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Natasha Romanoff ⧗
Killing Memory: private for rewriting
Intolerable, Illicit, Insincere
Ask Me Again in September
Not Yours
Wanda Maximoff ᱬ
Ghost Protocol: part one, part two
Seen - "sculpture is the play on light"
Last on the List
WandaNat
Happy Hollow Ever After
Antonia Dreykov
Fate's Mischief: part one, part two
Thérèse Raquin
it's too late after the impish kiss
accumuler des secrets
answered / prompts / AO3
✓ Some fics might feature morally questionable themes, but I do not condone that in real life
✓ If I'm feeling the mental strain, fics might be on hiatus for a bit
✓ Minors: browse at your own risk. I am not liable for what you choose to see
✓ Zero tolerance for transphobia, homophobia, racism, or any other types of discrimination
✓ non-binary, they/she, non-native English speaker, millennials
Summary: If someone would ask her, this was the moment she started needing you.
Pairings: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader
Tags | Warnings: Unconventional relationship, reader is in a talking stage with someone else and Wanda has a girlfriend, FWB (as a joke—mostly), minor medical anxiety, suggestive humor, sexual references, financial struggles, discussions of corruption, class difference, sleep deprivation, you put your own warnings on Wanda bc I am getting suspicious about her too...
Author's Note: Gaiz google finally recovered my email, GLB chap 13? :3
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ᱬ
Afternoon light poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the boardroom as Wanda stood beside the screen, calmly walking Pepper through her latest pitch.
"Senator Hartley's pushing harder toward infrastructure lately," Wanda explained smoothly, clicking to the next slide. "And considering his new relationship with a lobbyist connected to major construction firms, there's a good chance the next bill swings heavily in that direction."
Pepper stayed quiet, listening carefully while Wanda continued.
"If we move our assets now, we'll be ahead before everyone else catches on."
"Well, that's honestly a very good pitch," Pepper leaned back slightly, clearly impressed. "If this pays off, I'll personally talk to Tony about making you a partner."
Wanda blinked once, genuinely caught off guard.
A partner
She only came in expecting to present her pitch. Instead, this might've been the opportunity she'd been chasing for years.
"Wow…I mean, thank you, Pepper," she said, keeping her voice calm and professional even while her chest tightened slightly with adrenaline. "I won't disappoint you."
Wanda needs someone to share this good news with.
Which was honestly pathetic.
It was already 10 PM by the time she arrived at another work dinner, walking into another restaurant filled with people who smiled too much but trusted each other too little.
That was basically her entire industry.
A bunch of rich people drinking overpriced alcohol while secretly waiting for the perfect moment to screw each other over professionally.
The hostess led her toward the private dining area where her colleagues were already gathered around the table laughing like they actually liked each other.
Fake
Every fucking single one of them.
"Maximoff," one of them greeted with a grin the second she sat down. "Heard Pepper loved your Hartley pitch."
Wanda gave a small smile. "Guess she did."
Another guy laughed while pouring himself a drink. "Careful. That usually means someone's about to get promoted."
The table went quieter after that. Not obvious enough for normal people to notice but of course Wanda noticed. Those quick glances. The sudden shift in tone. The way they started mentally recalculating where she stood compared to them.
Competition
Funny how fast admiration turned into quiet resentment in corporate spaces.
By the time the gathering finally started dying down, it was already almost one in the morning and Wanda had mentally checked out at least an hour ago.
At some point the conversations all started sounding the same—fake laughs, fake compliments, fake interest. People talking just to hear themselves speak while subtly fishing for information they could use later. One coworker spent twenty minutes pretending to congratulate another guy for closing a deal while obviously trying to figure out how much commission he made from it.
It was exhausting.
Wanda gave a few polite goodbyes before she left. The cold night air hit her the second she stepped outside.
Finally—silence.
And the city was still awake like her. Not even a slight hint of sleepiness.
1:52 AM
She still had an hour before her usual drive around the city—one of the things she did whenever she couldn't sleep. But instead of driving aimlessly tonight, she found herself heading somewhere else.
By the time Wanda parked outside the coffee shop, it was already a little past three in the morning. The place was still open, warm lights glowing through the windows while the nearly empty streets stayed quiet around it. Wanda stepped inside, immediately catching the smell of brewing coffee.
