afternoon away, she sure didn’t seem to have an issue rising early when on vacation.

You decided to get ready for the day as you waited for Mabel to return. You grabbed something small to eat, unsure as to what Mabel would be bringing you back.

You furrowed your brow at a noise up top. You tossed your trash away and ran up the steps. When you got up top, you raised a hand to shade your eyes but saw nothing.

You dropped your hand and glanced around the boat. You found nothing and Mabel clearly wasn’t back yet. You intended to forget it and head back down into the cabin when what sounded like a bucket scraped against the dock.

You hopped off the boat and began taking a look around the dock. There were several other boats docked, most owners weren’t out and the few that were clearly didn’t seem to be concerned about the noise.

When checking around the dock you heard a small whimper and whipped around. Your gaze softened and you crouched down as your eyes landed on a puppy.

“Hey, buddy,” you whispered, holding out your hand.

The puppy leaned forward, giving a sniff in your direction but didn’t move. You kept your movements slow as you got closer, managing to maneuver the puppy out of the space it had managed to squeeze itself into between a couple crates.

The puppy wiggled as you got it in your arms but seemed to calm down when it realized you weren’t a threat. You could still feel its little heart beating against its chest as you ran your hand over its fur, trying to calm it.

You gave the puppy a once over, taking note of the lack of collar and the dirty fur that was beginning to get matted. You looked up and down the dock, seeing no signs of someone who might have dumped it. In your check of the puppy to make sure it was otherwise okay, you took note that it was definitely a boy.

“Come on,” you whispered.

You held onto the puppy as you hopped back on the boat and grabbed your phone. You looked up the nearest vet’s office and went on your way, making sure to send Mabel a quick text that you were running an errand but would hopefully be back soon.

The vet’s office was half an hour away by foot, but you couldn’t complain. The walk was nice and getting the puppy checked out was the most important thing. You then had to wait an hour before the doctor could get you in since you were a walk in and they had other clients.

The puppy didn’t wiggle too much throughout the walk and once the two of you were inside the vet’s office he seemed content to stay in your lap. He had just begun to close his eyes when the doctor walked out.

You followed him to the backroom and gave him all the information you could, which wasn’t much.

When you set the puppy up on the table he backed away from the doctor and back into your arms. You couldn’t help but smile with how easily you gained his trust.

You finally managed to get him to relax enough that the doctor could look him over. You weren’t a vet, so you had no idea what was going on but the doctor didn’t seem concerned about much. The only comment he made was that the dog looked healthy all things considered, but needed a bath before his fur got so bad that he would need to get shaved.

The vet sent the puppy to another room with a woman and when he came back, he was all cleaned and smelling fresh. He happily ran over to you and began kissing your face when you picked him up.

“Do you know what breed he is?” You asked.

“Labrador,” the doctor said.

“Chipped?”

The doctor shook his head, making you frown.

“I can recommend you some good shelters,” the doctor said. “If you don’t want to keep him.”

You opened your mouth, but when your eyes fell back onto the little guy on your lap you hesitated.

“I don’t know,” you sighed. “We’re here for a bit but we’re sailing around the world.”

The doctor let out a knowing hum. He was rather close to the docks, so he probably saw plenty of people come in with their pets. It wasn’t crazy to sail with pets, especially dogs, it just required a lot of work. The dog needed all its shots, and you would need to make sure to have all the paperwork before you left the country and for you to enter the next one. It was an entire process, nothing you weren’t willing to do, but it was quite tedious.

“I’ll need to talk to my girlfriend,” you said.

The doctor nodded. You looked down at the puppy on your lap, when he lifted his head, looking at you with his big brown eyes, you knew your decision was already made.

You thanked the doctor for everything before you exited the room. As you handed the receptionist your card to the pay for the visit you asked about setting up another appointment for shots. She happily made an appointment and was able to get you in only a few days from now.

You tucked the puppy under your arm and pulled out your phone to find the nearest pet store. As you looked down at him you knew you would have to convince Mabel. You were lucky she loved you enough to put up with your antics, you just hoped she loved dogs even more.

You had been gone half the morning already when you walked into the pet store. You hadn’t heard from Mabel, so you hoped that meant she had decided to take her time and wasn’t sitting back at the boat alone.

You grabbed a small bag of puppy food, a leash, a collar, a couple bowls, and you couldn’t help but let the little guy pick out a toy. The toy he was determined to get was a plush duck that was practically the same size as him. You were going to wait on making a tag, figuring you and Mabel could decide on a name together, though you already had a couple thoughts.

You got the collar and leash around the puppy, paid for the items, threw the bag of food up onto your shoulder, and the two of you were on your way. The puppy trotted alongside you, carrying his duck in his mouth, the neck flopping with each moment as its head brushed against the ground. There was no doubt in your mind that Mabel wouldn’t fall in love with him.

When you finally made it back to the boat it was about midday. You were surprised to see Mabel still wasn’t back. You couldn’t complain though, it gave you time to get the puppy comfortable and come up with an argument so good she wouldn’t be able to say no to the dog.

 You poured some food into one of the bowls and filled the other with water before setting them down under the kitchen table. There wasn’t a lot of space on the boat, but you would make it work.

While the puppy scarfed down the food you got a text from Mabel saying she was on her way back. You messaged her saying you were back on the boat, and she replied saying she was still bringing you something from the café.

After the puppy licked the bowl cleaned, he ran over and jumped on his duck. He rolled around as if he were trying to tackle the duck. He chewed on the bill, whipping his head back and forth, letting out adorable little grunts.

Not even five minutes later did the puppy’s head flop to the side. He let out a yawn and buried his head against the duck; one paw tucked under the toy while the other was draped over the top like he was hugging it. You couldn’t believe that he crashed mid play session. Not that you could blame him, he had quite an eventful day.

You pulled out your phone and snapped a picture. It was sure to be only one of many you’d end up taking of the little guy.

There was shuffling around up top. You glanced at the puppy, but he didn’t seem bothered, only letting out another yawn. As quietly as you could you ran up top to greet Mabel.

“Hey,” she said, her face brightening as soon as she saw you. “I brought you something from a little bakery I passed.” She showed off a white paper bag and began unrolling the top. “I don’t remember the name, but I think you might like it.”

“Thanks!” You smiled, taking the bag from her. You took a peek inside and your eyebrows shot up; it did look delicious.

“What have you been up to?” Mabel tossed her things on one of the seats. “I didn’t realize you had errands today, I would have waited.”

You opened your mouth but didn’t even know where to start. “They were unintentional errands,” you said vaguely.

Mabel turned back to you, furrowing her brow. She narrowed her eyes as you suddenly found anything but her interesting.

“What aren’t you telling me?” She asked, taking a step closer.

You opened your mouth, your eyes darting from her to any other part of the boat.

She took another step closer, wrapping her arms around your center. She tilted her head, making her eyes seem bigger as she blinked at you. You knew that look well, you could never say no to that look, and she knew it.

It wasn’t like you were trying to keep a secret from her. The only reason you didn’t tell her about the puppy before was because it seemed like too big of a conversation to have on the phone. You wanted to keep the little guy and were trying to think of a solid argument but hadn’t decided on the best course by the time she got back.

You opened your mouth but before you could get anything out, a small thud came from the cabin below.

“What was that?” Mabel asked.

You sighed and dropped your head in defeat. She had already turned away from you and was making her way down the stairs.

You followed behind, stopping on the steps as she stood at the bottom of the stairs, staring at the puppy. The little guy seemed to have woken from his nap and was jumping around.

“I can explain,” you said.

Mabel turned around, raising and eyebrow. She crossed her arms as she moved away from the stairs, allowing you to step down and go to the dog.

“I woke up, you were gone,” you started recounting your morning. “And then I heard a noise and it turned out to be,” you gestured to the little guy.

“Then of course I couldn’t leave him,” you said, gesturing with your hands. “I had to make sure he was okay, so I had to find a vet.”

Mabel just stared down at you, her arms crossed, clearly unimpressed with your story. You wrapped your arms around the puppy and looked up at her, trying to make her see how adorable the two of you were.

“The vet said he’d get me a list of shelters,” you added. “So, in the meantime I picked up a few things but…” you looked down at the little guy and then back up at Mabel.

Mabel sighed, her shoulders slumping in defeat for an argument she didn’t even try and have.

“He is pretty cute,” she said, unable to fight off a smile.

She crouched down and the puppy ran over her to her, doing awkward hops as he wasn’t used to the floor yet. Mabel laughed and wrapped him up in her arms.

“Aren’t dogs like a lot of work?” She asked. “I know they are without being on a boat, so I can’t imagine-”

“You’re right,” you cut her off. “I’ve already started looking into it. He’ll need shots for different countries, paperwork, and we’ll need certain things for the boat, like a place for him to go potty. But…” you looked down at the puppy in her arms, clearly already attached to the little guy.

Mabel sighed and ran her fingers through the puppy’s fur. She looked down at him for a second before looking back up at you with a soft smile, telling you she was already going to relent.

“What’s his name?” She asked, clearly knowing you already had an idea.

“I was thinking Ody,” you said, trying to keep your voice neutral.

“Hi, Ody,” Mabel smiled as she started to play with him. “I like it.”

You smiled to yourself. It seemed you wouldn’t have to fight her on his name either.

“Wait,” Mabel’s fingers paused mid pet.

Her head snapped up to you, her eyes narrowing once again. You put your hands behind your back and shuffled back and forth on your feet. Your eyes suddenly found the ceiling very interesting.

“Ody,” she repeated.

“Ody,” she whispered as if the name held a secret.

“Ody!” She said, shooting you a glare. “Like, Odysseus?”

She crossed her arms. Her glare lost any heat it might have had as Ody jumped up, attempting to lick her on the face.

“I mean…” you said with a small shrug. “We could go with Argos?”

“Why does that name sound familiar?” Mabel asked, furrowing her brow.

You glanced at her before quickly looking away.

“Wait,” she stood up. “Wasn’t that Odysseus’s dogs name?” She crossed her arms.

Your eyes darted to her and away again. “Maybe…”

You suddenly bent down and scooped up the puppy. You held him out in front of you, directly in Mabel’s face.

“Come on,” you said. “Doesn’t he just look like an Ody!”

Mabel tried to seem unimpressed for a few seconds before her shoulders relaxed and a smile broke out onto her face. You broke out into a grin and pulled her into a hug, squishing the puppy between the two of you.

After that you showed Mabel everything you had gotten for Ody so far. She seemed satisfied but commented that he needed much more. You tried to hide a smile, you knew she’d spoil the little guy.

Despite just getting home she leashed up Ody, grabbed your hand dragged the two of you off the boat. All three of you walked down the dock, Ody running between your feet, trying to trip you, when he wasn’t trying to get into everything.

The two of you went on a small walk through the streets, stopping to allow Ody to sniff anything and everything. The three of you slowly made your way back to the pet store you had stopped at to buy what you assumed would be more than you would be able to carry back to the boat.

On the walk you made sure to search more about everything you’d need to get done and all the different shots Ody would need. You started to make a list. You knew it would be a lot, and everything would need to be in order before you left Greece.

You hadn’t even been in the country a week, you were only in your second day. It was actually your true first day there, since the day before you made port, though it was early.

You had already seen so much it felt like, but you knew you hadn’t even cracked the surface. You somehow had ended up with a puppy, and you felt it was only going to make the trip better. You couldn’t wait to explore the islands and everything else the country had to offer. Adding Ody to the group just made you expand your plans to make sure he could be included in everything, you intended to take him everywhere you went as much as you could.

[emilys-bangs]

𝐰𝐞'𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 | 𝐞.𝐩

Tags: fem!reader, amnesia, established relationship but also not really starting to be really!, forced proximity, lots of comfort, veeery light angst, fluff!, there is light at the end of the tunnel, soft emily, soft reader, tree decorating, christmas vibes but nothing religious, resilience is rooted in love frfr, no use of yn

Summary: You and Emily patch up the cracks.

Word count: 4k

A/N: it's been a hot minute since these two, sorry about that!!! I don't have the rest of the chapters planned so I can't honestly say it won't happen again but I can say I'm still not done with them yet :p they're my babeys. Thank you for sticking with me, hope you like it!! (Unrelated but I have to be up in four hours....rip)

Series masterlist

"What do you think of this one?"

You blink out of your stupor to look at the tree Emily's pointing at.

You've never really been picky about them. A tree's a tree. You took what was easy to clean up, anything that wouldn't be too much of a hassle to lug all the way home. You never had much space for something 15-odd feet tall, thick and lush with foliage, the kind that dominates whole floors of department stores.

This tree, though, is far nicer than anything you've ever taken home. It rises several feet above your head; you'd need, at the very least, a chair to reach the top.

"It's nice," you say, hearing the words fall flat. "I mean—yeah, I like it. I don't really have much of a preference." You turn to her. "Do you?"

Emily tilts her head, her eyes dragging from the top of the tree to the bottom. "No, nothing too particular, I guess." But her gaze is critical. She looks it over, her chin dipping in a nod, a brief seriousness to her that seems disproportionate. "This one looks nice and full," she murmurs. "It's a good shape. Not too tall for the ceiling."

You note the hefty price tag. Emily doesn't so much as glance at it.

"That sounds good, then, doesn't it?"

You're reminded of the last time you'd gone out with her, the bright lights overhead not too dissimilar to the ones at the grocery store. Only two days ago. She'd been so much warmer then. So much easier.

You bite your lip as Emily nods in agreement. It's not unkind, nothing about her ever is. Still, you're queasy, an unbearable tenderness to your stomach that lingered all throughout yesterday and into this morning.

She's quieter today, almost…subdued. She's never pressed, never pushed, but now there's an entirely new hesitance to her. You can see it in the hunch of her shoulders, her carefully even tone, as if she's trying not to spook you. Like if she moved too fast, spoke too loud, you might decide to cut everything loose and run at a moment's notice, leave her with a child to raise on her own and a house too big for one.

You swallow hard at the needless reminder, her tears stuck in your head, her voice ringing, lingering—I'm just a stranger you live with.

Really, arguably, it's not exactly far from the truth. And yet.

Your fingers curl around the ultrasound in your pocket. Your thumb skims along the smooth ink, the edges of the paper damp where they've absorbed your sweat. You keep touching it, as if you might forget again. As if keeping it in your pocket changes anything at all.

You're going to be a parent.

Emily steps closer to the displayed tree, peering at what, you don't know. You take the same steps until the branches hover an inch from your face, her warmth at your side. You don't know what to look for. Your eyes see through an empty space between the green.

Part of you marvels at the fact that you're still standing at all—bones heavy, head sluggish, still standing. But if you sat down and wallowed, you know you'd never get back up. The weight of it all would drag you under, and you have to be standing, you have to pull yourself into some semblance of a human for her to lean her weight on.

Pregnant. Jesus.

And besides, the house needs a tree. It's your first Christmas in it—an old tree wouldn't do, it has to be for this house. Your new life.

Emily's voice murmurs beside you as she says something low under her breath. It's like a hook, rooted in your chest; she tugs you out of your head, pulling your gaze to where she stands next to you. She gives the tree a final once-over and nods definitively.

The sight makes you want to laugh.

Look at you both, trying to pretend that everything's normal. You're buying a Christmas tree four days before Christmas, and it's going fine. There's only two left, but it's fine. She grabs one and puts it in the cart.

You shuffle in silently beside her, following with half an eye. The store is busy with people; your hand is hooked into her coat pocket for a while before you realize, too late, at the checkout. Emily doesn't mention it, of course, doesn't react. She wheels the cart over and greets the cashier with a quiet, polite hello.

You warm as if she's speaking to you.

__

The bright sunlight feels, almost, like a slap in the face. The whole week had been dreary and gray, snow and sleet and the threat of rain; today, the sun throws yolk-yellow rays on everything, cheerily coating the day in warmth. You tip your head up to frown at it, and it glares back.

Emily notices you staring.

"It's supposed to snow again in a few hours." She says, then pauses. "Should be all week, actually. This is the warmest it's supposed to get."

Another pause. She lets it stretch, wide and tepid.

You gnaw on your lip, pinching it to pain. Your fingers are needlessly curled around the cart, pulling it to the trunk of the car.

"Isn't there a park nearby?" You blurt out.

Emily blinks. Nods. She fishes the keys out of her pocket, and you reach for the trunk just as she gets it unlocked, your fingers slippery. You ignore her displeased sound behind you.

"We could soak up the weather."

She's there when you turn, easing the tree into the car with far too much grace. Her brows tick up at the suggestion—just a few millimeters, inching closer to her hairline—then fall back with her smile. More of a thing to appease.

"Sure," she says.

__

It's not the most comfortable thing, wearing your sling with your coat, but you bear it.

Stray bits of snow crunch under your boots. The cold bites and pinches, gathers heavily onto the tip of your nose and fingers, turns your breath cloudy. You slip your hands into the pocket of your hoodie, twisting the fabric around as you sit with the quiet familiarity of the park.

It's nothing special, really, something for the neighborhood with few frills and sprawling space. This bit is tucked away from the play set; you look at the slices of path peeking out from under the snow, past kids darting between trees, and you're almost entirely sure that if you'd walk around the bend, take a left at the split and continue on for a little bit, you'll find the creak of swings, small bodies dangling from monkey bars. You're almost sure, but not quite. It lingers in the back of your head like fog.

It doesn't escape your notice how you can remember that, even barely, and yet you forgot her. All her loveliness, all the warmth of her voice and her gentle hands and her bottomless eyes, the baby growing inside her. Yours. Hers.

The thought makes your cheeks pucker, a sourness spilling onto your tongue.

Not your fault, she had murmured into your skin, so close you felt it. It's not your fault. Ad infinitum.

You blink against the cold. Beside you, she's almost perfectly still. Your arms touch through your coats, connected for a short stretch before they part, yours laid on the frigid wood of the bench and hers gathered neatly into herself. Her eyes are turned down to her lap, where her hands are folded, pale and lean.

She's strikingly well suited for the landscape, you think. The cold has nipped at her cheeks, flushing them pink.

You don't know if the familiarity you feel is because you're remembering, or because you see her face everywhere you turn. Her beautiful, somber face. In the midst of sprawling white and more people than you've seen in a week, you still can't look away.

She feels your eyes on her, you know. It doesn't deter you, though you distantly expect it should, maybe. You trace from the tail end of her brow to her temple, the curve of her cheekbone—across, to the straight line of her nose, leading into her Cupid's bow. Her teeth graze her lip. You see the hesitation working in her jaw long before she speaks.

"I don't…" She starts then falls silent, exhaling a rickety stream of white. Your bones stand at attention and Emily wets her lips, still staring down at her hands. She frowns at them. Picks at the ragged skin on her thumb, her voice coming out low. "I don't know how to make any of this okay."

You stare hard at the tense line of her mouth, your chest ballooning with an exhale. She always thinks it's up to her. She carries so much, heaves it all up on her shoulders and forgets not everything is hers to fix.

You take one of her hands in yours. The skin around her thumb is agitated, picked red and uneven.

Your own breath clouds in front of you.

"Stop trying to fix everything, Emily." You gingerly trace over her thumb. There's nothing to fix. Just to live with. "It's not on you to make it okay. Just—" You can't swallow it back, the plea, "just be with me. That's all."

Her fingers curl around yours. They squeeze, and she meets your eyes now, her gaze soft.

"I am with you." She whispers. "I am." This look falls over her face, almost like she wants to cry. "I think—" She cuts herself off, inhaling. "I think you really are some kind of angel."

You don't expect it. Neither do you expect the laugh that huffs from your chest, barely even audible to your own ears. "That's dramatic. I just love you."

Another thing you don't expect.

"I love you, too."

You wait for the heat to hit and spread, stretch itself under your skin, but it doesn't.

"You give me too much credit."

"I don't think I give you enough."

You know responsibility. You know seeing things through to the end, even though there isn't really an end to this sort of thing, the growing mass under her skin. You would be offended if you hadn't gotten used to her guilt by now. It spills, from all of her, concurrent with the love.

You shake your head, weaving your fingers through hers, squeezing back. "Save some for yourself."

Your palms meet, cold on cold. Emily's eyes suck you in as she looks at you for one, two, three seconds, then gives, her mouth twitching just the slightest bit. It tugs at the barest hint of a dimple, and you're not sure how it happens, really, if it's her or you or the both of you, but suddenly you're leaning into her, as if pulled with a string until your chin settles on her shoulder. Her arm rises around your side, your hands still linked on her lap, and you close your eyes into the solidness of her.

The stone dissolves in your gut as you let yourself breathe.

It's this, more than anything, that makes you feel right. Like in her arms, you belong. Everything seems to fit. Your body doesn't struggle against hers; it knows where to go, familiar with her outline and how it molds into yours.

Emily relaxes in turn. Beneath you, her chest dips as she exhales, the warmth of it blowing through your hair.

It's how she speaks best, with these little touches. There's no guilt here. It's just her, her beating heart, the warmth shared between you. Her mouth finds your temple, and it's as natural a move as your linked hands on her knee, a second of plush heat before it dips away.

Around you, kids are on their backs, on their knees, swallowed up by white. Dogs nose around in the snow. You watch a snowball fly and hit its target, crumbling against a gray jacket.

The question slips quietly.

"When are you due?"

Twin inhales, yours, hers.

"Early July," Emily answers. She pauses, tenderness weaving through her voice. "Twelfth."

Your heart gives a jolt. It's an entirely different season, and you know full well that due dates are unreliable, but you still feel your mouth turn up.

"Twelfth." You echo. It flutters, warm in your chest. "That'd be nice."

Emily gives your hand a squeeze. You feel her smile, stretched small, pressed to the side of your face.

__

"Now, this I was not looking forward to." She mutters, taking out the clump of tangled lights from the box of decorations. You wince, though she doesn't look particularly annoyed.

"Sorry."

Her eyes slide up to yours. Her brows lift, head cocking, deliberately, like a cat's.

You flush a little. "Oh—I'm sorry. I mean—no, not sorry—it's just that—oh you know what I mean—"

Emily's laugh is like silk, whispering low. It adds to the heat spreading through you, an unneeded catalyst as she sets the lights down and pushes the box closer to you. "I've got it, honey, it's okay. You just unpack these."

Even as she says it, she takes out the boxes of ornaments and lays them out on the coffee table, next to your mugs of nearly-drained cocoa. You wave out your hand to stop her and she steps back dutifully, catching the glow of the fire behind you.

She's softer, in the warm light of the living room, a too-big sweatshirt on her shoulders and her hair held up in a messy twist, loose bangs wilting out to frame her face. You wonder what it would be like to kiss her, like this, then bench the thought as she sidesteps you and makes for the couch, where the lights are waiting. They're in a dreadful tangle, two separate bunches corded around one another—a perfectly preserved relic from last Christmas.

Sweet, you think, as she traps her bottom lip between her teeth. She'd taste sweet. Like the cocoa she'd made, the faintest hint of chocolate…

…cinnamon tucked into the corner of her mouth, her hands splayed on your hips, voice murmuring into your skin, "You're tangling them all over again."

"Am not," you deny, shoving the lights off her lap. Emily laughs, warm and everywhere, her fingers ghosting along the bare skin along your waistline. "They were already tangled."

"Right," she drawls.

Your eyes narrow. "Oh, well, let me just get out of your hair, then—"

Her hands tighten on your waist, holding you in place. "No"—and she silences your laugh, lips soft as pillows, sweeter than Hershey's Kisses—

You blink at her as she carefully guides the wires out of their knots, her brows pinched, hands moving steady.

Heat buzzes under your skin, warming your cheeks as you turn away and absently start picking the ornaments from their boxes. Your eyes see past them and into something else: Emily, in nearly the same position, on a different couch, another ball of lights in her lap. You're next to her, blowing raspberries in frustration. A separate tangle is between your own hands. You remember you complaining and her laughing; her working the knots free; her taking the whole mess off your hands and coaxing the tangles out.

She's always the one untangling the knots in your jewelry. Necklaces, bracelets; her nails are always short, and yet she manages it better than you ever have. Her fingers are deft, careful. Always careful.

An ornament hits the table too hard, your fingers losing their grip and finding it again after a floundering second. It's a half-melted snowman sitting in a puddle of itself, arms spread as if they're flailing.

Yeah, I get you, buddy.

The rush continues pumping through your veins. It's thrilling, seeing her in your memories, knowing she exists there, firmly. You've never once thought her a liar, but now you have proof, proof that doesn't come from a picture or someone's mouth, proof that's fully your own.

Your Emily. From your memories.

This isn't the first one you've had; they started yesterday, as flimsy as thin clouds spread across the sky, but still there. Her face, her voice. It had made your breath shorten in your lungs.

You wanted to tell her. You still want to tell her—I remember you. Some of you, the shape of your laugh up close, the warmth of your mouth. Fragments, pieces, nowhere near enough but undeniably you.

Your mouth opens of its own accord and stays open. You itch for something to say, but the words fail you.

You close your mouth and busy yourself with pulling out the rest of the ornaments from the boxes. Painstakingly, one by one, you lay them out on the coffee table. Here's Sergio, ceramic and glossy. Here's a glittering snowflake; here's two fingerprints stamped into a heart, your initials carved next to Emily's. It's a modest spread, the beginnings of your joint life. From Christmas tree ornaments to a baby in her belly.

There'll be at least one more addition to the collection, you think, by the time next Christmas rolls around. Something with an initial, maybe, or a tiny handprint. There's too much sentiment between the both of you.

Does she have any names picked out?

You've had yours for years, carefully curated, stored for later—the right person, the right time. You still know them: Katie for a girl, Alice, Sophie, Rory, Diana or Diane. Boys names are always harder, but you still had some. James. Elliot. Secretly, indulgently, Laurie. You wonder if you've shared any of them with her.

You're so lost in your head you only look up at the scrape of chair legs on the floor, the sound cutting through the stillness. Emily situates the chair in front of the tree and steps on, lights in hand, shuffling closer to the edge to reach the top.

"Careful," you say.

You can hear the smile in her voice. "I got it."

Right. Field agent.

Still. You abandon your nearly-done task and take your perch at the chair's back, your hand needlessly wrapped around it as Emily steps up on her tiptoes. It's poor support, but it eases your mind. She wraps the lights around the top of the tree, hooking them into branches and crevices. You help her move them round when the tree grows too wide.

It goes on quietly, seamlessly. You continue when it's too far out of her reach, guiding the wire around the branches until it feeds into her hand, then taking it again when she passes it to you. It's not really a two person job, but you split it anyway.

See, you can do things with her, easy as cake. Your eyes dart to the flat plane of her stomach hidden under her sweatshirt, barely lingering before you look away again. It still feels wrong to look. Intrusive.

You ask her about the felt ornaments as you're hanging them on. Her smile spreads, a tad shy as she nestles a candy cane between two baubles.

"It was Garcia's idea. She brought us together for a kind of crafty girl's night—horrible idea, by the way. She brought wine." Emily deadpans. You bite down on your lip, searching for a spot to hang the gingerbread house. "And I'd obviously never touched a needle before," she shrugs, her nose scrunching, "stabbed half my blood volume out."

"No," you say sympathetically.

"At least I didn't bleed on them," she murmurs, a faint blush on her cheeks. She grabs an ornament from the pile and lightly nudges your good shoulder. "You did okay, though."

You don't remember, so you take her word for it. There is one blue star with neater edges than the rest. It dangles close to the Christmas-tree-cat.

Beside you, Emily pushes back a bauble that hangs too close to the edge. You don't remember a whole lot of Penelope, but you are sure of one thing.

"But doesn't she have a sewing machine?"

Emily's lips quirk. "She wanted it to be authentic."

You laugh. There's something particularly heady about the look she'd given you, a kind of exasperated fondness, like you were both in on something together. The rush of it lingers even after you lapse into silence again, working in tandem. It's not uncomfortable. The space is filled with quiet noise, the hush of your socked feet on the floor, the gentle tinkle of ornaments, the dry brush of branches, Emily's breathing and yours. The snow has started up, racing past the windows and floating down onto the street.

You taste the cinnamon again, between your teeth.

Emily clears her throat a while later. "There's, um. There's this Christmas party at Rossi's. Dave, he's my coworker. More like family, really—all of them are—"

"I know who Dave is."

As you're saying it, you realize it's true. The specifics are blurry—his exact features—but you know the tone of his voice, how deep his love for Emily goes. "I know him."

Emily's face softens further. "Right. Well—uh, I don't know if you remember, but it's nothing special. It's just us. My team. Party is pretty formal for it, really, it's just dinner and hanging out. I…" Her nose scrunches the slightest bit, and fondness pinches your chest. "I accidentally promised someone we were going, but we don't have to—"

"No, it's okay." You interrupt. "I'd like to go."

She pauses. "Really?"

You nod. "Yeah, of course. They're your family."

"You're my family. You come first, no matter what."

Your face goes hot. She says it so unwaveringly, like nothing could ever change her mind. The firmness of it curls you in its embrace.

Family. My family.

"Who did you promise?" You murmur, fiddling with the ribbon of the ornament strung on your fingers. "Accidentally."

Emily breathes out a sound. It's half fond, half peeved. "Jack," she says.

Your brows pinch.

"Hotch's kid," she continues. "He's sweet." The softness of her tone makes you look back at her. She's all sincerity, eyes honeyed in the amber light, her touch a quick brush on your elbow. "It's not for a few days, so. Plenty of time to change your mind."

You shake your head.

"I won't."

__

It takes more time than you expected it would. You're slow, and Emily doesn't try to outpace you. At some point you stop for a break, and she makes sandwiches—actually eats with you this time. You get back to work with Home Alone splayed on the TV.

The sun is low in the sky by the time you're done, the house dark enough that the tree glows. It's not extravagantly decorated, but it's not empty, either. It's homey, a warmth to it that curls in your chest and stays there.

Emily flicks on the lights. She'd let her hair down and now rakes a hand through it, pushing back her bangs as she crosses the floor back to your side.

"What do you think?"

There's the strangest pressure on your throat, like your voice will break if you speak.

To your relief, it doesn't.

"It's beautiful," you say honestly.

Ours. Mine and yours.

Emily's smile is soft. "Sure is an upgrade from that awful prickly thing you had up, isn't it?"

"Hey." You feel yourself frown. "It did its job. Just because it wasn't seven feet tall—"

"Kidding, kidding," she murmurs, taking the last few steps, closing the distance, both hands cupped to your cheeks.

Air thins. Your breath fogs against her palm, a startled, sharp inhale. Emily's thumb sweeps over your cheekbone, gentle pressure, trailing heat. She lifts it away and you catch the sparkle of glitter on her skin, golden yellow.

Your eyes meet. She dusts it off, then goes back in for more. With her knuckle this time, a featherlight trace, your lashes fluttering in the same quick pace of your heart.

Her wrist is under your fingers. Her pulse is trapped under your thumb, the band of her ring fitted snugly at her knuckle. You swallow. Your lips brush the inside of her hand, thumb trailing higher.

"Can you help me shower?" You murmur.

Emily goes loose against you.

"Yes." She kisses your forehead. "Yes."

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[thesvnandthemooon]

𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐲

18+ MINORS DNI

a/n: reading the first fic is recommended but not necessary. i love these two so much actually, getting to write about them again was exciting <3 got carried away in the end so sorry abt that. last chunk isn't proof read so...idk

summary: SHIELD agent!reader, post avengers (2012)!nat; same universe as my previous fic 'selfish' (tagged below)

warnings: smut (fingering, n receiving), alcohol, major injury, seizures, hospitalization, violence, descriptions of medical procedures (brief), little bit of jealousy; as always — if i missed something, please tell me!

word count: 12.5k

→ selfish

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

Fingertips burnt, hair tied back. The mess of electrodes and contact nodes has disappeared; it's turned into something much smaller, something that looks trivial but certainly packs a much-needed punch.

Combat neural link 2.0, you call it. After the original misfired and ended up getting Natasha shot, you were set on inventing a new one. An improved version, one that she could have some control over as well. 

It took eight months. You spent more nights in your lab than anywhere else. Most of the time, Natasha had to go in there and drag you out herself.

"Still tinkering?", she asks. You glance at her. "Fury called. The earth's mightiest heroes are ready to go."

Your lips form a thin line. The Avengers Initiative is a noble idea, but at the same time, it's a ticking time bomb. Six superpowered, gifted individuals, committed to the world's protection.

"Earth's mightiest heroes?"

She smiles and walks to your side. Her hands settle on your waist. "Direct quote from Stark. How's the neural link?"

Natasha's trying to distract you. She knows you've been worrying — other than SHIELD, the Avengers are public, flashy. Nothing will be contained from this moment on. The second she's in the spotlight alongside everyone else, threats will increase tenfold.

"This is prototype number 13." You hook it up to your tablet and show her the data. "Might be the final version. You feel like doing a test run later? Won't hurt, I promise."

She brushes your hair aside. In order to properly test the neural link, you made SHIELD put a link housing on you as well. So far, it's been going fine — aside from a few early attempts that resulted in the link sparking and irritating your skin.

Her lips press against your skin, right below the link housing. What the kiss lacks in quantity, it makes up for in impact. A soft heat blooms in your cheeks.

She reaches for the neural link before you can stop her. When she flips it over to check the side, you groan. 

"That's sweet", she teases. "Both of our initials?"

"Well, we've both worn it", you say reluctantly. "You're just as much a part of this as I am."

It's true. Natasha might not agree, but without her, the gadget would never be what it is now. She's the one testing its main capabilities, making sure it's ready for battle. You only check the basics.

"Prototype 13", she says, looking at you. "What was wrong with number 12?"

"The manual override was a bit laggy." You grab the neural link and store it in the small waterproof casing you designed. "This one reacts immediately. If you need to disable it, you can. You won't need me for it."

The look in her eyes softens a little. You know she trusts you. She knows you trust her. What neither of you considered was whether you trusted her to trust herself. Looks like you do.

Light spills into the room, sudden and unprompted. You look at the door and stifle a sigh — it's Fury in all his glory, eye patch and leather jacket included. You didn't even notice you were taking your sweet time with this.

"Romanoff", he says. "Should've known you'd be here. Listen, Y/L/N, we're all thrilled things are going well for the two of you, but it can't interfere with business."

"We're on the clock?", you say, pressing a quick kiss to Natasha's cheek. "Had no idea. I'll hand her over right now."

She looks at you, lips twitching. It's not like she wants to leave — but you'll be seeing each other again soon. In a few hours, when the debrief is over, when you're hopefully a step closer to finishing the combat neural link.

You don't kiss her until Fury gets the hint and steps out of your lab. Seconds later, Natasha follows. 

You'll have to get used to this. From now on, her attention will be divided into three, and whatever happens, you have no choice but to find a way to deal with it.

. . .

Nothing about this will be clean.

You're used to your routines, your lab at SHIELD. You're used to waking up at 5 in the morning, to only getting a couple hours of sleep every night. Your life isn't clean either; but it has structure. It's not messy in the way the Avengers are.

After the battle of New York, the Stark Tower was damaged. At that point, you didn't expect that place to ever have any kind of significance to you. You know better now.

"They rebuilt it?"

"There was quite some damage", Natasha says. "Looks good."

You hum, head tipped back, staring at the giant building in front of you. It's similar enough to the SHIELD headquarters, you tell yourself. Smaller in size, but not lacking in grandeur. You can't imagine spending your days here.

Natasha's not moving in full time. She still prefers your shared apartment. But as part of the team, her routine will change. You'll be spending your nights somewhere else whenever it's the more convenient choice.

Your only consolation is that you'll be allowed to join. She made sure of that.

"Now we go in?"

"If you dare", she teases, hand finding yours. You squeeze it. "I bet they're dying to see you again."

You grimace. Last time, things didn't go as planned. To an extent, it was your fault — having five strangers, all superpowered and dangerous in one way or another, take over SHIELD's helicarrier was a situation that made all of your alarm bells go off. You should be used to potential threats, but this one seemed excessive, so your instinct was to treat them like the hazard you perceived them as. 

You snapped at them. You were that exact cold version of yourself not even you like to see. Natasha was far too understanding.

"Maybe I should wait in the lobby", you say. "It's only going to take, what, a few days?"

Natasha glances at you. "Like hell you will", she says, already pulling you along. "What's the worst that could happen?"

"I'm sorry, were you there last time?"

The elevator ride is smooth. Natasha turns around and steps closer, her chest almost against yours, deft fingers starting to fix your hair. You sigh but don't move. 

"We're still alive", she says, tilting her head and dragging both thumbs over your jaw. "What's with the face?"

You grimace. "What face?"

"This face." She touches your nose. "You'll scare the crap out of them."

"I don't think there's much they're scared of", you say, gently grabbing her wrist. Her smile widens a little. "You're enjoying this an awful lot."

"It's not every day I get to see you this skittish."

Your face turns from agitated to deadpan. She's lying. You, unfortunately, might be the most skittish person at SHIELD. There's one contestant who could maybe steal your spot, but not even that's certain.

It's not your fault. Not fully. After being forced to stop field work due to a bad injury, and consistently watching your girlfriend get hurt for years, your wariness seems justified enough. 

"Really?"

Natasha smirks. Her hand moves to your jaw, cupping it, and her lips press against yours. It's over before you can fully register the kiss, and by the time you come back to your senses, the elevator doors have opened.

Five superheroes stare at you. It's the least cohesive group of people you've ever seen.

"I know you", Tony says, pointing a pen at Natasha. "The other one..."

"We've met", you cut him off. You glance at your surroundings. "You know, you could improve the mechanism of the elevator. If you-"

His eyebrows shoot up. Everyone looks at you. Sensing that you're about to start something that might never end, you decide to stop talking. You can see why someone like Tony Stark wouldn't want you questioning his ability to pick the right tech.

The others do recognize you. And though they're all strangers in terms of you knowing them — you even know Ward better, and you do everything in your power to avoid talking to him —, at least one of them is familiar.

Clint. He prepared you for this days before it was set in stone. He'd walked into your lab, pulled you aside and briefed you on every person that's now in front of you.

The first time you met them, they were bouncing off each other like magnets' like poles. Everything about them seemed to clash. And hell, it was obvious. 

Over the last few months, that has changed. Fighting aliens and a Norse deity together will do that. They're not best friends by any means — you're not even sure they're friends yet — but the tension has reduced to a gentle, almost sweet simmering. 

Their presence, and the wariness that came with being unfamiliar, made everyone feel out of place. Now, it's only you who stands out. You feel miserable. You straighten up a little. It doesn't help.

They talk. Joke about things. You stand between Natasha and Banner like a shield. He's a nice guy. Polite, a little awkward, but friendly once comfortable. You don't want to have this picture of him in your head, but all you see is the 1200 lbs green, primitive-minded creature that chased Natasha through the hallways of the Helicarrier once.

Someone passes around beers, which you down like there's no tomorrow. Natasha's watching you, subtly, but you can feel it. You know her too intimately not to. Besides, she wants you to feel it. Maybe it'll make you stop.

"I wanted to show you around", Natasha says quietly, prying the bottle from your hand. "Think you'll be able to stand?"

"What? Oh-" You huff. "Yeah, yeah. It was a few beers, nothing more. I'm fine."

"No alcohol in my lab", Tony says. "You know, I got a hunch you'll be thoroughly impressed. SHIELD just doesn't do it right."

"Really?" You look at him. "I find it our labs more than sufficient. They're upgraded annually, some of our best scientists handpick every addition. They even let me equip my own. I've built my entire life in that lab. I really wouldn't be too sure if I were you."

Natasha's lips twitch. There it is — the conversation shifted. You're eager to argue, especially with someone like Tony Stark. When Bruce joins in, she knows she can let herself rest for a moment. The ice is melting.

You make it home around midnight. You enter the bathroom straight away, dropping your jackets off somewhere on your way there.

"Could've been worse", you say, undoing the first button on your button-up. "Made up for last time, didn't I?"

"They like you", she says. "You got Stark wrapped around your little finger. He was practically swooning."

You hum, stepping in front of the sink next to her. Your shirt is open all the way, revealing an old undershirt underneath. Natasha glances at the thin necklace you're wearing, one she got you for your birthday before you were even dating, and smiles.

"Was he?" You huff. "I'm just glad it wasn't a disaster. They're like explosives. One wrong move and it's a chain reaction. Collateral damage guaranteed."

"There will be collateral damage regardless." She squeezes some makeup remover onto a cotton pad and starts cleaning her face.

You watch, first absently and then getting more enthralled by it. With each swipe of the cotton pad across her skin, more of that armor falls off. You see pale skin, scars softened by time and healing, the tiredness she masks so well.

You're in love. You feel it over and over again, thumping in your chest.

Cupping her head, you kiss her temple before you can think about it twice. She raises her eyebrows at you through the mirror.

"I'm not ready."

"For?", she asks, disposing of the cotton pad.

"Having to share you with more people." You step away and grab your toothbrush. "Our time is limited as it is."

Natasha hums. She doesn't regret SHIELD. She doesn't regret the Avengers, either. They were both crucial steps in becoming who she is today. But sometimes, she wishes all responsibilities could fall off her like the jacket she left in the hallway.

"Better make it count", she teases. You glance at her, eyebrows raised, toothpaste foaming at your mouth as you scrub your teeth clean. "What do you say, genius?"

You smile, toothbrush tucked into your cheek. "Collateral damage guaranteed, is what I say."

. . .

It's a new environment. You turn around and almost grab one of Clint's trick arrows. An explosive one, too — you pull your hand back and furrow your eyebrows, eyes scanning the space you're in.

You miss the armory at the SHIELD headquarters. This one is stocked just as well, containing all the weapons and tools Natasha and the others might need, but it's different. Your trusted muscle memory doesn't work here. Everything is in a different spot than you're used to.

You shake your head and reach for the various Widow's Bites. The one you want is miniaturized, with a reduced output and disguised as jewelry. Perfect for her first gala as an Avenger. Perfect for self defense, too.

"It just keeps going, huh?"

"Safety first", you say simply. "Give me your wrists."

She holds out both her hands. Your eyes trail up her arms, to her face, before shamefully resorting back to the Widow's Bites. It's not the time. You can ogle her later. Resisting is hard, though.

The magnetic lock shuts with a quiet click. You brush your thumb over hers, then reach for her other wrist. Once the second bracelet is secured, you grab a handgun and gesture for her to lift her dress a little.

"It's a gala", she says, watching you slide a thigh holster up her leg. "Unless everything goes to hell, I'll be fine."

You shoot her a sharp look. "You used to be more careful than me."

"There's a fine line between careful and paranoid." She leans in, cupping your jaw, breath ghosting your lips. "You're stepping right over it."

Warmth coils in your stomach. Your fingers are still on her thigh, still pretending to adjust the holster. It fits around her perfectly.

"We have ten minutes", you say weakly.

"Don't want my dress all wrinkly, do we?"

You don't. The dress is equally stunning and distracting. The fabric barely brushes the floor, the slit on the side reaches the middle of her thigh. The fabric is smooth and black, and you're trying to grasp that you'll be the one to lead her down the red carpet tonight.

You shake your head and reach for the high heels you designed years ago. There are blades hidden in the heels, concealed so well that not even a trained eye could spot them. You tap your fingers against her Achilles heel, coaxing her into lifting her foot, and you slip the heel right on. 

You get up from the floor and take off your necklace. Natasha pauses when you step around her to put it on her instead. 

"What..."

"The charm", you say, closing the little clasp. "There's poison in it. Just in case."

Natasha picks up the charm. It's a tiny heart. She hates hearts. You hate them, too. One of the most significant organs in the human body, and some idiot decided to simplify it like this. 

"The only charm I could find on short notice", you add. She laughs quietly. "Your earrings are micro-comms. The audio quality is questionable, but considering it's a low risk situation, they should suffice."

"They're perfect", she assures you, fingers tangling with yours. "So are you. I don't think anyone else could handle this with half as much grace."

The tips of your ears burn. You curse your own susceptibility for her. You're way too easy. You kiss her anyway — because you want to, and because you're trying to hide how her few words made you preen. 

Armored SUVs wait for you outside the tower. Keeping Natasha's hand in yours, you sprint past paparazzi and civilians and get her into the vehicle. 

A naive part of you thinks that's it. That you've made it through the worst part, at least for now. When you get out about half an hour later, you're met with a sea of people gathered in front of the building. 

Natasha looks at you. "We could run."

"We have security", you add. 

"My poor dress."

"Running in heels isn't comfortable, either."

"Get out", Tony says through the comms, already sounding impatient. "No way SHIELD agents are scared of paparazzi."

You sigh, holding her hand tighter. The door opens. You get out and the flashes go off immediately. 

You knew this would be messy — everything about it already is. Never in her life was Natasha presented to the world like this, on a platter, exposed. Never have you stood in the middle of camera flashes and paparazzi, with microphones being shoved at both of you.

You don't let go of her. You know there will be pictures of you all over the world within minutes.

Once you make it in, it's easier. Quieter. Less threatening. Your hand slips down her side anyway, straight to her thigh. You feel the gun tucked into the holster there and exhale.

"Checking for weapons?", Tony asks. He's got Pepper on his arm, one hand clinging to his elbow. "At a gala, too. You know, I really wonder what your wedding will look like. Full body scanners everywhere."

"Private wedding", you say flatly. "No guests allowed. Where are the others?"

"Right here", Steve calls. He's patting Bruce on the back, who looks like he's one camera flash away from hulking out. You angle Natasha away from him. "You guys look great."

"You like my new suit?" Tony adjusts the lapels. "Got it on clearance. You know, splurging for the public."

"They want us inside", Clint says. You whip around when you hear his voice. "Look at that, I managed to sneak up on you."

You roll your eyes and pull Natasha closer. He seemed to come out of nowhere. Pair that with already being on edge for hours and the result is flinching at the tiniest of sounds.

She smiles, her eyes trailing across your face. "Why so jumpy?"

You shake your head. The stakes are usually much higher. Your job comes with a responsibility most people can't fathom — not only are you partially responsible for people's lives, but your girlfriend's life as well. Your main responsibility is Natasha's life. 

This gala is terrifying anyway. Making it all public — Natasha, the Avengers, your relationship — is the scariest part. From that moment on, all control slips from your fingers. 

Bullshit. You lost control months ago. Hell, you never were in control in the first place. 

Inside, it's loud. Crowded. Dozens of round tables everywhere, with white linen tablecloths and candlelight. Everyone is polished. Not a tie is out of place. You feel the faded scars on your hands, stemming from years of work in your lab, prick like needles.

It's a fundraiser slash corporate gala. The Avengers are being presented like a product — not one you can buy, but a collective idea, something that will benefit everyone. 

You're not a fan. Neither is Natasha. She swiftly grabs a champagne flute and drinks it in one go. Remembering how you had bottle after bottle of beer when meeting the team again, you're starting to think both of you have an alcohol problem.

"Ma'am", Steve says, letting Natasha get to the table first. 

You were lost in thought. Having the super soldier address your girlfriend like that makes you snap out of it, though.

You blink at him. "What?"

"Come on", Natasha says, steering you to the table. "We're not doing this tonight."

"Oh please, I wasn't going to do anything-"

"I'd love to hook you up to that lie detector right about now", she says, pulling out a chair and making you sit down on it. She keeps her hand on your shoulder and her mouth next to your ear. "You can be jealous when the world isn't watching."

It's defeat. She wins. You sink into your chair and hate yourself a little.

They make the Avengers enter the stage. One by one, then, all of them together. You stay in your seat. You keep a hand on the gun you're carrying around. 

They talk about themselves. Not a lot, not so much that any valuable information is revealed to the public. It's just enough to give people a sense of trust and, maybe, make them want to know more. Dig deeper.

Natasha's beautiful. Her eyes find you from all the way across the room. You know the world is watching, and you know it's watching her.

. . .

Nothing about this is different, you tell yourself.

You still helped her suit up for the mission. You still picked the best weapons, argued about the model, tried to give instructions despite being aware she knows better, anyway.

You're still guiding her through the mission. It doesn't happen often, but it happens, especially in situations where she uses one of your weapons. 

The combat neural link has made a comeback. It's working smoothly, activating at the right moments, only taking a split millisecond to react to the input it gets. You're proud — after that catastrophe at SHIELD's black site, you've made it your mission to figure out every weak spot of the tool. 

It worked. 14 prototypes later, Natasha's wearing a version you'd consider almost flawless.

It isn't flawless — it's still tech, after all. But the chance of the link misfiring, malfunctioning in any way, has been lowered so tremendously you barely have to worry anymore.

You watch her through a little screen. You keep an eye on the neural link status. She slips through a hallway and unlocks a door. 

Nothing is different. Aside from the five people fighting alongside her now.

It's one of SHIELD'S power facilities, located in rural Germany. Inside of it is an energy system derived from the original Tesseract. It's not cosmic energy, but it imitates it, and though everyone tried to keep this piece of information as confidential as possible, it got out.

When Fury caught wind of HYDRA scientists planning to destabilize the experimental energy core, he called the Avengers to take a look at it. You couldn't just stay behind. You packed your stuff — toolbox included — and hopped onto the jet with them. 

The mission is going well so far. The neural link is doing its job. Minimal visual distortion and maximal resilience to the increasing pressure.

If only it weren't for the time running out. 

"Hurry up", you press, eyes on the screen. You watch Natasha take down a HYDRA agent. "You've got three minutes max."

"Hey, Point Break."

You get distracted by Stark speaking into the comms. You search the screens in front of you and find him in one of the control rooms. He's analyzing the documents he found on one of the computers.

"You found something?", you ask.

"Ionic patterns. These ones resemble cosmic energy, like the one Blondie summons with that hammer of his."

Something rustles. "I don't 'summon' energy", Thor says.

"Whatever. Point is, get your ass into the core chamber."

You look at the measuring device again. Systems are glitching, telemetry is spiking. The EM levels are through the roof. Not too long, and the entire infrastructure is collapsing.

Their biggest hope is Thor. You haven't figured out the mechanics of his hammer yet — but based on what Stark is saying, it sounds promising. 

He'll be the primary stabilizer. He'll stand in the worst of the EM interference, lift his hammer, and pull the excess energy into the ground. In theory, it'll be enough to keep everything from crashing. 

"This isn't going to work", you say. "This is a Tesseract replica. Lightning works different. The electric fields need to be damn near identical."

"Ion patterns", Tony repeats. "That's all we need."

The air is humming, buzzing. The static is interfering with every system present in the van you're in. You press buttons that don't do anything anymore, check data that stopped updating. You can't do anything. 

"Manual override", Natasha says, finger on her combat neural link. "Don't want it fried."

You bite your tongue. It won't get fried, you almost said. Are you doubting me? Are you doubting what I created?

But she's right. In just seconds, the surge could cause them to abort the mission. She disables the neural link and, with great disappointment, you watch your tablet's screen go black. 

Thor moves into the middle of the EM interference. You stare at the only screen that survived, watching the energy bundle and stream into his hammer. Anchoring the surge, Mjölnir shoots the energy straight into the ground. 

No suits, no weapons or tools needed. Just a god and his hammer, controlling something that would've had all of your gadgets bursting. 

You sink into your seat, staring at the screen begrudgingly. It's envy. It's subtle, but it's there. You've spent years trying to perfect the technology Natasha's sent on missions with, but ancient magic will beat it every time. No power cell could do that.

The Norse god is beaming with pride. He keeps the energy under control until Tony stabilizes the energy core, then he gently streams it back. 

In front of you, the screens flicker back to life. Buttons light up and devices start humming. You hear your intercom rustle. 

"Status?", Natasha asks. 

"They did it", you say, clipped. "Stark's idea. It...worked. They used Mjölnir to anchor the surge."

"Mission accomplished", she mumbles, activating her neural link again. 

Days later. Only the emergency lights are on in Research and Development.The lab is dim and empty, silent aside from the gentle humming of your devices. 

A screen is lit. There's a pile of notes scribbled onto creased paper next to you. Project MJ-0 — your newest and most shameful one by far. 

You're not inventing. You're copying. And it's not even a good copy. 

You don't understand the hammer enough to make a replica of it. You know it channels electromagnetic energy, and that it's made from uru metal. It emits gravitons. Theoretical physics, which is easy enough — if it weren't for the Asgardian magic aspect. 

You can't copy magic. You try anyway, even when the system melts and power feedback loops. Even when it starts sparking. Even when you feel the envy turn into desperate anger. 

You're spiraling quietly. You don't notice Natasha walk in, barefoot and with a jacket over her shoulder, lip still split from being punched. 

"Hey, Hachi."

You don't flinch. You're too exhausted to do so. You wipe your forehead and wince, singed fingertips stinging. 

Damn it, you were supposed to pick her up. 

"I missed it?"

"Don't beat yourself up over it." She steps closer and looks over your shoulder. "That's new."

You smell her. Sweat, blood, perfume. You want to crawl into her skin and hide from the monstrosity lying on your workbench. Instead, she's looking at it. 

"MJ-0", she reads. "Is that a hammer?"

You rub the back of your neck. Denying it is pointless. "Uh-huh, yeah. I'm just trying something."

Natasha goes quiet for a second. You swear you can hear her brain whir in sync with the machines in your lab. 

"You're not supposed to be a god", she then says. 

"I'm not trying to be", you snap. You're mean when you're tired and frustrated. "It'd be useful. You saw it, back in Germany. That energy core..."

She watches you, silent and contemplative. You stop talking. She puts her hands on your hips and her chin on your shoulder. 

"Mistake number one: trying to turn divination human", she mumbles. You exhale. "Mistake number two: not accounting for the way the material affects the electromagnetic waves. Did you adjust for permeability?"

You go silent. Natasha chuckles and kisses your neck, finally grabbing your hand to turn you around. You fold your arms around her waist and slump into her. 

"I'm tired."

"I know", she murmurs, lips against your shoulder. "2am, love. How long have you been at it?"

In order to not get yourself killed, you shrug. In reality, you've been getting an average of 3.5 hours of sleep a night. 

"A few hours. Wanted to stay longer to pick you up in the hangar, but..." You exhale. "I'm sorry."

She pulls away enough to tip your head up with her finger. She studies the dark rings under your eyes, the defiant exhaustion in your face, and sighs. 

You're hopeless. She is, too. Her mouth presses against yours, tasting faintly of blood, and you make a soft noise of relief. There's something  that won't end in a disaster at least. Something you still have control over. 

Natasha gets on her tiptoes. Her fingers slowly slide the hair tie off, mess up the strands that have grown so much in the past half year. 

Fingertips tug at buttons, at zippers. Your hands feel smooth skin, occasionally marred by old scars, and a bandage too. You tug her closer. You turn around and lift her onto your workbench. 

Legs wrap around your waist. You slip your fingers down her front until they're met with cotton. 

You're in your lab, with security cameras and guards patrolling the hallways. It's not the place for it, and you know it. You've been caught one time too many — Fury's birthday party, in the hangar after everyone else had left, curled into the couch of the seemingly empty rec room. 

Oh well. Your hand is in her underwear already. 

She moans into your mouth, hips rocking slowly. You slip a finger in, hoping nobody is going to walk past your lab, and curl it just right. 

This has always been your favorite experiment — finding out which spots, which movements, lead to the desired outcome. There are no defined variables, but in this case, it doesn't bother you. 

You add another finger, then two. Her hips buck, mouth parting from yours. She's panting quietly. Her hands are looped around your neck to keep you within kissing distance.

"Mission went well?", you mumble, going faster. Slick sounds fill the air and drown out the machines in the background.

"Yeah", she confirms, forehead dropping against yours. "No major- injuries. Fuck..."

"Paul did his job?"

She nods, unable to speak. Her hips are moving in sync with your hand. Each time she rolls her hips, the workbench squeaks quietly. 

Your thumb circles her clit. Natasha moans, clenching around your fingers when she comes. 

It's a replication study, and one that — once again — confirms your previous results. You laugh, tired and much happier than you were trying to figure out the mechanics behind that stupid hammer, and kiss her shoulder. 

. . .

"I already told you no."

"But-"

"Ms Y/L/N", Fury says, finally turning around. You've been following him through the hallway like a pathetic puppy. "You know the rule — don't bite off more than you can chew. You're one of my most competent people, but I cannot see this ending well."

You stare at him, eyes defiant. He's holding a cup of coffee. Steam rises, curling in the air, and he gives it a gentle blow.

"Now let me finish my coffee", he adds. "It's not often I get to enjoy it hot."

He turns around again. He keeps walking. You scoff, then go back to following him. Your steps are determined, heavy boots thudding in the silence of the hallways.

There's a reason you and Natasha work so well. You're stubborn — you challenge her. Unfortunately, you challenge Fury as well.

"She will manage fine without it", he says. "Have you seen her fight?"

"Yes, I've seen her fight! It's just-"

"No. Have a good night."

The door to his office slams shut in front of your nose. You stand there, taken off guard, before finally retreating. 

It's a good idea. Brilliant, even. It's risky — you're aware there are even more dangers attached than you're used to. In your mind, the benefits outweigh the risks. That's all you need to know. 

The neural link is almost optimized. Almost. You were taught not to strive for perfection. It never ends well. Your professors were particular about making sure you know that. 

Yet, you're here. At the HQ instead of in your bed. Tinkering with the stupid neural link instead of finally picking out a ring. 

You're not sure she'll say yes. Having Natasha say no would be more embarrassing than all your gadgets crashing at once. Shooting for the stars — it's what you do best. This time, she's the stars. She's what seems unreachable, impossible, despite sharing a bed with her every night.

Suddenly, the stars seem intimidating. You've survived explosions, tech bursting into flames, but a rejection from her? It might kill you. So you're sticking to the neural link.

It's not a neural link anymore, technically. It's an upgraded variant. And instead of just being the one who creates it, you're part of it this time. 

In theory, it's simple. Instead of having to stabilize the link externally, you'd be using the very thing that created the neural link — something that science cannot replicate, not fully. Something that's as risky as it is promising.

(Your brain is telling you something else, funny enough. Again, you can't see the risks outweighing the benefits.)

Routing the neural link through a second human nervous system would get rid of a tiny, yet impactful, flaw. Adjusting the device from a distance isn't fast enough. Sometimes, the system lags by milliseconds. Those milliseconds could get Natasha killed. 

The solution? You take the overflow. Every exposure she suffers — cosmic energy, EM bursts — hits you instead. When something goes wrong, you take the damage. Partially synced nervous systems, which would let you feel her pain. 

She has no clue about this yet. You've only finished the first prototype of the stabilizer. The first test run was promising, despite the overflow of energy almost making you black out for a second, and you're confident that you could get this done in less than a year.

If it weren't for Fury, of course. You walk into the changing room, take off your coat, grab your hoodie. 

The tower is empty and quiet this time of the night. 3am is that sweet spot between night owls and early birds. You get to walk out the elevator and enter a silent common area.

Your plan was to spend most of your time in your apartment. That's changed. Natasha might be on a mission, but on nights like this one — when you need a lab available 24/7 — residing in the tower is practical. 

You unpack in the room you share with Natasha. The bedsheets are smooth, looking untouched. You kick off your boots and grab one of the shirts she left here. 

Ten minutes later, you're on your way downstairs again. You hold your keycard against the scanner and the door to the lab opens silently. Bright LED lights flood the room. 

'Welcome, Ms Y/L/N', JARVIS says. As soon as you reach the workbench, it adjusts to your height. 'What lighting do you prefer tonight?'

"Dim it a little", you say absently, putting down a stack of papers and notes. "Crank up the heater too. It's freezing down here."

'As you wish.'

You feel the temperature rise to a more pleasant level. You spread out your notes and scan them, quickly figuring out which tools you'll need. JARVIS sends an automated trolley your way before you get to say it out loud. 

You hum in acknowledgment. The stabilizer is outside its case now, lying on the workbench. It looks virtually indistinguishable from the neural link — all you did was change the color, but the main aspects stayed the same. 

You work quietly. Energy overflows. Feedback regulation. Brain waves. Neural damage. An issue too big to ignore. 

It's more complicated than the neural link, but you already knew that. Synching two nervous systems, turning them into what is essentially a closed-circuit, interpersonal neural bridge with no exit point, is not something you take lightly. 

'If you don't put a limit on the energy overflow, you could-'

"No", you cut him off. "I'll figure it out."

'But ma'am-'

"JARVIS, I'm fine."

The AI system shuts up. You scoff quietly, drawing another sketch, trying to figure out which part is missing. The energy overflow — unfortunately, that is your biggest issue. Not only neural damage is a possible risk, but so are seizures and loss of consciousness. It'd affect Natasha's performance as well, which is why you need to find a way to automatically break the connection in case something goes wrong.

Death is a possibility, too. You realize it with your palms slowly coming to rest on the surface of the workbench. 

"JARVIS?", you say. The room lights up a little. "Initiate a couple simulations for me, please."

'Of course, ma'am.'

A light blue, almost neon, hologram appears in front of you. You see Natasha, and yourself, depicted as little avatars. They're labeled — output and input. Natasha's the output. Any kind of overflow she suffers flows into you instead.

You stand there and watch, a pencil between your teeth. You've chewed through the wood before, which resulted in a bunch of agents making fun of the graphite all over your teeth.

Simulation one. Mild overflow of cosmic energy. Her avatar doesn't even flicker, and neither does yours. Risk of injury is very low, risk of death is close to zero. You're satisfied.

Simulation two. A sudden burst of EM waves. Slightly above average impact, but too abrupt for the stabilizer. Her avatar flickers this time, barely, and yours flickers violently. Risk of injury is high, risk of death is low. You hum, the pencil resting between your front teeth.

Simulation three. Cosmic energy, again. This time, it's both sudden and high in impact. You watch your avatar get close to crashing, and before the simulation can end and predict the injury outcome, you swipe your hand and force it to stop.

'Do you want me to generate a summary of the results?'

You ignore JARVIS. You're still staring. The avatars are gone, and all that's left is the homepage Tony designed for his holographic system. You know what the result for that last simulation would've looked like. Risk of injury: very high, risk of death...

"I should start charging some kind of fee."

You whip around — you're in a building with five people, but somehow, you forgot to account for the probability of someone walking in on you. You quickly take the pencil out of your mouth.

"You know, I have a schedule hung up right outside", he says, walking up to the desk. He glances at your notes. "Shame nobody ever uses it. That looks neat. What is it?"

"Confidential", you say, sweeping the notes into your arms. "You're working on something? Or why are you up at the crack of dawn?"

He ignores your question. He leans against the workbench, which has adjusted to his height now, and looks at you. It hasn't been that long. He's starting to understand you, anyway, and you don't like that. "I'm not sure Romanoff would appreciate what you're doing."

You bristle. He did see the notes. At least, he saw enough to figure something out you haven't dared touch yet. Natasha would never approve of this. 

"Not sure what you're talking about", you say curtly.

"A stabilizer", he says, turning around to boot up the holographic system again. "Your neural link is brilliant. I don't say this lightly. Using a human nervous system to stabilize it sounds like a surefire way to catastrophe, though."

You raise your eyebrows, staring, not saying anything. He pauses.

"You're smart enough to know that", he adds.

Being called out by another scientist stings more than having Nick Fury, director of SHIELD but not nearly as well versed in what you do, kick your butt over it. The idea of Tony weaponizing your relationship with Natasha is on an entirely different level, though. 

"This isn't your issue to deal with."

"Are you sure?" He looks at you. "Romanoff is part of the team now. Anything that concerns her concerns me as well."

You have to remind yourself not to get into a fight. It took long enough for the two of you to get along — way too long, if you're being honest, and Natasha doesn't shy away from reminding you about that, either — and though the foundation is solid enough, you're not sure you'd want to risk even a hairline crack in it.

Aside from that, Natasha's also found herself a team here. Something like a family, maybe, though you'd always hoped you'd be enough. You aren't, and that's okay, but that also means you can't risk that feeling of companionship you've achieved.

"Fury is involved", you say. "Everything goes through him first. So don't fret too much." 

Tony hums. His back is turned towards you, a black undershirt exposing small scars and bruises. He's listening, but his attention is split. His new project has been taking up quite some space in his head. 

It's for the better, though. The likelihood of him seeing through your lie is lowered drastically.

. . .

"He has a crush on you."

"Bullshit."

"He does", you insist, rolling an apple between your palms. "What's with all the 'ma'am' bullshit? Like he's straight out of the military."

Natasha's lips twitch. It's a small room — tiny, more of a cubicle than anything else — so she's sat on the floor looking at some new ideas you've been wanting to present to her. There are all kinds of gadgets displayed on the screen in front of her, but you're keeping a secret from her. 

"He is", she says, zooming into the picture of a hair tie. "What's this?"

"Turns into handcuffs. See the thing on the side?" You lean over, double tap the screen, then nod at the image. "Enlarges and hardens once wrapped around something."

"Filthy."

You grimace slightly and take the tablet from her. Close the program, shut off the device. Natasha sits cross legged and watches you get up. One step, then two, turn into slow pacing.

"It's a good gadget", she says. "Just not practical. By the time I get it around someone's wrist..."

"Yeah, yeah." You give a dismissive wave of your hand. "I know that."

Of course you do. She's aware you'll sometimes come up with things just for the sake of it. She's been spending so much time with the Avengers, too — you've got to kill time somehow.

The result is a plethora of gadgets you know will never see the light of day. You're showing them to her anyway, just in case she looks at one and sees something she never knew she was missing.

It wouldn't be the first time, either. You watch her closely during missions. You log into the computers in the data room and read the protocols. You find the bigger problems, the smaller issues, you piece them together until they make a picture you can decipher. 

Natasha isn't a fan of that. She thinks it's thoughtful, yes, and she appreciates that someone actually has her in mind instead of the mission. Your main goal isn't success — it's making everything as safe and easy for her as possible. Still, she thinks she tells you enough. At night, you'll lay in bed and listen to her give you summaries of whatever mission she went on that day, issues included. There's no need for more research.

"You've been working a lot", she remarks. You pause, back turned toward her. "When's the last time you went home?"

You slowly look at her. "I go home every night."

"No", she says. "You go to the tower. You don't go home."

No response. You stare at her, not blinking, not saying anything. She raises her eyebrows, trying to keep her face neutral.

"There's dust on the pillows."

"It's only been a week", you try to defend yourself. So what if you've been spending extra time at the tower? It has a lab. Your apartment doesn't. "It's not like you're home a lot, either."

"You're drowning yourself in work, Y/N."

"For good reason", you say, voice rising. "Do you think I like worrying about you? No! It helps to know I'm doing something."

"There's no need to raise your voice", she says simply. "It's an observation, isn't it? You're familiar with those. You don't go home anymore. You work too much."

You refuse to look at her. She steps closer, hand hovering just in front of her body, fingertips stretched out. Then, she pulls away just before she can touch you. 

Many things are cause for the alarm bells going off inside her head — your constant absence. The dozens of hours spent in Tony's lab you've managed to accumulate already. Your refusal to tell her much. You never updated her on your work a lot, but whenever she asked, you delivered. 

"What's going on with you?"

"Nothing", you say weakly. "It's just been a lot, okay? With you joining the Avengers and whatnot."

Her expression doesn't change. "I know that. It's affected you, too."

"It has."

"Do you want out?"

You look up, at her face, and she tilts her head. What an outrageous question — she knows it, too. Yet, she's not backtracking on her question. 

"No!" You frown. "I don't. Are you kidding?"

"Good", she says. Her hand reaches out again, and instead of pulling back, it grabs yours. "I'll still need you to take more breaks."

"As if", you scoff. 

"You look like Banner after one of his episodes."

Heat floods your face. Natasha smirks, her free hand reaching up to adjust the hair framing your face.

"Hope that's motivation enough", she says. You don't even notice how she's started to lead you out of the room. "So, what have you been working on that it's sucking away your time like this?"

There's the question you've been dreading. She knows you're working — and whatever your next project is, it must be of great value to you. Otherwise, you wouldn't continue to throw yourself into it headfirst. 

"Can it be a surprise?", you ask, holding open a door for her. 

"I'm not fond of surprises."

"It's a surprise", you insist. "It'll be worth it."

She furrows her eyebrows, not quite believing you but not willing to argue, either. The hallway stretching out in front of you is long and bustling with agents, too, so that discourages her from asking more questions. 

You send her off with a kiss. Natasha doesn't lean into it as much as you're used to, but you shift the blame onto something else. Anything else. 

The moment you're back in your lab, you start gathering files and sketches and data. You clear the hard drive, look for all the prototypes lying around. You know how to do your research — but so does Natasha, and she's much better at it, too. 

If it only weren't for Tony. You could blow the entire place up, and he'd still know enough to get you neck deep in trouble. 

. . .

"Either you tell her, or I will."

It's been weeks. Not much has changed, aside from the small leaps of progress you've been making on the stabilizer. The current version is almost ready for its first on field test. 

You barely look up from your coffee. You didn't sleep well — everything is weighing heavy on your mind, everything, from the conversation with Natasha to the last simulation you ran with the stabilizer. It's early morning now, and you're curled into the couch with Tony continuing to stress you out. 

You shift, fingers tugging at the plaid pajama pants you're wearing. They aren't yours. You grabbed the wrong pair while reaching into the clean laundry. 

"I really don't want to do this right now."

"What a coincidence, neither do I." He brings his cup to his mouth and takes a long sip. "It's inevitable, though. As inevitable as either of you dying if you don't get your shit together, Y/L/N."

"Who's dying?"

You whip around. Steve's in the doorway, holding the almost empty coffee pot you left behind. You sink into the cushions again, not even glancing at Tony. 

"No one", you mutter. 

"Us, maybe", Tony says. "Gear up, Rogers. We're headed to a nice little fortress."

"Someone drank all the coffee. I'm not leaving without a coffee."

"Today?", you ask. "Really?"

Both of them look at you. You know they wouldn't believe you if you told them you had plans. All your plans involve either Natasha or a lab, and since the former will be along for the ride, you will, too. 

"I have plans", you add. 

"Lab's closed", Tony says, getting up. "What's the face for? Don't tell me you have actual plans."

"A reservation", you say, voice sharper now. "Tonight. Asshole."

He lifts his hands. "Don't shoot me, agent. Romanoff is joining us, so I'll assume that interferes with your plans?"

There it is — the confirmation he knows more about you than you'd like. You bite your tongue, trying to keep yourself from muttering insults at him, when — speak of the devil — Natasha rounds the corner to walk straight into what looks like an interrogation. 

She must've just gotten out of the shower. She's toweling her hair dry, the top on her damp in a few places. She keeps her face neutral enough in order to not scare you off. You look up, holding eye contact as she makes her way to your side.

"Romanoff", Tony says. "You have plans?"

"Plans?", she asks. You cup her hip. "I'm not interested in lunch with you, Stark."

He shoots a smirk at you. "See? No plans."

"I was meaning to ask", you say, again stopping yourself from cursing at him. "You have a knack for ruining things, don't you."

"It'd be tragic if she couldn't join our mission due to a dinner reservation is all", he says. "Ordered by the boss himself."

That catches her attention. She looks up, her thighs resting against the armrest of the chair you're in. 

"Were you going to tell me about either?"

"I just said I was about to ask", you argue. Natasha turns around, a small smirk on her face, and briefly cups your chin. She turns back to Tony. 

You slump into the armchair. It's hopeless, you're realizing. Your plans will fall flat, and you'll spend your day in a fortress in some forest.

"What's it about?"

"We're undercover", he reveals. "Big fortress in Germany, somewhere near Berlin. A posh little gala, rotating around the world. They do this multiple times a year, it's full of upper class morons."

"Intriguing."

"Dangerous", you mutter. His way of describing this irritates you. 'Upper class moron' is a term that fits him just as well. 

"They've been drawing attention to themselves for a while now", he continues. "Unstable energy sources meet tech black market. Illegal experiments too, it seems. SHIELD has gathered enough information to warrant us snooping a little. So, your pick — it's either this or another boring chicken piccata."

Dangerous — and messy. You knew the second they proposed this great idea, something they sold as a mission to save the world, that it'd all go to hell eventually. Six super powered humans in one team, dedicated to the earth's protection. 

Of course, Natasha is in the middle of it all. She had to be. No other agent comes close to her, or her abilities. 

"I like chicken piccata", you mumble. Natasha reaches behind her to squeeze your arm. 

"We'll postpone the reservation", she says. "Stark has connections, and he's very happy to help us out."

"I am?"

You lift your head enough to look at him. He sighs dramatically, knocks back the rest of his coffee, and then gives a begrudging roll of his eyes. 

"I am very happy to help you out", he says. "Ecstatic. Can we go now?"

You exchange a look with Natasha. Ten minutes later, you're back in Stark's armory, surrounded by trick arrows and Chitauri guns they snatched during the Battle of New York. 

Only this time, you're not talking. Your brain is running at light speed. Scenarios fill your head, options, possibilities. Unstable energy sources and tech black market, that's what Tony said. It's exactly what you've been specializing in recently, with the neural link and the stabilizer, but that doesn't manage to reassure you.

Natasha has no idea the stabilizer exists, of course. That doesn't mean it can't be useful. It's in your left pocket, in its little case, waiting. You turn around to reach for her Glocks. 

Cold fingers brush at your neck. You don't flinch. Part of you anticipated her to touch the link housing you made them put in you. The skin surrounding it is still irritated from the last test you ran with the stabilizer. 

"You should let Banner take a look at this."

"I have a doctor", you dismiss.

"Bruce is good at what he does", she says, scanning the shelves. "What do you think, genius?"

"Widow's Bites, concealed. Comms, concealed. Your Glocks can go here", you tap her upper thigh, "and I'll get you some sort of energy manipulation tool. Can't forget the neural link."

"Of course", she teases. 

"You'll be thanking me later", you say. She runs her thumb along your jaw. "Be careful, alright? We have a dinner reservation to get to."

She squeezes your chin, but she doesn't spare you any words of reassurance. Natasha tends not to do that — nothing she does is predictable, and she'd rather not promise something she can't keep. 

The moment you step out of the Quinjet, you reach into your pocket to plug in the stabilizer. 

. . .

A marble floor stretches out beneath her high heels. The champagne flute in her hand was almost forced on her, a short man with a prominent nose insisting she 'only try a little bit.'

She's out of place here. The others are, too — except for Tony, who's managed to both criticize and approve of the details whilst also calling it all boring. 

"Boring", he repeats into the comms. You're stuck in your van, of course. You're also stuck listening to him go on and on about interior design choices. 

"There's a man to your left who just mentioned the Tesseract energy system in SHIELD's power facility", you tell him. "Might want to check that out."

"You think they'll just tell me?" He sighs, the champagne in his hand swirling.

"No", you snap. "That's your job. Tricking him into telling you. Fuck, Stark, if you-"

Natasha's comms flicker back to life. You silently thank the gods and press the button that connects you to her again.

"Language", she teases. You sink against the control panel in front of you. "I'm on the east side of the building, located near the staircase. It leads to an array of doors. Looks intriguing."

You check the security cameras you hacked into. An unpatched software — a mistake many wouldn't notice, but one that made it much easier for you to access the live feed. You find Natasha in the very location she described to you. 

The stairs lead to a sort of gallery and the multiple doors she mentioned. The spacing between them is equal. There are no signs, no indications of what the difference between the rooms they lead to is. Only one thing separates one from the other, and that's the pictures hung up on each of them. 

 "I wouldn't go up there", you warn her. 

"Take it easy", she says, strolling past the staircase. "Can you see what's in the pictures?"

You squint your eyes. "None of them make sense. You know that Garden of Eden painting we saw in that one book? These are similar. Just...animals. Looks very harmonious."

"They're all different?"

"All different."

Tony's comm lights up. You excuse yourself and switch back to him. 

"About the Tesseract energy system..."

You pause. He clears his throat, and you find him on one of the security camera feeds right as he stops in the middle of the room. 

"We came right on time."

"What do you mean?", you stress.

"This isn't just a party", he says, quietly adding: "A boring one at that. No, they're about to cut off Berlin's entire power supply. They'll redirect it to their own energy system. It's a copy of a copy, imitating cosmic energy, which, just like Fury said, is incredibly unstable. They don't have the information necessary to make any of it safe. One wrong move and..."

The thoughts start streaming again. You stand there, eyes on the screen, hands pressed firmly to the narrow ledge beneath the control panel. The Tesseract-derived energy system itself isn't stable enough to consider it a safe source. A copy of a copy — you've seen it before. It didn't end well. 

"We all blow up."

"Pretty much."

You nod, running calculations in your head. The screen spits out the intel Tony and all the others have gathered. The host of the party is a powerful man, a prominent figure in the tech black market and the very person who's been planning this for a while now. Berlin was a deliberate choice, as the Tesseract energy system made rounds in secret forums soon after SHIELD brought it to life. Of course this would be their target.

"What's their goal?"

"Use the power to kickstart the reactor in the basement. Everything else is unclear."

"It makes no sense", you say, scanning the text and images on the screen in front of you. "Why throw a party? There are so many guests here, I don't think they're all involved in this. If something happens, they're risking the lives of over a hundred people."

Collateral damage — the term pops up in your head the second you stop talking. You scan the security live feeds again to find all the Avengers, and sure enough, none of them are alone. Not anymore.

It's right as you spot the men lurking near them that Natasha's comm lights up. 

"We're being followed."

"I just realized that", you say. "How long has it been?"

"Fraction of a minute", she says. Makes sense, you realize. She told you the second it started happening, because that's how long it takes for her to notice these things. "What's the verdict?"

Your finger blindly presses the button that connects everyone's comms. Six voices talk over each other, then, they all go quiet. 

"We're running out of time", you finally say. "We're talking magic space anomaly, amplified by Berlin's entire power supply. Based on what we know, the reactor is incredibly unstable. When weaponized, it can cause tremendous damage."

They all start talking over each other again. You manage to catch snippets of what they say. 

"Redirect Berlin's power supply..."

"Find the host and everyone involved before they reach the reactor."

"Too late. Someone is down there, waiting for a signal."

"We need to destabilize it", Steve says. 

"That's not enough. It can be restarted even after destabilization. You need to destroy it."

You watch Tony make his way past other guests. The live feed is a little grainy, but you catch the men staring at him anyway. He twirls through a crowd of people and edges past an older lady. 

"Y/L/N?", he says. "You might be useful down here."

"She's staying inside the van", Natasha says. "Barton, multiple contacts closing in on your position. Two behind you."

"Saw them."

"Moving", Steve says. "Don't blow cover yet. Banner?"

"Science backup", Tony mumbles. "Or hulks out. His choice."

It's turned into chaos. You're trying to give commands, keep it under control, but who are you kidding? — It's the Avengers. You knew they'd be unpredictable, unruly. They're messy. It's who they are. 

Instead, you're stuck staring at two dozen screens and listening to six superheroes mutter mission jargon like they're composing some sort of dictionary. You watch Natasha descend into the basement and silently panic. 

She's getting closer to the reactor now. Every inch — every fraction of an inch — could decide everything. If the reactor goes into overdrive, its environment will get destabilized. Seizures, cardiac arrests, death. You see every scenario clear as day. 

"Not too close", you warn her. She doesn't hear you over the other voices talking into her comms. 

"Will it reassure you if I don't get too close?", Tony asks, hiding in a corner to put on his Iron Man suit. "No pet names, though. Wouldn't want to push it."

You bite your tongue. He hums into his comms and makes his way to the reactor room. One hand lifted, his repulsor blasts the lock right off. 

"Nothing this baby can't blow up."

"Not the smartest idea doing that right next to an unstable reactor", you mutter. "Make sure you don't blow up Berlin on accident."

"Ever been here? Wouldn't be on accident."

"Alright you two", Natasha interrupts. "Hate to cut this short, but there are three men headed down the hallway."

"Engaging", Steve says. "Y/N, do you have access to the reactor?"

You shake your head. You've been trying to access it for the past half hour, but unlike the live security feed, it's secured properly. Good for them, bad for you. 

The only thing you can access is the amount of energy — cosmic, unstable — leaking into the environment. It's not a lot so far, barely enough to be picked up by the measuring device you had Banner put up inside the building, but you also didn't think you'd be able to measure it at all at this stage. 

The level is rising at a linear speed. You know the critical point. Once that is hit, the energy leak will influence its environments negatively. It'll be subtle at first, but if you don't shut down the reactor and destroy it, the level will keep rising until everyone in a 10 mile radius is dead. 

Tony's inside the reactor room. Right as he's about to reach the huge structure, something shoots at him from the side. He whips around, palms up, and propels it away from him. 

"Status update", you press. "What was that noise?"

Cursing, grunting, and the sound of metal clashing. You frantically search the screens until you find Tony in the reactor room, fighting another man in some sort of powered suit. 

"Shit!", you curse. 

"Code Red!", he says, groaning when he gets slammed backwards. "What is this suit, Jesus Christ-"

Tony gets catapulted straight out of the room. You curse again, pressing buttons and joining Steve in giving orders, but it's not going anywhere. Everything is going sideways, their cover is blown, you're dealing with something far bigger than you originally assumed — and now, the host has entered the reactor room.

It's Natasha who informs you. She's in the hallway right outside the room, hand on her Glock and her voice so quiet you barely hear her.

"He's in there", she says. "Status?"

"EM spike incoming", you reply, nervously watching her over the screen. "You're on your own, Nat. It's too risky. Disengage."

"On her own? Excuse me, I..." Tony wheezes. "I'm right here!"

"Oh please, he swatted you out of that room like a fly!"

"Play nice, honey", Natasha mumbles. "Eyes on target. Moving."

Your eyes flit across the screen until you find Bruce. He was your last hope — send him in with Natasha, help her, shut down the reactor and destroy it. He could've hulked out, too, and gotten rid of the host.

He has hulked out. He's still upstairs though, fighting against an army of security guards.

Thor is your next thought. During your last mission in Berlin, he used his hammer to pull excess energy into the ground. But the God of Thunder is outside the fortress, no comms in his ears, trying to sneak the innocent guests out and keep the others from escaping.

A mess, a mess, a mess. Your brain keeps repeating the same thing over and over again. What ends up breaking that loop is the alarm that goes off. It's the measuring device inside the building. The level of cosmic energy seeping into the environment has crossed the critical threshold.

Steve, maybe. How much does he know about cosmic energy and reactors? Not enough. It's a no.

Clint is a no as well. You try to send him in, anyway, but he's fighting off a couple of new guys. You recognize them as the servers carrying around trays of champagne and caviar.

You. The thought is unprompted and sudden. You're in charge of the van, but Natasha's inside the room now, trying to fight her way past the host and to the reactor.

You have no choice, you (somewhat reasonably) conclude. You jump out of the van, boots thudding against thick earthy ground, and start running. You're a mile away from the fortress, only your trusted tablet in hand.

"Y/N has left the van", Tony informs everyone, panting. "I got a notification from JARVIS. Hey Y/N, do you remember the plan?"

"Your plan is bullshit", you spit. "Have you made it into the reactor room?"

"Not quite. I am on the roof."

"Y/N, stay outside", Clint says. "We're getting it under control."

You want to laugh. The numbers on your tablet are very clear — the threshold has been crossed, the level is rising at a rapid pace. Natasha's right next to the reactor, in the middle of the upcoming surge. You're panicking. How could they get it under control?

Natasha's still fighting the host. He removed the reactor's safety limits, and the energy is on its way to building past safe capacity. 

She's in the eye of the storm. You're circling the fortress, your quest to enter as desperate as it is impossible. Too many people, not enough entry points. 

You can feel the energy spike. Even from outside, which should be outside the main danger zone, you feel it. The hairs on the back of your neck are all upright, your body is buzzing, the comms are crackling in your ear. 

Another rise in energy, and at this point, you're sure Natasha is bound to take a hit. Unless the reactor is shut off within the next minute, she'll suffer an overflow. 

She feels it, too. It's much more intense for her. She can barely think through the thrumming in her head. 

The stabilizer. It's your only option (is it?), your only way of keeping her safe. It's what it was made for. You press your fingers to the back of your neck and activate it. 

A click. The relief Natasha feels is immediate. She ducks away from the host just in time, barely escaping the pipe swinging at her head, but though the pressure in her body has vanished, something isn't right. The reactor is still running at full speed, after all, and the level of cosmic energy is about to spike. 

"Y/N", she suddenly says. You barely hear her through the crackling, through the pain that's taken over your body. "Y/N? Answer me."

It can't be a coincidence, and she knows it. You have some sort of involvement. You, your gadgets, the neural link at the back of her neck. She reaches for it and, without thinking too much, overrides it. 

It flips again. You straighten up, arms shaky, and swear silently. The overload feels more subtle again. You remember the manual override you implemented in the newest version of the neural link, something you thought would be a good addition. To you, it seems like the very thing that'll get Natasha killed. 

She cut the connection. You override the override, forcing her neural link back online. 

It happens right as the spike hits. Your body stiffens, every muscle locking, and your vision goes black.

. . . 

"We could've done it."

"Tony..."

"No, don't interrupt me. You don't get to interrupt me. What was she doing out there?"

You wake slow and drowsy. You're in pain. They filled you up with morphine and sedatives, put you in a sterile hospital room — and though you're exhausted in every way possible, the realization dawns on you. 

You survived. Something went wrong, yes, but you're alive. Alive enough to glance at the button they put in your palm, but not strong enough to press it. You try, but your hand is too numb to do anything, so you give up. 

You can hear the voices coming from the hallway, too. You have no idea where you are, but you know it isn't the medbay at SHIELD. If it were, you'd have at least one familiar nurse dancing around your bed and asking dumb questions. 

"Would you let it go? It's been two days. She did the wrong thing, we all know that. Just be glad she didn't die out there."

You want to reach for your comms to turn up the volume. You can't hear them. Your hand doesn't make it to your ear, but you also remember no one would let you keep your comms at the hospital. 

It wouldn't matter, anyway. The voices are gone. You're stuck in a silent hospital room, in a body that won't listen to you. You want to close your eyes again, but the door opens, and in walks the woman you've been dreading to see. 

First, she freezes. She didn't expect to see you awake. Then, she walks to your bed, stops right next to you. You glance up at her. 

"You could've died."

"I..."

"You almost died. I thought I had a choice. You took that away and almost died", she says quietly. "You promised me a manual override, Y/N. You never said you also implemented a backdoor for you to use."

You swallow, fingers weakly grasping at the blanket. "It's protocol."

"It's not", she says. "It's to keep some sort of control. But that's not how things work."

You shake your head. It was the only way. Natasha knows exactly what you're thinking, and she doesn't like it one bit. 

"The spike", you say, voice hoarse. 

"The spike wouldn't have happened in the first place if you hadn't intervened", she says. "Thor was grounding excess energy. The level was dropping. Your stabilizer disrupted the entire process, and it nearly killed you as well."

Your eyes shut — Thor. How could he possibly do it? But then you remember the hammer, the stupid hammer you couldn't even begin to recreate, and your head sinks into the pillow. 

"And the stabilizer...?"

She pulls out a fried little rectangle. You barely recognize it. A huff leaves you when you do — all this work only for it to end up like this. 

"You collapsed and started seizing", she begins to rattle down a list of things. "You had an irregular heartbeat. Banner had to go and use a defibrillator on you. They did a CT, an MRI, blood tests. They put you in a medically induced coma because you were at risk for another seizure. They have no idea how you're still alive. They said you shouldn't be alive."

You give her a weak look. Natasha stares down at you, not budging, but something in her eyes changes. They don't soften, no, but she feels pity and anger mix. You're alive — she's not going to mourn what she didn't lose. She once did, years ago when you got injured on the field, and it's something she won't do again. 

She reaches into her pocket again. What drops into your palm is small, round, and just as fried as the stabilizer. 

"They found this in your pocket."

Natasha sees the relief enter your system the moment you feel it. Your shoulders drop a little, the pain fades into the background, and you stare at the ring. 

Picking out a ring took weeks of your precious time, and the idea of choosing one — getting stuck with one — you don't love seemed daunting. You could never love a ring someone else made. No function, no personality, nothing to make it worth something. 

So, you designed your own. Of course, you made it functional as well. 

"It worked?", you ask, looking at her. She stares at the rings under your eyes and frowns. 

"What?"

You tap the ring, and her eyes snap back to your palm. "The ring. It's an energy absorber. It worked."

Her face does soften this time. It's brief, but it's there, and it's proof you did something right. 

"You made it."

"For you", you clarify. You close your eyes. "But you weren't supposed to see it yet."

Her lips twitch. She sighs and grabs the ring to take another look. It looks normal enough, but that's the thing — if it looks normal, and if it comes from you, it likely isn't normal. 

"It worked?", she repeats. "You almost died."

"It's not designed to withstand energy levels of that magnitude", you argue. "The fact it absorbs cosmic energy is already a huge step. I'll have to make a new one though, maybe tweak a few things, but-"

"Like hell you will", she cuts you off. "You're staying out of the lab for the next few months. Any lab. Fury knows about that, so don't even try to find a loophole."

You sigh, too tired to argue. You'll argue eventually, when you aren't dizzy and hooked to multiple medical devices anymore. IV fluids, something that measures your heartbeat and blood pressure and whatnot — plus, you're tired. Exhausted. And you don't want to disappoint Natasha more than you already have. 

"I want you to get rid of the stabilizer", she then says. Your jaw drops. "I don't want you to keep secrets under the guise of protecting me. Especially not if it'll get you hurt."

"It was necessary."

"Fury trusts you with everything", she says, "and even he shot that down. Stark said no. Do you know how stupid an idea has to be for him to say no to it?"

Your mouth shuts. She reaches out and brushes damp strands of hair from your forehead. 

"And if I don't listen?"

"Then I'll say no", she says simply. "Got it?"

You look at her, trying to battle through the mess inside your head. The Avengers may be messy, but so are you now, apparently. 

You manage to stare back for a solid few seconds before your eyes shut involuntarily. There's no way of challenging her right now. Natasha can't believe it, but she almost misses it. 

Her lips press against your temple, and her body curls up next to yours. It's a little hesitant for your liking, but her palm presses the ring against your chest, and you quickly forget about it. 

Shoot for the stars — it's what you do best. More often than not, it works out for you. 

[thewitchandtheassassin]

Photographs (Natasha Romanoff x Reader)

Summary: Kate & Yelena show Natasha a TikTok trend she just can't pass up (or "this is my idea for the TikTok trend of wives giving their partners sexy photos on their wedding day")

Warnings: Sexual photos, mentions of sex, body parts mentioned but no actual sex? implied butch!reader

Words: 2770

A/N: So I haven't abandoned my multitude of series. But grief and depression make for strange bedfellows so this is me trying to get my brain creative again.

-X-

Standing on the terrace of Tony’s countryside estate, the air was still chilly from the night before as you stared out at the people trickling in. It was obvious that the notion of the Black Widow getting married had attracted quite a bit of attention from SHIELD agents, heroes and friends alike.

Adjusting the cuff of your suit for the third time—(you weren’t panicking, okay?! You were just… making sure you didn’t look like a total idiot)—your head turned towards the sound of approaching footsteps. Yelena was grinning cheekily at you as she walked over. Natasha had chosen black and red—an ironic nod to their upbringing—for the maid of honor dress but it looked good on Yelena.

(And thankfully, it made choosing Kate’s “best man” suit that much easier to narrow down.)

“Nervous?” Yelena teased knowingly, settling beside you. “You look like a crab realizing it is in a pot of boiling water.”

“I’m not nervous,” you insisted, though the slight tremble of your fingers stripped away the lie before it could form.

“Uh huh,” she cooed, staring at you with a patronizing little smirk that only made your face warm. “Anyways—” she pressed a small Polaroid photo into your hand, her grin all teeth, “—first installment. Do not open it until I’m gone. Or do. I’m not your boss.”

She winked and sauntered back into the house, leaving you to your… gift.

Carefully flipping it over, your breath caught so hard in your chest that you immediately let out a wheezing sound that would’ve been embarrassing if anyone had been around to hear it.

Natasha was staring back at you.

She was positioned on what looked like a vintage chaise lounge, wearing nothing but a white garter belt and stockings, her legs crossed at the ankle. One arm was draped over her head, the red hair spilling across the upholstery. Her eyes were half-lidded, looking directly into the camera with an expression that made your stomach flip. Her breasts were obscured artfully by her knees, and only the neatly trimmed red curls above her mound visible.

The angle was incredible—but so goddamn frustrating. She was posed perfectly; artistic enough for a gallery, explicit enough to make your blood rush south immediately.

On the back, written in black ink: "One of five. Try to keep your hands steady while you say your vows. - N"

Gasping when you finally registered what you were looking at, you slammed the glossy image against your chest, glancing around to make sure no one else was around before—

You peeked back down at it, mouth so dry that your tongue felt like it’d turned into sandpaper.

“…holy shit,” you whispered.

You didn’t know how long you were standing there, just gawking at the stunning photo you’d been gifted, when a familiar whistle brought you out of the haze.

“Easy there, champ. You look like me when I see a new arc reactor blueprint”

Tony leaned against the terrace doorframe, already in his tailored suit, sunglasses perched on his nose despite the overcast sky. He held two glasses of orange juice, one of which he extended toward you. “Hydration. Big day. Can’t have you passing out before you say ‘I do.’” His eyes flicked down to the photo you were clutching.

You tucked the photo into the inner pocket of your tux jacket, accepting the orange juice. “Thanks.”

Downing the drink in two heavy swallows, it did nothing to calm your racing heart or sweaty palms.

“You good? You’ve got that ‘I’m about to spontaneously combust’ look going on.”

Exhaling heavily through your nose, you announced with a strange—for you—seriousness, “I am marrying the hottest woman alive and her hotness is going to kill me before I make it to the altar.”

Tony grinned, clapping you once on the back. “That’s the spirit.”

Photo Two:

Thirty minutes later, you were mingling with a few people you barely recognized, a handful of SHIELD agents whose names you didn’t know. They were babbling on about something and you were proud to say your libido had calmed down enough for you pretend like you cared.

…mostly.

Making another lap along the transformed garden, you found Kate sitting on the gazebo’s bottom step, dressed in a black pantsuit that looked like she'd borrowed it from someone twice her age. She looked up as you approached, a wide grin spreading across her face.

"Okay," she said, standing up quickly. "I need you to not freak out."

She patted her jacket pockets, searching. "Yelena already gave you one, right? Good. Because I have photo number two and I have been waiting all morning to give this to you." She finally found the photo, holding it out like a winning lottery ticket, ignoring your hiss to ‘put it down, Bishop’. "Natasha made me promise I'd give it to you before you saw her in the dress. She was very specific about that."

Kate stepped closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "She was blushing. Like, actually blushing when she showed me. I've never seen her blush before. It was—" She shook her head, laughing. "She's so gone for you. It's actually disgusting."

Snatching it from her, you turned the photo around to face you.

Natasha was standing this time, her back to the camera, looking over her shoulder. She wore a leather jacket and nothing else except a pair of black lace panties that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. The shot captured her mid-turn, the curve of her spine barely visible, the muscles in her shoulders and arms defined and strong. Her red hair was loose, cascading down over the leather in a way that felt way too obscene for something so innocent. The panties sat low on her hips, and you could see the dimples of her spine, the slight definition of her thighs. She was looking back at the camera with half a smile, one eyebrow raised. The confidence was palpable; the dangerous kind that came from knowing exactly what she was offering.

On the back, in that same handwriting: "Two down. Three to go. Try not to ruin your tux before the ceremony. - N"

Kate was watching you with barely contained delight. "Your face right now is absolutely priceless," she whispered.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you squeaked, shoving the photo into your jacket with the first, careful not to damage them. “…this woman wants me to have a heart attack. That’s what this is…”

Kate bounced on her heels, clearly riding the high of being part of whatever insane plan this was. "She's been in hair and makeup for two hours. I peeked in earlier and—" She shook her head, laughing. "You're so fucked. In the best way."

“Kate, I am already fucked. I… she…” you blew a short exhale, chuckling despite the ache tightening your lower belly.

Kate checked her watch. "Okay, real talk: you've got about forty minutes before you need to be at the altar. Tony's got the third one, but he won't give it to you until right before the ceremony starts. He's being dramatic about it."

She gave your arm a squeeze, her grip surprisingly firm and it was a reminder of how she’d earned her spot with Natasha’s team. "You've got this. Just don't pass out. Clint would never let you live it down."

Photo Three:

The altar stood at the edge of the estate's gardens, white fabric draped across a wooden arch wrapped in roses and baby's breath. The late morning sun cast dappled shadows through the canopy above, scattering light across the newly crafted stone pathway. Rows of white chairs stretched behind you, filled with faces you recognized and some you didn't—SHIELD operatives, Avengers associates, a handful of your own people.

Clint stood beneath the arch, wearing a charcoal suit instead of his usual gear. He looked almost dignified. He caught your eye and gave you a small nod, his expression warm and knowing.

Your hands were, in fact, shaking. You shoved them into your pockets to hide it.

"You look like you're about to storm a building." Tony materialized at your elbow, a slight smile playing at his lips. He was holding a champagne flute, still full, and in his other hand…

A Polaroid.

He didn't hand it over immediately. "She was very insistent that you get this one at the last possible second," he said. "Said something about 'peak anticipation.'" He handed you the photo, face down. "I've been sitting on this for an hour. It was physically painful not giving it to you early."

Turning your back to the gathering crowd, you glanced at the glossy image.

This time, Natasha was on her knees. The angle was from slightly above, looking down at her. She wore a white button-down shirt—you were fairly certain it was one of yours—unbuttoned completely, the fabric pulled off her shoulders so it pooled around her elbows. Her breasts were fully visible, her nipples hard and flushed. Her hands were resting on her thighs, hips thrust forward slightly.

The shirt was the only thing covering her, and it was barely doing its job.

Her face was tilted up, chin lifted, eyes locked on the camera with an expression that could only be described as desperate. Like she was worshipping whoever stood on the other side of the lens. Her lips were slightly parted, shiny with gloss, the corner of her mouth curved into the smallest smile.

She looked powerful and vulnerable at the same time, like a woman who could kill you with just her thighs but the kind of woman you wanted to kill you with her thighs.

On the back, the handwriting was messier this time, almost rushed: "I knelt for this one thinking about you on your knees for me. After the ceremony. After. - N"

You were so enamored with the sight, you didn’t realize your mouth was gaping… or that Clint was clearing his throat impatiently… or that the entire fucking wedding was waiting on you to turn the back around.

"(Y/N)," Tony stage-whispered from somewhere to your left. "You might want to pocket that before Clint shoots you with an arrow for making everyone wait."

Photo Four:

The walk back down the aisle was a blur of cheering faces, flying birdseed, and the heavy, intoxicating reality of Natasha’s hand in yours, walking with you—as your wife. The string quartet had seamlessly transitioned into an upbeat piece that felt more like a victory march than a wedding recessional, but honestly, they could’ve been playing Hot Cross Buns for all you cared.

You were fucking married!

The reception was set up on a sprawling terrace behind the main house, where a massive clear-top tent housed tables, a sprawling dance floor, and a bar that Tony had undoubtedly overstocked. Wait staff were already circulating with trays of hors d'oeuvres.

As soon as you crossed the threshold into the reception space, guests began to swarm, eager to offer congratulations. Wanda stepped through the gap of friends rushing to greet you both. She looked deeply amused, a knowing smile playing on her lips as she approached.

"Congratulations," Wanda said softly, looking between you with genuine affection. She’d been one of your biggest supporters throughout your entire relationship and this was the payoff she’d been hoping for. She embraced Natasha first, whispering something that made the redhead laugh, then turned to you.

She wrapped her arms around your shoulders for a brief hug and as she pulled back, you felt the distinct slide of a hand slipping directly into your outer jacket pocket. Her sleight of hand was flawless; no one else in the crowd noticed a thing. Or maybe it was magic. Truthfully, you had no clue anymore.

Wanda’s eyes flicked down to your pocket, then back up to your face. Her smile widened.

"Natasha said to tell you that this one requires... privacy," Wanda said quietly, ensuring her voice didn't carry over the music. "I would suggest the bathroom inside the house. I just checked. It is currently empty."

Natasha caught your eye from a few feet away, currently trapped in a conversation with Maria, but watching you with absolute knowing…and truthfully, you’d never felt more like a deer caught by a bear than in that moment.

Slipping away from the crowd, you wandered into the house and ducked into the east hallway. Tugging the photo from your jacket, you damn near swallowed your tongue.

Natasha was lying on dark sheets, completely naked, with her legs spread wide and knees bent. Her left hand was between her thighs, two fingers buried deep inside her dripping pussy. Thumb pressed against her swollen clit, you could see the way arousal clung to her knuckles, like she’d been touching herself for a while to get this shot.

She looked… hungry.

“Keep your hands to yourself during the speeches. - N” was scripted along the back of the photo, a warning and a tease all at once.

Photo Five (The Finale)

You didn’t remember dinner. Didn’t remember forcing down food you weren’t tasting while people gave speeches you didn’t hear. Why? Because you had four pictures of your gorgeous wife—the same gorgeous wife sitting beside you, one hand above the table, the other on your thigh—and one final one left.

When Natasha’s hand landed on your arm, you jumped. You’d been so lost in thought.

“Cake cutting time,” she murmured with a knowing smirk, arching a brow. “And don’t you dare smash it in my face.”

You chuckled, nodding seriously. “I know. You already told me we’d be getting an annulment if I do that to you.”

“Damn right. It’s archaic and stupid. I didn’t spend hours letting Wanda do my makeup just for frosting to ruin that.”

The cake was an ostentatious, three-tiered thing Tony had insisted on buying for the wedding and you’d just been so happy you were marrying Natasha that you never thought to question it. Both of you managed to cut a slice without a disaster—which, all things considered, that felt like a miracle—before Natasha’s hand touched your chest…

Sliding one final picture into your suit.

“Your final gift,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to your jaw. “Why don’t you take a look at it before the first dance? Because afterwards—” her hand smoothed over your shirt, “I want you to take me inside and fuck my brains out. Am I clear?”

Swallowing dryly, your head nodded so jerkily that you were fairly certain you looked like a bobblehead.

“…yes, ma’am.”

Turning your back to the room, you retrieved the pièce de résistance and shielded it with your body like it was a live grenade.

Natasha was straddling a black leather bench, her body slick with sweat. She was riding a massive, veiny silicone dildo, angle low and unforgiving, capturing the exact point of where it disappeared into her cunt. Her head was thrown back, red hair hanging in a messy tangle down her spine. One of her hands gripped the edge of the bench for leverage, knuckles white, while her other hand was clamped hard over her breast, her fingers aggressively pinching a tight, dark pink nipple. The sheer physical strain in her thighs and stomach made it clear she was driving herself down hard on the toy—

The noise that escaped your throat was inhuman. Like a pterodactyl getting shot out of the fucking sky. There was no way to describe the rush of arousal that rocketed through your veins.

“Like what you see?” Natasha teased, her lips close to your ear as she plastered herself against your side.

“…so fucking much.”

She laughed, the sound only spurring you on. “Come dance with me… then I’ll let you see that in person.”

Slipping the photo back into your jacket, you turned your head to look at your wife—this incredible, wonderful woman you’d never thought you’d deserved but somehow managed to keep anyways—and smiled. It wasn’t lustful or even heated, just… awed.

“I am so fucking in love with you, Mrs. Romanoff,” you breathed, cupping her jaw. “My sun and moon.”

Her expression softened as she leaned into your touch. “…my end and my beginning,” she answered just as quietly, eyes meeting yours. “Now, let’s have our first dance and then get the fuck out of here.”

In that moment, as great as the photos were, you knew there was never going to be anything better than the real thing—and now? The real thing was yours for life.

[verainviolet]

Phone Girl

Struggling!Natasha x Crisis Line!Reader

Summary: Natasha is at the edge of everything, but one phone call saves her life

Warning: mention of mental struggles and self harm, emotional distress, implied suicidal ideation, Natty trauma

W.C: 3.5K

A.N: there will be at least a second part to this, I’m craving soft bottom Natasha smut

The wind was loud up here, louder than it should be.

Or maybe it just felt that way.

It howled between buildings, sharp and restless, tugging at her clothes, and hair, as if the city was trying to pull her back—or push her forward.

Natasha doesn’t look down.

She learned long ago that looking down makes things… real. 

Final. 

The bandages were a quiet thing. The fading lines beneath them, quieter. She felt the weight of the white fabric every time she moved, every time she exhaled.

She watches the horizon—steady, controlled, like everything else she’s ever done. The skyline stretched endlessly.

The traffic hummed below.

Everything felt far away.

Muted.

Manageable.

Her breathing was even.

Too even to be standing on a ledge.

The edge of the building sat just beneath her booth. One shift of weight—barely anything—and gravity would take over. Not hesitation. No second chances

Simple.

Her phone felt heavier than any weapon she’s ever held.

She almost doesn’t press call.

Her thumb hovers the screen of a number she didn’t recognize.

Didn’t remember saving.

Didn’t remember needing.

She exhales sharply through her nose, like she’s bracing for impact.

It rings once.

Twice.

Then—

‘’Hey. I’m here.’'

Your voice isn’t scripted. It isn’t overly bright or rehearsed either. Just… there. Soft, grounding, like you’re sitting across from her instead of miles away.

Natasha doesn’t speak.

She swallows.

Nothing comes out.

She’s faced gods. Monsters. Entire armies.

But this?

It pins her in place.

You don’t rush to fill the silence.

You hear her breathing, and that’s enough for now.

‘’I can stay on the line,’’ you add gently a moment later. ‘’You don’t have to say anything yet.’'

There’s no pressure in it.

No expectation.

Just presence.

Her grip tightens on the phone.

‘’…You’re not going to ask where I am?’’ she finally says, voice low, almost edged.

‘’I can,’’ you reply. ‘’But I don’t need to, if that makes it harder.’’

That makes her pause.

People always need something. Information. Control. A way in.

But you didn’t.

‘’…Why’d you pick up?’’ she asks.

A small exhale on your end—almost like a quiet smile she can’t see.

‘’Because you called.’'

It lands somewhere deeper than she expects.

The city continues to hums beneath her, distant and irrelecant. For a second—just a second—it feels like the world has narrowed down to a single thread: your voice in her ear.

No judgement. No fear.

Just… steady.

‘’You sound tired,’’ you say after a while, softer now. Not prying. Not diagnosing. Just noticing.

Natasha lets out a breath that isn’t quite a laugh.

‘’You have no idea.’'

‘’Maybe not,’’ you admit. ‘’But you don’t have to carry it by yourself right now.’'

Something in her chest shifts. Not fixed. Not healed.

But… less alone.

She sinks down, slowly, carefully, until the edge isn’t right under her toes anymore.

Still there, though.

Just… not calling to her the same way.

‘’You still with me?’'

‘’…Yeah,’’ she murmurs.

Natasha looks around, spotting a sunbed.

She quietly walks over.

It's colder than she expected.

She leans back into it anyway, one hand wrapped around her phone like it might disappear if she loosens her grip.

The sky softens. Gold bleeding into orange, then something quieter.

She exhales softly.

You’re still there, waiting. Listening. And the faint sound of your breathing, steady and human.

It’s disarming.

‘’I moved,’’ she says after a while, almost like she’s testing the words.

There’s a small shift on your end, fabric brushing, like you’ve settled in more comfortably.

‘’That makes me glad,’’ you answer, gentle—no sudden brightness, no overwhelming relief. Just something warm and real.

Your voice does something strange to her. It doesn’t push. It doesn’t pull.

It stays.

‘’...I don’t know why I called,’’ Natasha admits, quieter now.

‘’It can be hard to reach out,’’ you say softly, as if it’s coming from a place of understanding.

A pause. Then, just as gently:

‘’…You always like this?’’ Natasha asks before she can stop herself.

‘’Like what?’’ you reply, a hint of a smile still tucked into your voice.

‘’Calm,’’ she says. ‘’Most people would be—‘’ she gestures vaguely, even though you can’t see it, ‘’—louder. By now.’'

You hum lightly, considering.

‘’I don’t think loud helps much,’’ you say. ‘’I’d rather meet you where you are.’'

There it is again.

That choice.

Natasha’s shoulders drop a fraction, tension she didn’t even clock loosening in the slow, careful increments.

‘’…It’s been a long time since I felt like this.’'

You don’t rush to define it for her.

You don’t label it.

‘’How does it feel?’’ you ask instead.

She hesitates.

Searching.

‘’…Heavy,’’ she says finally. ‘’Like everything I’ve ever done just… decided to show up at once.’'

There’s no flinch on your end. No sharp intake of breath. No judgment hiding behind silence.

‘’That sounds exhausting,’’ you murmur.

It’s so simple. So obvious.

And yet it lands harder than anything else has.

Natasha lets out a breath that trembles just slightly at the edges.

‘’…Yeah.’'

‘’You don’t have to sort through all of that tonight,’’ you add quietly. ‘’We can just sit with it. One piece at a time. Or none at all.’'

Another pause.

‘’You’re strange,’’ she says after a beat, voice softer, thoughtful rather than guarded.

There’s a small shift on your end again, like you’re settling into the moment with her.

‘’Yeah?’’ you reply lightly. ‘’I’ve been called worse.’'

A pause.

Then she adds, almost offhand, ‘’Phone girl.’'

It hands there for a second.

And then—you laugh.

It slips out before you can stop it, warm and a little amused, not loud but full enough that it carries through the line and wraps around her.

‘’Phone girl?’’ you echo. ‘’That sounds like one of those numbers people call when they’re trying to have a very different kind of conversation.’'

For a split second there’s silence—

—and then Natasha laughs.

Not forced. Not controlled. It catches her off guard as much at is foes you, low and real and a little rbeathless at the edges.

‘’Not what I meant,’’ she mutters, but there’s a faint smile in her voice now.

‘’Good,’’ you tease gently. ‘’Because I was about to say, I might need to redirect you to a different department.''

Another quiet laugh.

The sound of it lingers.

And you let it, before continuing.

‘’I mean… if you ever did want different kinds of conversations, I could probably give you a list of numbers—‘’

You start to ramble them off in a playful tone, deliberately a little over the top—

—and she cuts in.

‘’No.’'

It’s certain.

You pause.

‘’…No?’’ you repeat softly.

Natasha shifts in her seat, gaze dropping to her hands.

‘’I just want to talk to you right now,’’ she says, quieter now. Honest in a way she didn’t plan.

There’s a small silence on your end.

And even without seeing you, she can feel the way you smile.

It’s in your voice when you answer.

‘’Okay,’’ you say gently. ‘’Then it’s only you and me.’'

Something in her chest eases again.

No transaction. No passing her off. No disappearing.

Jus—

‘’—but if you want phone sex, we have to figure out a price.’'

Natasha blinks, a soft rumble in her chest as she laughs loudly.

She closes her eyes and leans back, biting her lip as she hears your sweet laugh.

You’re blushing a little on the other line.

Silence fills again.

Natasha listens to your breathing.

You listen to hers.

‘’…There was a time,’’ she starts, voice quiet, like whispering to a mouse, ‘’when I thought I didn’t get to have… this. Talking. Just talking.’'

You don’t interrupt.

You don’t rush her.

‘’…It’s not just one thing,’’ she says, the words coming from a place she usually keeps locked up. ‘’It’s… all of it. All the time.’'

You let out a soft grounding hum to let her know you’re there and listening.

She exhales, long and slow.

‘’I was trained to be empty,’’ she continues. ‘’Efficient. Useful. They took everything that didn’t serve that and…’’ A small pause. ‘’Got rid of it.’'

Her fingers tighten slightly around the phone.

‘’For a while, I thought that meant I didn’t have anything left in me that could… break.’'

A beat.

‘’I was wrong.’'

The city continues to hum faintly in the distance, like Natasha didn’t just open up her heart to a complete stranger.

You let a moment pass before you ask, gently, ‘’When did it start feeling like too much?’'

Natasha leans her head back, staring up at the darkening sky.

‘’…It didn’t start,’’ she murmurs. ‘’It just… stopped being quiet.’'

She swallows.

‘’I can handle missions. Pain. I know what to do with those.’’ A faint, humorless breath. ‘’There are rules. Objectives. You finish it, you move on.’'

Another pause.

‘’But this?’’ she adds, scoffing while picking at the laces in her boots. ‘’There’s no off switch.’'

You hear the shift in her breathing—just enough to tell she’s holding back more than she’s saying.

‘’That sounds exhausting,’’ you say, voice low and steady. ‘’Having you carry something that never really lets you rest.’'

‘’…yeah.’'

The word barely makes it out of her.

But it’s there.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

Then, quietly:

‘’Do you feel like you have to hold it all by yourself?’’ you ask.

It’s careful. Not assuming—just offering the space.

Natasha lets out a breath that almost shakes.

‘’I—I don’t know how not to,’’ she admits.

She bites her lip.

Hard enough to draw blood.

But she lets go just in time.

‘’I learned early,’’ she continues, voice distant now, like she’s watching memories instead of sitting in the present. ‘’If you rely on someone, that’s leverage. And leverage gets used.’'

Her jaw tightens.

‘’So you don’t rely on anyone,’’ you say softly, reflecting it back to her.

‘’Exactly.’'

Another pause.

‘’…But then it gets loud again,’’ she adds under her breath.

You don’t rush to fix it. You don’t tell her she’s wrong.

You just stay with her in it.

‘’What does it sound like?’’ you ask gently.

The question lingers in her phone.

Natasha closes her eyes.

‘’…Names,’’ she says after a while. ‘’Faces. Things I can’t undo.’’ Her voice dops lower. ‘’Things I was made to do before I even understood what they meant.’'

A slow inhale.

‘’And even after… I kept going… Different reasons. Same results,’'

You let out a breath, rubbing your eyes.

‘’That’s a lot for one person to carry.’'

She huffs out something that isn’t quite a laugh.

‘’I’m good at carrying things.’'

‘’I believe that,’’ you say. ‘’But that doesn’t mean you were meant to carry all of it on your own.’'

Silence.

Not empty—just heavy with everything she isn’t used to hearing.

‘’…You don’t even know what I’ve done,’’ she says.

‘’I don’t need to know every detail to hear how much it’s affecting you,’’ you reply gently. ‘’You’re allowed to feel the weight of it.’'

That lands.

She bites the inside of her cheek, turning onto her side, knees tucked to her chest.

Natasha holds the phone close to her ear like a child who’s reunited with their teddy bear.

‘’…There’s a ledger,’’ she says. ‘’In my head. Everything I owe.’'

A small, bitter edge slips into her voice.

‘’It doesn’t balance.’'

You take a slow breath on your end, letting your voice stay steady, present.

‘’Do you feel like you have to make it balance?’'

‘’Yeah.’'

An immediate and certain answer.

‘’Or else what?’’ you ask softly.

The question is quiet, but it opens something.

Natasha doesn’t answer right away.

When she does, her voice is smaller than it’s been all night.

‘’…Then what was the point of surviving it?’'

You let the words sink in, blinking slowly on the other side of the line.

You don’t rush to answer.

You stay.

‘’I’m really glad you’re here right now,’’ you say instead, gently. ‘’Talking. Staying.’'

A pause.

‘’Well, I’m really glad you answered.’'

Natasha swallows, gaze fixed on the bandages wrapping her arms.

‘’…Me too,’’ you admit.

The line stays quiet for a moment after that.

Natasha made a slight groan from the other side.

Your brows perked up.

‘’...I have to go,’’ she whispered. 

Her tone had shifted.

Like the words didn’t really want to escape her.

You can hear her chest rising and falling. Slow. Tired. Human.

‘’I- uh… I have to get ready for this thing.’'

Her words are clipped, careful, but soft.

You don’t ask for details. You don’t need to. You just let her speak at her own pace.

Then, quieter still, almost afraid she’ll lose it if she says it out loud:

‘’…What’s your name?’'

You stop whatever you’re doing and smile.

‘’Y/n…’’ it’s soft, very soft. As if you just said ‘yes’ to marrying her.

‘’…I’ll remember that,’’ she breathes, almost like she’s tucking it into herself.

The line gums in the silence that follows, weighted, warm, alive in the way only voices on the other end of a line can be.

Before you can ask hers, she hangs up.

Click.

And she’s gone.

But even in absence, she lingers. In the memory of her slow breaths, the quiet exhale, the careful way she let herself speak.

You sit back for a long moment, letting the silence settle around you, thinking—just thinking— how a single voice can stay inside someone long after it disappears.

Somewhere, you hope she’s thinking the same.

[ilovemarvel97]

The Heir’s Secret - Chapter 27

The Past

Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Summary: Y/N start to clean Alaric’s chambers.

Word Counter: 9,586

Warnings: Fluff, Angst, Mention of blood, Mention of torture, mention of child abuse.

Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist

---

---

Next Morning

The next morning, Y/N stood in front of Alaric’s old chambers.

The corridor was quiet at that hour, the western wing still heavy with early light that barely reached the tall windows. Dust hung in the air where servants rarely passed. The carved door before them remained exactly as it had been left—dark oak, polished handles, the crest of Virelia engraved deep into the wood.

Y/N stared at it.

Too many memories lived behind that door.

Their mind betrayed them with flashes they hadn’t invited—standing here as a child, small fists clenched at their sides, waiting to knock. The long seconds before the command to enter. The certainty that whatever waited inside would not be pleasant.

Lessons that were never really lessons. Corrections that were never gentle.

They drew in a slow breath.

Barnes and Rogers stood a few paces behind them, silent but present. Neither rushed them.

After a moment, Y/N exhaled quietly and reached for the handle.

The metal felt colder than it should have. They pushed the door open. The hinges groaned faintly, the sound echoing deeper than expected.

The first room was the study.

Heavy curtains blocked most of the morning light, leaving the chamber dim despite the hour. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, packed with leather-bound ledgers, sealed scrolls, and carefully arranged documents. A massive desk dominated the center of the room, carved from dark walnut and polished to a dull sheen.

Everything inside spoke of power.

Expensive rugs. Ornate lamps. Cabinets filled with crystal decanters and rare ink sets. None of it felt warm.

The air smelled faintly of old parchment and cedar oil.

Y/N stepped inside slowly. Their boots echoed against the polished floor.

Nothing had been moved since the war happened.

The chair behind the desk still faced outward as if he had only stepped away briefly. A sealed stack of documents rested neatly in one corner. A quill lay beside an inkpot that had long since dried.

Barnes walked in after them, glancing around with a soldier’s careful awareness.

Rogers followed last, quietly closing the door behind them.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Y/N’s gaze traveled across the room—over the desk, the shelves, the heavy cabinet against the far wall. Then to the second door beyond the study.

The bedroom.

And beyond that, the bath chambers. They knew the layout too well. But they had never passed further than the study. The bedroom beyond that door had never been a place they were allowed to enter. As a child, Y/N had stood exactly where they were now—summoned, corrected, dismissed. Always turned away before the second door was opened.

The study had been the boundary.

Y/N pushed the memory aside and walked toward the tall windows instead. The heavy curtains hung thick and oppressive, blocking out the morning light. Without hesitation, they grabbed the fabric and pulled them open in one sharp motion.

Sunlight flooded the room.

Dust motes stirred in the air, and the dark wood of the study lost some of its looming weight under the brightness.

“Better,” Y/N muttered.

Barnes and Rogers exchanged a glance but said nothing. They understood what that simple act meant.

Y/N turned back toward them, already shifting into the calm, practical tone of someone conducting an inspection. “Check everything. Cabinets, ledgers, correspondence.” Their gaze swept the shelves. “Anything related to governance, treasury, diplomacy, or military planning goes to the archives.”

Barnes nodded.

Rogers stepped toward one of the bookcases.

“The rest?” Barnes asked.

Y/N didn’t hesitate. “Dispose of it.” A brief pause, then they added, “But read it first. I want nothing important lost because of sentiment.”

Barnes gave a small approving nod and moved toward the far shelves, already scanning titles. Rogers began opening one of the side cabinets, carefully sorting through rolled documents.

Meanwhile, Y/N approached the large desk in the center of the room.

For a moment they simply stood there, looking down at it.

This was where Alaric had sat. Where decisions had been made that rippled across the kingdom—and through Y/N’s childhood. They rested their hands on the edge of the desk, steady and deliberate.

Then they began.

The top stack of documents was neatly sealed. Y/N broke the wax without ceremony and opened the first letter. Their eyes scanned quickly—trade routes, shipment tallies, port taxation. Routine governance.

They set it aside into a growing “keep” pile.

The second letter contained correspondence with a northern lord regarding grain levies.

Another for the archives.

Their movements were efficient now. Controlled. Professional.

Quill marks scratched across parchment as they made quick notes for later review.

Behind them, Barnes occasionally opened a cabinet or shelf with a quiet creak of wood. Rogers methodically sorted ledgers onto separate tables they had cleared.

The study slowly began to shift from a sealed relic into a working space.

After several minutes, Y/N leaned back slightly, holding a folded document between their fingers. They exhaled through their nose.

“Of course,” they muttered.

Barnes glanced over. “Trouble?”

Y/N placed the paper down carefully. “Hidden taxation proposals he never presented to council.” Their mouth curved faintly, humorless. “Three separate drafts.”

Rogers didn’t look surprised.

“They were never implemented,” Y/N continued, skimming the margins. “Good.”

Barnes closed a cabinet door. “Anything else?”

Y/N glanced over the desk again, fingers brushing another sealed packet.

“Yes,” they said quietly.

“Years of secrets.”

They broke the next seal.

And kept reading.

---

Two hours later, the study looked nothing like it had when they entered. Sunlight streamed through the now-open windows, illuminating stacks of parchment spread across the desk and two smaller tables Barnes and Rogers had dragged closer. The once-pristine order Alaric had maintained had been dismantled into careful categories—archives, council review, treasury, military, and a growing pile labeled quietly by Rogers as “concerning.”

Y/N leaned both hands against the desk and rubbed their eyes briefly. They were exhausted. Not physically—though the tension in their shoulders suggested otherwise—but mentally. They had found… everything.

Hidden tax proposals never brought to council. Private letters threatening smaller lords into compliance. Accounts of bribes disguised as “gifts.” Contingency plans for suppressing dissent among noble families. A sealed ledger detailing informants placed throughout the capital.

“Gods,” Y/N muttered under their breath.

Barnes closed another cabinet behind them with a dull thud. “Anything good?”

Y/N held up a folded letter between two fingers. “He had drafted a decree allowing him to seize estates under ‘temporary emergency governance.’”

Rogers glanced up from a ledger he was cataloguing. “Temporary?”

“The clause had no defined end,” Y/N said flatly.

Barnes gave a low whistle.

Y/N dropped the document into the council review pile with visible irritation. “If half of this had been implemented, the council would have revolted within a year.”

“They might have,” Rogers said calmly. “Or they might have stayed quiet.”

Y/N leaned back slightly against the desk, arms crossing. “Out of fear.”

“Yes.”

That word settled heavily in the room. The council had lived like that for years—careful, cautious, constantly aware that Alaric’s patience was thin and his punishments swift.

Y/N exhaled slowly. “No wonder they flinch when I raise my voice,” they murmured.

Barnes shrugged one shoulder. “They’re learning you’re not him.”

Y/N looked down at the desk again, flipping open another packet. Inside were several sealed correspondences tied with black ribbon. They skimmed the first page. Their jaw tightened.

“What now?” Barnes asked.

“Letters,” Y/N said quietly.

“From whom?”

“Various nobles.” They flipped to the signatures. “Some praising him. Some begging him.”

Rogers watched Y/N carefully. “Begging?”

“For mercy,” Y/N said.

Silence settled again. Y/N closed the packet slowly and set it aside. The room suddenly felt smaller. They dragged a hand down their face and exhaled through their nose. “I think I’ve seen enough corruption for one morning.”

Barnes glanced at the stacks. “We’re making progress.”

“Yes,” Y/N muttered. “Unfortunately.”

They straightened slightly, trying to shake off the heaviness creeping into their posture. Rogers closed the ledger he’d been reviewing. “Take a moment.”

“I am taking a moment,” Y/N replied dryly.

Barnes gestured toward the window where sunlight spilled warmly into the room. “Sit before you fall over.”

“I am not going to fall over.”

“You look like you might.”

Y/N gave him a look—but after a second, they did sit down in the large chair behind the desk.

Alaric’s chair.

For a brief second the symbolism was uncomfortable. Then Y/N leaned back and stretched their neck slightly, forcing the tension out. They glanced around the study again. The room no longer felt like it belonged to a ghost. It felt… dismantled. Exposed.

“Anything in the cabinets worth keeping?” Y/N asked.

“Mostly ledgers,” Rogers said. “Some treasury records we’ll want the accountants to verify.”

Barnes added, “And a suspicious amount of expensive brandy.”

That earned the faintest twitch of a smile from Y/N. “Dispose of the brandy,” they said.

Barnes raised a brow. “Dispose how?”

“However you see fit,” Y/N replied.

Barnes looked pleased with that answer.

Y/N leaned forward again, pushing the chair back slightly. “One more hour,” they said. “Then we move to the bedroom.”

They hadn’t looked at that door yet.

But it was waiting.

And sooner or later—

They would open it too.

---

One more hour passed before the study was as organized as it could be for the moment. The important documents had been separated, the concerning ones sealed for council review, and the rest stacked for disposal. The room no longer felt like a shrine to Alaric’s authority—just a dismantled office waiting to be archived.

At last, Y/N stood and looked toward the second door. The bedroom.

For a moment they simply stared at it.

Barnes noticed but said nothing. Rogers quietly set aside the ledger he had been reviewing.

Y/N exhaled slowly and walked toward the door. “This should be quick,” they said, though the words sounded more like a hope than a certainty. They pushed the door open.

The bedroom beyond was large—larger than the study—and immediately brighter. Tall windows allowed sunlight to pour across polished floors and velvet carpets.

Y/N stopped just inside the threshold. Their expression shifted instantly.

Disgust.

“There’s gold everywhere,” they muttered.

And it was true. Gold trim along the walls. Gold leaf carved into the bedposts. Gold fixtures along cabinets and mirrors. Even the curtain rods gleamed with excessive ornamentation. The bed itself was enormous, draped in dark velvet with embroidered crests stitched into the fabric. Ornate furniture crowded the room—display cabinets, decorative tables, a tall wardrobe with gilded handles.

It wasn’t tasteful. It was loud.

Barnes walked in behind them, looking around with open skepticism. “Subtle.”

Rogers stepped in last and closed the door quietly behind them. His gaze swept the room with the careful eye of someone assessing both space and history.

Y/N moved further inside, boots crossing the thick carpet.

“I always wondered what this room looked like,” they said.

Barnes glanced at them. “You never came in here?”

Y/N shook their head once. “The study was as far as I was ever permitted.”

They approached the large bed and stopped a few feet away, looking at it like it was an unpleasant relic.

“Gods,” they murmured.

Barnes crossed his arms. “He had expensive taste.”

“No,” Y/N corrected flatly. “He had insecure taste.”

Rogers opened one of the display cabinets nearby, scanning the contents—rings, medals, decorative daggers meant more for show than combat.

“Compensation,” Rogers said mildly.

Y/N snorted quietly. They turned toward the wardrobe and pulled the doors open.

Inside hung rows of immaculate coats, embroidered uniforms, and formal robes lined with fur. Everything arranged with obsessive precision.

Y/N stared at it for a moment before closing the doors again.

“Burn it,” they said.

Barnes raised a brow. “All of it?”

“Every piece.”

Rogers didn’t argue. “Consider it done.”

Y/N continued around the room, examining drawers and cabinets with brisk efficiency now that the initial shock had passed. Unlike the study, the bedroom held very little of political value. Jewelry, clothing, decorative items. Personal indulgences.

But on a smaller writing table near the window sat a locked box.

Y/N noticed it immediately. They approached slowly.

Barnes stepped closer as well. “Important?”

“Possibly,” Y/N said.

They lifted the box. It was heavier than it looked.

Rogers leaned in slightly. “Locked.”

Y/N turned it over in their hands, studying the metal latch. A faint frown formed. “Of course it is,” they muttered.

Barnes gave a small grin. “Want me to open it?”

Y/N handed it to him without hesitation. “Carefully,” they said.

Barnes pulled a small tool from his belt and crouched beside the table, already examining the mechanism.

Rogers glanced around the room again.

“Anything else worth keeping?”

Y/N looked at the gold-lined walls one more time. “Not unless someone in the treasury has a particular fondness for bad taste.”

Barnes worked the lock with quiet focus.

After a moment—

Click.

The box opened.

All three of them leaned in to see what Alaric had decided was important enough to lock away.

Barnes lifted the lid slowly. For a moment, none of them spoke.

Inside the box were not jewels, nor coins, nor some dramatic hidden weapon. Instead, it was filled with neatly bundled papers tied with dark ribbon, a few wax-sealed envelopes, and a smaller leather-bound journal resting on top.

Y/N’s brow furrowed.

“Not treasure,” Barnes muttered.

“Of course not,” Y/N replied quietly.

Rogers stepped closer to the table, his attention sharpening. “Letters?”

Barnes carefully lifted the journal and set it aside so the papers beneath could be seen. Several of the envelopes bore noble seals—houses Y/N recognized immediately.

Y/N picked up the first bundle and untied the ribbon. The first letter made their expression darken almost immediately.

“Blackmail,” they said flatly.

Barnes looked up. “Against whom?”

Y/N turned the letter so they could read the seal again. “Lord Varen.”

Rogers exhaled slowly. “That explains his loyalty.”

Y/N continued reading.

It was meticulously written—records of debts, private scandals, and threats disguised as reminders. Evidence gathered, archived, and ready to be used when necessary. They placed the letter back down carefully.

“Half the council was probably controlled this way,” Y/N said.

Barnes leaned against the table slightly, arms folding. “That would make ruling easier.”

“Yes,” Y/N replied. “If you enjoy ruling a room full of frightened men.”

Rogers opened another bundle. More letters. More leverage.Financial secrets. Illicit trade dealings. Private family scandals that would destroy reputations if revealed.

“Gods,” Rogers murmured.

Y/N watched the growing pile with quiet disgust.

“No wonder they lived in constant fear,” they said. “Every conversation with him was probably a test.”

Barnes picked up the leather-bound journal next.

“Diary?” he asked.

“Or records,” Y/N said.

Barnes handed it over.

The leather creaked softly as Y/N opened the first page.

It wasn’t a diary. It was a list.

Names. Houses. Notes written in tight, precise script.

Leverage.

Weaknesses.

Influence.

Every noble family in Virelia catalogued like pieces on a board.

Barnes let out a low breath. “He kept a ledger of people.”

Rogers’s expression hardened. “Not people. Pressure points.”

Y/N turned another page. And another. The handwriting remained steady the entire time.

Cruel in its efficiency.

Y/N closed the journal slowly. For a moment they simply stared at the cover.

Then they set it on the table.

“This,” they said quietly, “is why the council flinches when anyone raises their voice.”

Barnes nodded once.

“They spent years knowing their lives could be dismantled with a single page from that book.”

Silence settled across the room.

Finally Rogers spoke. “What do you want done with it?”

Y/N looked down at the journal again. For a long moment, their expression was unreadable.

Then they said, “We keep it.”

Barnes raised a brow.

“For now,” Y/N clarified immediately. “I don’t know what to do with it either.”

Rogers nodded slowly.

“If half of these secrets are still relevant, they could destabilize half the noble houses if exposed.”

“Exactly,” Y/N said. They gathered the journal and the letters into a single pile.

“These go to the royal archives,” they decided. “Sealed. Restricted access.”

Barnes tilted his head. “Locked away like he did?”

“No,” Y/N said quietly.

Their gaze drifted briefly across the golden bedroom again, taking in the excess, the arrogance, the emptiness of it all.

“Locked away so no one ever rules this kingdom like that again.”

Rogers inclined his head. “Understood.”

Barnes closed the empty box and set it aside.

Y/N stepped back from the table, drawing in a steady breath before the three of them continued searching the bedroom. Rogers moved toward the tall wardrobe, opening compartments and checking behind the panels, while Barnes inspected the cabinets and decorative chests along the wall. Y/N turned their attention to a long carved dresser near the far window, sliding open drawer after drawer.

Most of it was exactly what they expected—rings, cufflinks, neatly arranged gloves, and small gold trinkets that looked expensive but meaningless.

The last drawer slid open easily.

At first glance it looked empty. But something about the depth of the drawer felt… wrong.

Y/N ran their hand along the back panel, pressing lightly.

A soft click sounded.

Barnes glanced over immediately. “What did you find?”

Y/N pulled the hidden panel forward, revealing a narrow compartment concealed behind the drawer.

Inside were two books and a small wooden box.

Y/N picked up the first book.

The leather was plain, worn slightly at the corners from age. When they opened it, the familiar sharp handwriting of Alaric filled the first page.

Barnes and Rogers stepped closer.

Y/N skimmed the first lines.

Then they closed the book slightly and said quietly, “Give me a moment.”

Both men paused.

Barnes studied their face. “You sure?”

Y/N nodded once, already opening the diary again. “Just a little while.”

Rogers inclined his head without argument. Barnes hesitated half a second longer, then both of them stepped away, moving toward the door and exiting, giving Y/N the space they asked for.

Y/N leaned lightly against the dresser and opened the diary again. The leather creaked softly in their hands, the pages yellowed with age but still firm. The handwriting inside was unmistakably Alaric’s—precise, disciplined, every line controlled.

As Y/N’s eyes moved over the words, the bedroom around them seemed to fade into silence.

---

Alaric’s Diary

Today I met a girl in the Kingdom of Ardelia.

She was beautiful.

---

47 Years Ago

The winter festival in Ardelia was meant to be a display of diplomacy—lanterns strung across marble halls, music spilling from every chamber, noble houses mingling under banners that represented half the kingdoms of the continent. Prince Alaric had just turned fifteen, and his father the king had told him to attend the festival. So here he was, standing at the edge of the grand hall, watching it all with quiet disinterest.

The music was lively, the dancers elegant, the air warm with wine and laughter. Servants moved through the crowd carrying silver trays of fruit and crystal goblets. The nobles of Ardelia seemed determined to present their court as joyful and prosperous.

It all looked very convincing.

But Alaric had grown up in the Virelian court.

He knew better.

Behind every laugh was calculation. Behind every smile was negotiation.

That was the nature of courts.

He was studying the room the way a hunter studies a field when something unusual caught his attention.

A laugh.

Not loud.

Not forced.

Just genuine.

He followed the sound.

Near the tall balcony doors stood a young girl speaking with two others. She wore a pale blue dress embroidered with delicate silver threads that caught the candlelight whenever she moved. Compared to the jeweled gowns worn by many of the ladies in the hall, hers was simple.

But it suited her. Her dark hair fell loosely around her shoulders, held back only by a thin silver circlet. No heavy crown. No elaborate jewels.

She laughed again at something one of her companions said.

It was… unguarded.

Alaric found himself watching her longer than he intended.

“Who is that?” he asked quietly.

An ambassador standing nearby followed his gaze.

“Princess Eleonora,” the man said. “Daughter of King Alistair of Ardelia.”

Alaric knew the name of the kingdom before coming. It was small. Peaceful. Of little strategic importance.

But the girl herself seemed entirely unaware of the quiet gravity that filled the hall.

While nobles whispered alliances and merchants calculated trade routes, she seemed to exist in a different world entirely.

Eventually she excused herself from her companions and stepped out onto the balcony.

Alaric waited a moment.

Then followed.

The winter air outside was cold enough to bite the skin. Snow had gathered along the stone railings, and the gardens below were covered in white.

Eleonora stood near the edge of the balcony, looking out over the lantern-lit paths. She turned when she heard the door open. Her gaze landed on him immediately.

There was no startled reaction.

No hurried bow.

“You’re the Virelian prince,” she said simply.

Not a question. A statement.

“Yes.”

She studied him for a moment.

“You look unhappy.”

Alaric blinked once, surprised. Most people in court chose their words carefully around princes.

She did not seem interested in that.

“Do I?” he asked.

“You’ve been watching the hall like someone forced you to attend,” she replied.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth despite himself.

“They did.”

She laughed softly.

“The same is true for me.”

They spoke there for several minutes.

Not about politics. Not about alliances.

About music. About travel. About how exhausting royal ceremonies could be when everyone pretended to enjoy them.

When the music inside changed and the doors opened again, Eleonora sighed lightly.

“I should return,” she said. “If I disappear too long someone will begin asking questions.”

She stepped toward the door, then paused.

“What is your name?” she asked.

“Alaric.”

She looked at him for another moment before nodding slightly.

“Goodnight, Prince Alaric.”

And she returned to the hall.

Alaric watched the doors close behind her.

He did not realize then that he would remember that moment for the rest of his life.

---

2 Years Later

Years passed.

The court of Virelia was nothing like Ardelia’s warm halls.

King Valerian ruled carefully, cautiously, always balancing the power of the noble houses against the stability of the crown.

To him, peace was strength.

To Alaric, peace was stagnation. Their disagreements began quietly.

Then they grew louder.

Until one day the king called the full council together.

The throne hall was filled with nobles, ministers, military officers, and advisors when the king rose from his seat.

“My lords,” Valerian said, his voice echoing across the chamber, “I have made a decision regarding the succession.”

Alaric stood beside the throne as tradition required. He already suspected what was coming. But hearing it spoken aloud still felt like a blade sliding between his ribs.

“My younger son, Prince Alberic Dragna will be named heir.”

The murmurs began immediately.

His brother stood several steps away, pale and visibly shaken.

Alaric said nothing.

Not there. Not in front of the court.

But later that night he found his father in the council chamber.

“You believe I am unfit,” Alaric said.

King Valerian looked at him steadily.

“I believe,” the king replied, “that you are too ambitious.”

The word was spoken calmly. But it landed like an accusation.

“You do not consider what your actions cost the kingdom,” Valerian continued. “You see expansion. Power. Control.”

“And those are not the responsibilities of a king?” Alaric asked.

“They are the responsibilities of conquerors,” the king answered. “A king must think of the people who live beneath his crown.”

Alaric’s jaw tightened.

“You lack restraint,” Valerian said quietly. “And restraint is what keeps kingdoms alive.”

Silence stretched between them.

“You will destroy yourself one day,” the king said finally. “Ambition without mercy always does.”

Alaric left the chamber without replying. But the decision had already taken root in his mind.

He would not allow his future to be decided by hesitation.

---

The palace was quiet the night it happened.

The corridors were nearly empty. Torches burned low along the walls.

Inside the council chamber stood three figures.

The king.

The queen.

And the younger prince.

They had tried to reason with him. That had been their mistake.

Now the queen and the younger brother lay motionless on the stone floor, their blood staining the edge of the council carpet.

King Valerian stood alone.

Alaric’s sword rested against his father’s throat.

Neither man moved for several seconds.

“You are making a mistake,” the king said quietly.

Alaric’s grip did not falter.

“The mistake was yours,” he answered. “Naming him heir.”

The king glanced briefly at the bodies beside them. Pain flickered across his face. Then he looked back at his son.

“As I feared,” Valerian said softly. “Your ambition will destroy you one day.”

Alaric raised the blade.

“You confuse ambition with weakness,” he replied.

The king shook his head slightly. “No,” he said. “I understand ambition very well.”

His voice softened. 

“But you have mistaken cruelty for strength.”

Alaric did not hesitate.

The sword moved in a single clean arc.

The king’s head fell.

His body collapsed beside the queen and the younger prince.

Three bodies.

Three obstacles removed.

The throne of Virelia now belonged to Alaric.

And no one would ever again call him too ambitious.

---

Alaric’s POV

The crown of Virelia sat on my head before my eighteenth winter had passed.

There were whispers, of course.

Courtiers who suspected the truth behind my father’s death. Noble families who wondered how three members of the royal family had died in a single night.

But suspicion is not proof.

And the throne favors the man already sitting in it.

So I became king.

And Virelia became something different.

A king must move quickly when he first takes the crown. Hesitation invites rebellion.

Within months I began consolidating power. The noble houses were reminded—quietly at first, then more directly—that the stability of the kingdom depended on unity.

Some understood.

Others did not.

The neighboring kingdoms watched carefully. They had grown used to my father’s diplomacy, his cautious negotiations and endless patience. They expected the same from me. They were mistaken.

The first war began when the northern duchy refused to renew its allegiance treaty.

The second began when a border kingdom believed Virelia too young under its new ruler to respond with strength.

By the time my nineteenth year arrived, the banners of Virelia had marched across three borders.

Some kingdoms bent the knee quickly. Others learned what happened when they did not.

Victory has a way of quieting criticism. But conquest alone does not secure a throne.

A king requires a queen and a heir.

---

And so I remembered Eleonora. Princess of Ardelia. The girl from the winter balcony. The only person in that hall who had spoken to me like I was not already wearing a crown.

I had not forgotten her. Not once.

Ardelia was small.

Peaceful. Poorly defended.

Their king—Alistair—valued diplomacy more than armies.

I sent a formal proposal first.

King Alistair refused. His message was respectful, but firm. 

He had heard stories of my rule. Of my wars. Of how I came to the throne.

He would not give his daughter to such a man.

So I marched an army to his border.

Not to conquer.

Just to make the situation clear.

Virelia’s forces camped outside Ardelia’s capital for three days.

On the fourth day I sent another message.

It was simple.

If Princess Eleonora did not become my queen, Virelia would declare war.

And Ardelia would not survive it.

---

Eleonora came to speak with me herself.

I remember the moment she entered the tent. She looked older than the girl from the festival—but not harder.

Still calm. Still composed.

Still… kind.

“You’ve changed,” she said.

There was no fear in her voice.

Only disappointment.

“You remember me,” I said.

“Yes.”

She studied my face for a long moment.

“I remember the prince who stood on the balcony and complained about royal ceremonies.”

“I am king now.”

“That much is clear.”

Silence settled between us.

Then she asked the question I had expected.

“If I refuse… you will attack my kingdom?”

“Yes.”

“You would destroy Ardelia.”

“If necessary.”

She closed her eyes briefly.

When she opened them again, the decision had already been made.

“I will marry you,” she said.

Not for love.

Not for alliance. But to save her people.

The wedding was held in Virelia three months later.

The court celebrated. The nobles praised the alliance. The people believed it was a triumph of diplomacy.

Only Eleonora and I understood the truth.

She had traded her freedom for peace. And I had taken the most beautiful woman I had ever seen through the power of a crown.

---

Eleonora surprised me.

She was not bitter.

Not cruel.

Not manipulative like most queens.

She spent her days walking through the city, speaking with merchants, visiting temples, helping the poor.

The court found her strange. The people loved her.

And I… allowed it.

She softened the palace. Filled the halls with music. With laughter.

Things Virelia had not known in many years.

She did not try to change me.

But she was different from anyone I had ever known.

And for reasons I did not fully understand, I allowed her freedoms no queen before her had possessed.

Then our first child was born.

A son.

Y/N.

The day the healer placed him in my arms, I felt something unfamiliar.

Pride. Relief.

A strange kind of certainty. A son would secure the throne. A son would continue the line of Virelia.

But more than that—He would not grow weak.

I looked at the child and made a promise to myself. I would not make the same mistake my father had made. I would not raise a boy who hesitated. I would teach him strength. I would teach him ambition. I would make him into the king my father was too afraid to become.

---

For the first few years, the boy was… happy.

Too happy.

He laughed easily, like his mother. He ran through the palace halls chasing servants, hiding behind the curtains in the throne room, climbing the stone benches in the gardens as if the palace had been built only for him.

Eleonora encouraged it.

She believed childhood should be light. Free.

She took him to the gardens nearly every morning. Showed him flowers, birds, the little fountains hidden between the stone paths. She spoke to him softly, patiently, as though the world would always be gentle with him.

The court adored him. The people adored him.

And for a time, I allowed it.

Because he was young.

Because he reminded Eleonora of herself.

He had her eyes.

Her laughter.

Her softness.

I told myself there would be time to shape him later.

---

The day I realized how much correction would be required came sooner than I expected.

He was three.

I found him in one of the smaller sitting rooms near the western gardens.

The room was quiet except for the soft sound of his voice as he played on the carpet.

On the floor beside him were two toys. A wooden horse carved by one of the palace craftsmen.

And a doll.

The doll had been a gift from Eleonora. He held both toys in his small hands, moving them across the carpet as if they were speaking.

“The knight protects the princess,” he said to himself.

I stood in the doorway watching. For a moment he did not notice me.

Then he looked up.

“Father!” he said brightly.

He lifted the toys to show me.

“This one is the princess,” he explained proudly, shaking the doll slightly. “And this one is the knight.”

I looked at the doll.

“What are you doing with that?”

“I’m playing.”

“With a doll.”

“Yes.”

“You are a prince.”

“I know.”

“Princes do not play with dolls.”

He frowned slightly, confused.

“Why?”

“Because dolls are for girls.”

He looked down at the toys again.

Then back up at me.

His voice was thoughtful. “Why can’t I be a girl too?”

The words were innocent.

But they struck like an insult.

“I want to be both,” he said softly. “I can be the knight and the princess.”

Something inside me snapped.

I crossed the room in two strides.

My hand struck him hard enough that he fell sideways across the carpet.

The toys scattered. The doll rolled across the floor.

For a moment he did not cry.

He only stared at me, stunned.

Then the door behind me opened.

Eleonora rushed into the room. “What are you doing?” she demanded.

She dropped to the floor beside him, gathering the child into her arms.

“He’s three years old,” she said, her voice sharp with anger. “He doesn’t even understand what you’re angry about.”

“He understands weakness.”

“He understands play.”

I grabbed the wooden horse from the floor and threw it across the room. It struck the wall and split.

“This is how weakness begins,” I said.

Eleonora stood slowly, still holding the boy.

“You’re frightening him.”

“Good.”

“He’s a child.”

“He is the heir to Virelia.”

Her voice hardened.

“And children become strong when they are ready—not when they are beaten.”

I struck her. Harder than I intended.

She staggered but did not fall.

The boy clung to her, crying now, his small hands gripping her dress.

For a moment the room was silent except for his sobs.

Eleonora looked at me with something I had never seen before.

Not fear.

Disappointment.

“He is three,” she said quietly. “Let him be a child.”

I stared at the boy. At the tears on his face. At the doll lying on the floor beside him.

And I understood something my father had never understood.

Softness grows quickly.

If you do not cut it out early, it spreads.

“No,” I said.

Eleonora’s expression tightened. “He is too young,” she insisted.

“He begins tomorrow.”

The words left my mouth before she could speak again.

“Training begins tomorrow.”

She stared at me in disbelief.

“You would start now?”

“Yes.”

“He can barely hold a sword.”

“Then he will learn.”

“He is a baby,” she said.

“He is my heir.”

The boy buried his face against her shoulder.

Eleonora held him tighter.

“You will break him,” she said.

“No,” I answered.

“I will make him strong.”

And this time—I did not listen to her.

---

The training began the next morning.

Eleonora did not speak to me when the guards brought the boy to the courtyard.

Y/N was still rubbing sleep from his eyes.

Three years old. Small.

Too small for the wooden training sword the weapons master placed in his hands.

The blade sagged immediately.

He tried to lift it.

Failed. 

Tried again.

The sword wobbled awkwardly in his grip.

Eleonora stood at the edge of the courtyard, watching.

I ignored her.

“Hold it straight,” I told him.

He tried.

The sword slipped from his hands and clattered against the stones.

I struck him.

Not hard enough to break bone. But hard enough to teach.

He cried.

Of course he did.

Three-year-olds cry when they fall. They cry when they are hungry. They cry when they are frightened.

But princes cannot cry forever.

So every time the sword dropped—

I struck him again.

Every time his arms trembled—I struck him again.

Every time he hesitated—I struck him again.

Weakness must be corrected immediately.

Otherwise it grows.

Eleonora interfered before the sun had reached its highest point.

“Enough,” she said.

She stepped between us and picked the boy up from the courtyard stones.

His arms were shaking so badly he could barely hold onto her.

“He can’t even lift the sword,” she said.

“He will.”

“He’s three.”

“He is my heir.”

She did not move. “You are hurting him.”

“Yes.”

“You will break him.”

“No,” I answered.

“I will strengthen him.”

She refused to step aside. So I moved her.

The first time I struck her, the courtyard guards looked away. 

The second time, she still stood in front of the boy.

The third time, she wrapped her arms around him and shielded his body with her own.

After that I stopped striking the child. For the moment. 

But the training continued.

Every day.

Every morning.

The sword grew easier for him to lift with time.

Not because he wanted to learn. Because he was afraid not to.

Fear is an excellent teacher.

---

Years passed.

The palace grew quieter.

The laughter Eleonora once filled the halls with became rarer.

The boy changed. He stopped crying.

That was progress.

He stopped speaking unless spoken to.

That was discipline.

He learned how to hold the sword. How to stand. How to endure pain without collapsing.

But Eleonora continued to interfere whenever she could.

She would step between us. Take blows meant for him. Stand there with the same stubborn look in her eyes that had once challenged me on a balcony years before.

It irritated me.

But I allowed it.

Because that made the boy more scared.

---

When the boy was five years old, something finally changed.

We were in the courtyard again. The sword slipped from his hands during a strike. It clattered across the stone.

I raised my hand.

Eleonora moved immediately, stepping forward to shield him like she always did.

But this time— The boy stepped in front of her.

Small.

Shaking.

But standing between us.

He glared at me.

Not fear.

Not confusion. Hatred.

Pure and bright in his eyes.

His arms spread slightly as if he could protect her.

He could not.

But he tried.

For a moment we simply stared at one another.

Eleonora pulled him back, whispering something soft to calm him.

But I had already seen what I needed.

Good.

That is what I wanted.

Hatred.

Defiance.

Strength born from anger.

A boy who feels nothing cannot rule. A boy who fears everything cannot rule either. But a boy who learns to endure pain—And still stand—That boy can become king.

So I continued the training.

Because my son would understand one day.

Even if he hated me for it.

---

But the boy betrayed me.

For years I corrected him.

Every weakness removed.

Every hesitation beaten out of him.

Every lesson carved into bone and muscle.

He learned to fight.

He learned to endure pain.

He learned discipline.

And yet—weakness found him again.

Y/N had just turned twelve when I noticed it.

At first it was subtle. A strange stiffness in the way he carried himself. Arms folded too often across his chest. The way he changed clothes quickly whenever servants entered the room.

Suspicion is a king’s most useful instinct.

So I watched.

And one night I followed.

Y/N was in his chamber, standing before the mirror with strips of cloth wrapped tightly across his chest.

Bandages. Binding something down.

For a moment I did not understand what I was seeing.

Then rage arrived all at once. I stormed into the room before he could turn.

Y/N froze when he saw me.

“What are you doing?” I demanded.

He said nothing.

I crossed the room and seized the cloth, ripping it away before he could stop me.

The bandages fell to the floor. And beneath them—his chest had begun to swell.

Not like a boy’s.

Like a girl’s.

For a moment I simply stared. “What the hell did you do?” I asked.

He looked terrified. “I didn’t do anything,” he said.

“Do not lie to me.”

“I’m not,” he insisted, shaking. “I don’t know why.”

The answer made no sense. Bodies do not simply change like that. 

I summoned a healer immediately.

The old man examined the boy carefully, his hands cautious, his expression increasingly uncomfortable.

“Well?” I demanded.

The healer swallowed. “My king… sometimes the body is born with… variations.”

“Explain.”

“Sometimes children carry traits of both sexes. It is rare, but it does not harm their health. The child can still grow normally.”

His voice trembled as he spoke. “But… but the body will develop differently than expected.”

Silence filled the room.

Then rage followed. “You are telling me,” I said slowly, “that my heir has the body of a girl?”

The healer shook his head quickly.

“No, Your Majesty—not exactly. It is more complicated than—”

I drew my sword.

The old man barely had time to gasp before the blade cut him down.

His body collapsed across the floor. Blood spread across the stones.

But I did not look at him.

My eyes were on the boy.

“You are a curse,” I told him.

Y/N stared at me in shock.

“A curse sent by the gods,” I continued. “Punishment.”

His voice shook when he answered.

“I didn’t choose this.”

“You did,” I said. “Even as a child you spoke of wanting to be both.”

The memory came back suddenly. A small child holding a doll and a toy horse.

Why can’t I be both?

The gods had heard. And they had answered.

“Stand still,” I snarled, pacing like a caged beast.

My eyes were not on the blood on the floor.

They were on him. “You were meant to be a weapon. A son. Not this.”

The words barely left my mouth before I seized him.

He was still bare-chested, the torn bandages hanging loose where I had ripped them away. My hand closed around his arm and I dragged him from the chamber before he could even find his footing.

He stumbled behind me, half running to keep from falling as I pulled him through the corridor. Servants flattened themselves against the walls as we passed. No one spoke. No one dared. The doors to the outer courtyard burst open as I shoved them aside. Cold air rushed in, carrying the smell of iron and damp stone.

The training court waited beyond.

I dragged him across the dirt until we reached the center of the yard and threw him forward. He hit the ground hard, breath leaving him in a sharp gasp. He tried to push himself up, arms shaking.

I paced in front of him like a caged beast.

“This is what comes of weakness,” I said.

His chest rose and fell quickly, panic clear in his eyes.

“I didn’t do anything,” he insisted again, his voice shaking. “I don’t know why this happened.”

“You made it happen,” I snapped. “You called it into existence.”

His head shook quickly. “No—”

“You remember what you said when you were small?” I demanded.

He didn’t answer.

So I said it for him. “You said you wanted to be both.”

The memory burned in my mind.

A child holding a doll and a wooden horse.

Why can’t I be both?

The gods had listened. And now they had cursed my heir.

I drew my sword. The blade slid free with a sharp metallic whisper that echoed across the courtyard.

Y/N’s eyes widened.

“I will fix it,” I said.

He scrambled backward in the dirt. “What—?”

“If this body carries a curse,” I continued, stepping closer, “then I will carve it out.”

His breath hitched. “You can’t—”

“I can.” The sword pointed toward his chest.

“Stand up.”

He didn’t move.

So I grabbed him again, dragging him to his feet. “You will learn something today,” I said quietly.

His legs trembled beneath him. “What lesson?” he whispered.

“That weakness has consequences.”

The blade flashed through the air.

He barely had time to gasp before steel cut flesh.

The sound came first—the sharp whistle of the sword slicing air.

Then the scream.

Pain burst across his chest, bright and blinding as blood spilled down his skin. His knees buckled, collapsing into the dirt as he clutched the wound.

“I’ll carve it out,” I said, my voice shaking with fury. “If this body carries a curse, I’ll remove it myself.”

A voice shouted from the palace steps.

“Stop!”

Eleonora.

She ran across the courtyard without a cloak, without guards, her hair loose and her face pale with terror.

She reached us in seconds and threw herself between us before I could strike again.

“Stop,” she cried, pressing both hands against the boy’s bleeding chest, trying to shield him with her body. Blood soaked through her fingers almost immediately.

“They’re a child,” she said, her voice breaking. “They’re our child.”

The boy clung to her desperately.

I struck her aside.

The blow knocked her backward, but she still tried to crawl toward him.

The guards rushed forward then, unsure who to obey. Some grabbed the boy, pressing cloth against his chest to slow the bleeding. Others stood frozen, eyes darting between their king and their queen as the courtyard dissolved into chaos.

Y/N screamed for her.

“Mother!”

He tried to crawl across the dirt toward her, leaving streaks of blood behind him as his strength faded.

Eleonora struggled to reach him too, pushing herself up despite the pain, her hands still red.

But I caught her first.

I seized her arm and dragged her back before she could reach the boy.

“This is your fault,” I snarled.

She stared at me in disbelief.

“You filled his head with softness,” I continued. “With foolish ideas.”

“He is our child,” she said hoarsely.

“He is cursed,” I answered.

Behind us, the boy’s voice weakened.

“Mother—”

The sound faltered.

The knights were shouting now.

“Your Highness—!”

“Get the healer!”

“Stop the bleeding!”

His cries faded as consciousness finally left him.

But I ignored them.

I dragged Eleonora away from the courtyard, through the palace doors, down the stone corridors toward my chambers. She struggled against my grip, but I did not slow.

“You gave me a cursed heir,” I told her coldly.

Her voice broke as she answered.

“He is not cursed.”

“You will give me another son,” I said.

She stared at me as though she did not recognize the man before her.

One who would not fail.

One who would not allow weakness to infect the throne of Virelia.

---

The palace was silent by morning.

Orders had been given before the sun rose.

Every servant.

Every guard.

Every witness who had seen what happened in the courtyard.

They were removed.

A king cannot allow rumors of curses to spread through a kingdom.

The court was told only that the prince had suffered an injury during training.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

And Eleonora—She remained in my chambers. After that day, I did not allow distance between us again.

The kingdom needed another heir. A proper one. And eventually— she became pregnant once more.

---

The pregnancy weakened Eleonora.

Not immediately.

At first she carried the child quietly, saying little to me and even less to the court. She moved through the palace like a ghost—pale, silent, her strength fading with each passing month.

The healers said it was normal.

But I could see the difference. The laughter she once brought into the palace was gone.

The gardens were empty.

The halls quieter.

Y/N changed as well. After that day in the courtyard, the boy no longer argued.

No more questions. No more defiance. He obeyed. Every command. Every lesson. He trained harder than before, as if the memory of the blade across his chest had burned something into him that no amount of discipline ever could.

He rose before sunrise. He practiced until his hands bled.

He listened. And he did not speak unless spoken to.

But every evening, when training ended, he went to Eleonora’s chambers.

I allowed it.

It no longer mattered.

Soon I would have another heir.

A proper one.

---

The birth came during a storm.

Thunder rolled over the palace walls as the healers rushed through the corridors. Servants carried water and cloth into Eleonora’s chambers while the court waited outside in uneasy silence.

Complications, they said.

The labor lasted through the night.

Through the morning.

By the time the doors finally opened, the healer who stepped out looked exhausted.

His eyes avoided mine.

“Your Majesty,” he said quietly.

“The queen… did not survive.”

For a moment the words meant nothing.

Eleonora had survived war.

Survived the court.

Survived me.

And now she was gone.

The healer continued speaking.

“The child lives.”

“A son?” I asked.

He hesitated.

“No.”

“A daughter.”

Something inside me snapped.

I remember the room spinning. I remember the sound of my own voice shouting before I realized I had spoken.

A girl.

Eleonora dead.

The heir I demanded replaced by another weakness.

Rage rose like fire in my chest.

“Bring me the child,” I said.

The healer hesitated again.

But before he could move— Y/N stepped into the doorway.

He must have heard the shouting. He looked older than twelve now. Taller. Harder. The softness that once lived in his face had been carved away by years of training.

And in his arms—the baby.

He held her tightly, wrapped in cloth.

“No,” he said.

The word was quiet. But firm.

I stared at him. “You will hand her to me.”

He did not move.

“I said,” I repeated slowly, “hand her to me.”

His arms tightened around the infant.

“She’s my sister,” he said.

“She is useless.”

“She’s a child.”

The baby stirred slightly in his arms, making a soft sound.

Y/N took a step back.

For the first time in years, he defied me.

Not with words. With action.

He simply refused to move.

And something strange happened then.

He looked exactly like Eleonora in that moment.

Standing there, shielding someone weaker behind him.

For a long time neither of us spoke.

Then I turned away.

The baby lived.

Because of him.

---

The palace changed after Eleonora’s death. The warmth she brought with her disappeared.

Two years passed.

The girl grew quietly in the palace, mostly hidden away in the nursery wing.

I rarely thought of her. Until the day I saw her again. She was walking beside Y/N in the garden.

Small.

Barely able to keep up with his stride.

Her dark hair caught the sunlight.

And for a moment—I thought Eleonora had returned.

The child looked exactly like her.

---

In the beginning, I didn’t spoke to the girl.

Not once.

The child—Lina, they called her—grew quietly in the palace. Servants carried her through the halls, tutors followed behind her, and sometimes I would see her in the gardens trailing after her brother.

But I never addressed her. Every time I looked at her, I saw Eleonora.

The same dark hair.

The same eyes.

The same softness that had once filled the palace halls with laughter.

I had no use for that.

So I ignored her.

Y/N, however, did his duty.

After Eleonora died, the boy changed again.

He trained harder than I had ever seen him train before. He woke before the sun, practiced until his muscles trembled, studied strategy, diplomacy, warfare—everything I placed before him.

He obeyed.

He listened.

He became the heir I had intended to forge.

The kingdom flourished under my rule. Borders expanded. Enemies bent the knee. The noble houses feared the crown again.

I had become the king I was meant to be.

Powerful.

Unchallenged.

And my heir stood beside me, sharp as a blade.

For a time, that was enough.

---

Then the girl arrived.

Wanda.

The princess of the Kingdom of Sokovia—clever, composed, and far too observant for someone her age. I chose her for Y/N carefully.

I couldn’t have another heir, so Y/N would produce one himself.

A proper grandson. A boy raised correctly from the beginning.

I could have taken another woman for myself. Kings do it often. No one would have questioned it.

But Eleonora had been my only queen. My only woman.

So instead, I decided to make use of the heir I had spent years forging. Y/N would give the kingdom the heir I deserved.

That was the plan.

But something began to change.

Slowly.

Not obvious at first.

Y/N still trained. Still attended council. Still commanded soldiers and negotiated with nobles.

But the hardness I had built into him… began to soften. Small things at first.

A hesitation in his voice.

A question where obedience once stood.

Then I noticed the cause.

That girl.

Wanda.

She reminded me of Eleonora.

Not in appearance—but in spirit.

She spoke gently.

She listened.

She treated the servants like people rather than tools.

And somehow, without my noticing when it began—Y/N began to change again.

Today he spoke back to me.

Not loudly.

Not rebelliously.

But firmly.

The way Eleonora used to.

And in that moment I saw it clearly.

The same weakness. The same softness. After everything I had done to correct him—He still inherited her kindness.

How can this cursed child disappoint me so many times?

Even that Wanda girl…

She reminds me of Eleonora too much.

Perhaps I should have taken her for myself instead of giving her to him.

By now she might have already been carrying the son this kingdom deserves.

---

Y/N’s vision blurred.

For a moment they didn’t even realize their hands were shaking.

Then rage erupted all at once. The diary flew across the room. It slammed into the far wall with a sharp crack before falling to the floor.

The bedroom fell silent again.

Y/N stood alone in the middle of the chamber, chest rising and falling too fast. Their hands trembled at their sides, fingers curling and uncurling as if trying to hold onto something solid.

For years they had known one truth about their father. Alaric had never loved them. That part had never been in doubt.

But the diary had revealed something else—something that twisted deeper than hatred. Alaric had loved Eleonora. He had written about her with something almost… reverent.

He had remembered the balcony. Her laugh. The way she spoke to him like a person instead of a king.

He had loved her. And yet—

Y/N’s jaw tightened as anger surged through them again.

How could someone love her and still do those things?

Threaten her kingdom. Force her into marriage.

Hit her.

Break her.

Kill the people who witnessed her child bleeding in the courtyard.

Love was not supposed to look like that.

Their chest ached with a mixture of fury, grief, and something deeper—something raw that had been buried for years.

“Gods…” they whispered.

Their gaze dropped to the hidden compartment in the dresser.

The small wooden box still sat inside it. Y/N stepped forward and picked it up. It was lighter than they expected.

They opened it.

Inside lay a single key.

Nothing else.

The metal was old, darkened with age but carefully kept. The crest of Virelia had been carved into the bow of the key, but the edges were worn from years of handling. Y/N turned it slowly between their fingers. Then something clicked in their mind. Their breath caught.

“No…”

They looked at the key again. And suddenly they knew.

Y/N gasped.

The sound escaped before they could stop it. They shot to their feet. The chair behind them scraped across the floor as they moved toward the door. Without another thought, they rushed out of the chamber.

Barnes and Rogers were standing outside in the corridor exactly where they had been left.

Both of them straightened immediately when Y/N burst through the door.

“Your Highness—” Rogers began.

But Y/N didn’t stop.

They ran straight past them.

“Y/N!” Barnes called after them.

But they were already moving down the corridor, boots echoing sharply against the stone.

They didn’t notice Wanda standing further down the hall either. Didn’t see the concern in her eyes as they rushed past.

They ran through corridor after corridor, past staircases and silent tapestries, across the palace to a wing that had been sealed for years.

Their breath was ragged by the time they reached the door. They stopped there, chest heaving. The door stood exactly where they remembered it.

Dark wood.

Silver handle.

Untouched.

Y/N hadn’t stood in front of this door since they were a child. Since the day Alaric told them it had been destroyed. That nothing remained. 

Their hand shook as they raised the key. For a moment they couldn’t move. Then they pushed it into the lock. The metal slid in perfectly.

Their breath caught again. Slowly—they turned it.

Click.

The sound echoed softly through the empty corridor.

Y/N gasped. Their fingers trembled as they pushed the door open. The hinges creaked gently. And the room beyond appeared exactly as it had been.

Eleonora’s chambers.

Unchanged.

The same soft curtains framing the windows. The same carved desk by the wall. The same rugs across the floor. Even the faint scent of the lavender oils she used to burn lingered in the air.

Y/N stepped inside slowly. Their legs felt weak.

“How…” they whispered. Tears blurred their vision immediately.

Alaric had said the room was destroyed. Burned. Gone.

But it wasn’t. It had been preserved. Perfectly. Like a memory sealed behind a locked door.

Y/N’s hands trembled as they reached out and touched the edge of the table she used to sit beside.

The wood felt exactly the same.

“How…” they breathed again.

The realization slowly settled in their chest. Alaric had kept it. All of it. For years.

Hidden. Untouched.

The man who had destroyed everything else—had never destroyed this room.

---

Leave your comments!

[stile-pj]

“Showing my appreciation.”

Pairing: Lara x g!p reader

Rating: Smut/fluff

Tags: Gentle sex, aftercare, praise, riding, low-key roleplaying?

nothing too crazy this time :)

A/N: for @scrubs2006 I'm so sorry this is so late bb I hope this is okay😭

You've always hated fevers.

They were uncomfortable of course. You became sweaty, your head pounded, and your nose clogged. It was torture trying to sleep let alone have the energy to move. The only thing, only person, that made it somewhat bearable was Lara.

She was the most caring person you had probably ever met when it came to your illness: Constantly dampening a cloth to put over your forehead, making the best chicken noodle soup in the world, and genuinely being the most calming and supportive presence you could ask for in your most vulnerable moments. You adored that aspect of her--how she was loud and confident on stage, but inside was quiet and docile. She was the calm in your storm.

A week had passed with your fever finally easing up thanks to her care, but unfortunately it was also the day before Lara was scheduled to leave for a bran collab with some make-up company. You hated it. Of course, the day you're finally better and can properly love your girlfriend, she is forced to leave again. You didn't let it deter you, you wouldn't let it. Instead of moping and clinging to her like a wounded puppy, (although that did sound like a good option), you offered her a dinner date.

No distractions, no Lara Raj--vocalist of Katseye. Just Lara, you, and an abhorrently expensive steak that would make your wallet beg for mercy. But that didn't matter. You just wanted to show your appreciation for your girl, she deserved it after all for being such a good nurse.

The soft flame flickered between the two of you, illuminating your faces in its gentle light as Lara talked about whatever came to mind. How rehearsal went, the latest gossip, how funny it was when Sophia tripped during practice. You eagerly listened as always, saying all the right things at the right times--even when you were too focused on looking at her and her cascading hair.

Although the dinner date was originally going to be the entire thanks, that thought was thrown out the window when you saw what she wore. A gold perfectly-fitted dress, a light gray fur coat hung across her shoulders, and red bottom heels. She saw the way you looked at her when you drove to the restaurant; the manner in which your fingers tapped against the steering wheel. Lara must've wanted more than a dinner date too. She was leaving the next day after all.

"--And then Megan was like 'Dani that's literally the opposite of what I said!'' Lara had managed to get out before laughing into her wine glass. You kept your chin in your hand, a dopey smile on your lips as you watched her lips press against the rim. Lara's laughter quietly died down as her gaze met yours, setting her glass down with a clink.

"Were you even listening to me?" She asked, but she didn't sound angry--rather amused. You shrugged--neither a yes nor a no. Lara huffed with a smile, her foot nudging against your ankle from under the table.

"You gonna talk to me or keep looking at me like some lovesick puppy?"

You shrugged again, absentmindedly sloshing the wine in your glass as you kept your gaze locked on her. Intense, unwavering, with an undercurrent of want bubbling. It didn't help matters when you saw the same stare in her eyes.

"I can't look at you?" You asked simply, "I should be thanking my nurse directly, you know."

Lara chuckled.

"I'm your nurse now? Not your girlfriend?"

"You can be both."

Lara nudged your ankle again, but it was slower. You could feel the expensive material of her heel brushing against your bare ankle. She never looked away, rather slightly tilting her head with an almost innocent expression.

"So if you thanked me back in bed...would I be your girlfriend and your nurse?"

"Whatever you want." Your hand found hers from across the table, "I'm yours tonight."

Lara raised a brow with a smirk.

"Oh? Is my patient weak again?"

"Not weak. Appreciative."

Neither of you blinked before you were already pulling out your wallet--your food not even half finished and your wine half-way done. That didn't matter now. Not when your cock was slowly starting to press against your belt as it throbbed.

The minute you opened your bedroom door, Lara's lips were locked on yours, the faint taste of cherry wine still on her tongue. You kissed her with as much fervor, letting her slip off your blazer like it was poison and drop it to the floor. Your lips never parted until Lara's legs hit the bed, making her arms wrap around your neck as you gently lied her down.

A soft sigh escaped Lara's lips as her back sunk into the mattress, already moving to yank off your tie. You obliged, focusing on your button-up until they were both completely off. You leaned between her legs, suddenly nervous when her eyes raked down your body like a predator who caught their prey. A shiver coursed through your spine when her nails traced the valley down your chest, a smirk stretched along her lips.

"Your body is warm," she whispered against your own lips, "is my patient growing a fever again?"

You smiled, your hands finding purchase in her hips and pulling her in until her panties--wet and warm--were right against your belt buckle.

"Maybe," you replied breathlessly, "got a cure?"

"Anything for my favorite patient."

You gasped when Lara's legs wrapped around your waist and flipped you both over, her waist resting on yours like it belonged there. You only smiled up at her, because of course it did. Lara's nails raked down your chest, earning a groan from your lips. She swallowed it with another soft but passionate kiss. Your moans mingled together when her hips rolled against yours, the body heat between you both becoming unbearable to handle.

Your hands fumbled with her zipper, sliding it down too slowly for either of your liking. Lara's hands found the curve of your jaw as she watched you, her pupils blown out and her lips parted.

"I'll make sure you're cured by tonight, okay baby?"

You nodded as you finally got her dress off, your eyes locked on the fact that she wasn't wearing a bra. Your hands traced her breasts, to which she graciously allowed with a small smile, moaning as you dared to squeeze. She unbuckled your belt with a huff, sliding it off and dropping it to the floor. The more clothes that got taken off, the more heat was firing through your body. You whimpered when Lara palmed the bulge in your boxers.

"Be a good patient and be still okay? Or else the treatment won't work."

"Yes Lara--"

"Nurse Lara, to you."

You gulped. The small clip of authority under her voice made your hips involuntarily jerk up to meet more of her warm hand. She only laughed, a soft melodic sound filling the corners of the room and making your heart beat faster. Her fingers hooked under the waistband of your boxers and pulled them down, her breath hitching when she saw your cock--hard and leaking.

"God..." She whispered, so which you smirked smugly.

"Gonna treat me now?"

Lara rolled her eyes with a smile, slipping off her damp panties and hovering just above the tip. Just the heat of her cunt alone was leaving you panting, with your hands scrambling to hold her waist. Her hands rested on your chest as she slowly sunk down, her eyes shutting tighter with each inch she took. You bit your lip as her wet heat engulfed you like it was made for you, leaving you trembling as you watched your cock delve deeper. Both of you let out a moan once you had bottomed out inside of her, watching as Lara's hair acted as a curtain as she leaned forward.

"God--baby..."

She leaned down and whipped her head to get out of your faces as she pressed a desperate, messy kiss to your lips. You let her, your body only trembling worse when she began to move her hips. Her cunt only tightened around you when she moved, forcing you to shut your eyes so you didn't immediately lose it. Lara didn't like that. She never did. She craved eye contact like it was oxygen.

Lara forced your eyes open and on hers, watching as her face contorted in pleasure. Every furrow of her eyebrows, every soft breath that left her lips, every inch of her bottom lip that she bit to conceal another moan--she'd force to see. Lara's hands held your face as her movements only quickened.

"You're so big," she whispered, "stretching me out so good...fuck..."

You whimpered at the praise. You looked down to where her hips met yours. Not to sound too egotistical, but you absolutely were stretching her out. Her hips stuttered every time she sunk down, as if still trying to accommodate your girth. Her hands moved to your neck, watching with you as her cunt only greedily took more and more, with her clit throbbing for attention. She took such good care of you, why would you ignore that?

Your fingers circled her clit, earning a strangled gasp from Lara as she arched her back towards your chest. Your breath stuttered when you felt her cunt squeeze you harder. She must've been trying to make you cum before her with how tight she was--you refused to let that happen, though. You still needed to thank her. You pulled her into another kiss as your thumb pressed against her clit, rubbing in firm circles as your breath fanned against her lips.

"Thank you for taking care of me, you were such a good nurse to me." You smiled, "even when I whined about work or cuddling."

Lara weakly laughed, which immediately turned into a moan. Her hips were rocking faster--her release coming closer and closer. You never slowed down, though. She wrapped her arms around your neck and pressed her body against yours, your bodies slick with sweat and heat as she moaned.

"O-of course," she whimpered, "anything for my patient. Especially one so beautiful."

You kissed the corner of her mouth, feeling her melt into you as her whimpers were only getting louder, forming into sharp and hurried cries against your shoulder. You almost couldn't help yourself either, your arms locking around her hips and thrusting into her until she had to bite your shoulder to conceal her noises.

You came with a strangled cry, your grip only growing tighter when your cum filled her up--your last means of thanks. Lara shuddered next to you, her body shining with sweat as she tried to catch her breath. Neither of you talk for a moment, just wrapped up in each other's warmth. You forced yourself to get up, walking to the bathroom and already turning on the bath. Once you came back out, Lara was looking at you lazily while she lied on her stomach, dazed but with a small smile.

"Does this make me your nurse?" You asked cheekily as you scooped her into your arms, to which you received a soft smack on your chest.

"Don't be stupid," Lara chided, "your immune system is too shit for that."

-------

Idk if this is as long as my usual one shots I'm really sorry if it's not :(