A guy behind the counter looked up first.
"Uh, hi," Wanda said awkwardly, adjusting the suit jacket hanging over her arm. "Is Y/N here?"
The man immediately narrowed his eyes at her suspiciously. "Why?" he asked slowly. "Who are you?"
Wanda blinked at his tone.
"I'm her friend."
The guy stared at her for a long second.
"You? Her friend?" he repeated like the idea itself sounded ridiculous. The man looked at her up and down—long sleeves, slacks, expensive pointed boots, her suit hanging neatly over her arm, and her phone with three burner cameras flexing in her hand.
"Why?" Wanda asked defensively. "I can't be friends with her?"
Before the guy who turned out to be your manager could answer, another voice suddenly cut in.
"Wait—"
A woman near one of the tables was staring at her with immediate recognition while another guy beside her practically looked ready to combust from panic.
"You're Wanda, right?" the woman asked carefully.
Wanda pointed slightly. "And you're Kate? Do you know where Y/N is?"
Then somehow, Wanda found herself parking outside a public clinic at nearly four in the morning. And she had barely turned the engine off when she saw you.
You were inside the gate of the clinic carrying a baby in your arms.
Wanda froze immediately. Her brain short-circuited so hard she genuinely considered driving away before you noticed her.
Unfortunately, you already had.
Your eyes landed on her car instantly before your face lit up with disbelief. You will never forget that 2025 Mazda 3. A second later, you walked straight toward her car with the baby balanced carefully against your chest. Then you knocked dramatically on her window so hard like a street beggar asking for spare change before immediately laughing at yourself.
Wanda stared at you for half a second before finally getting out of the car.
"What are you doing here?" you asked, still laughing a little like you genuinely couldn't believe she existed outside expensive bars and corporate buildings.
Wanda opened her mouth to answer, but nothing came out. Instead, her eyes dropped toward the baby sleeping quietly in your arms.
"Is that your baby?"
You looked down at the sleeping child before immediately laughing.
"What? No."
You adjusted the blanket around the baby more securely before glancing toward the clinic behind you.
"Her mom is in the clinic. She's sick," Your expression softened slightly as you looked down at the baby again. "I just felt bad. She's been awake the whole time too, so I told her I'll take care of her while she naps."
Wanda just stared at you quietly for a second before slowly nodding once.
"What about you?" she asked after a moment. "Why are you here at three in the morning? Why is…why are there people in here at this hour?"
You immediately pointed toward the small scratch injected-like wound near your cheekbone.
"Oh, Manager scratched me. I was feeding them earlier. There were new cats." You sighed dramatically. "And I think Manager got jealous because I was giving the new ones more attention."
Her fingers reached your jaw gently which surprised you, she turns your head slightly so she could inspect the scratch properly.
"It might look small," she said quietly, her thumb brushing lightly near the mark, "but scratches and bites near the head and neck are dangerous. The virus reaches the brain faster from there." She finally let go and glanced toward the clinic entrance. "But…don't government clinics open at eight in the morning?"
You looked at her for a second before motioning with your head for her to follow you inside.
The moment Wanda stepped through the gate, her expression shifted.
The clinic was already crowded despite the hour. Plastic chairs lined the walls, nearly all occupied by exhausted people waiting silently under harsh fluorescent lights.
An old man sat slumped in a wheelchair near the wall, one foot heavily wrapped in gauze while his wife fanned him gently with a folder. A mother slept sitting upright with a baby against her chest while a little kid stretched across connected chairs beside her using folded jackets as blankets. Near the registration area, a construction worker with dried cement still on his clothes held an ice pack against his swollen wrist while staring blankly at the floor. A teenager coughed weakly into a towel beside his grandmother.
Nobody looked comfortable.
Nobody looked rested.
Just tired people waiting because they couldn't afford not to.
You adjusted the sleeping baby carefully before speaking again, your voice softer this time but Wanda could notice how tired you are.
"You have to come early if you want a chance to get checked fast," you explained casually. Then you smiled a little, though there was something quietly sad underneath it. "If you come at eight, you're already late." You glanced around the waiting area. "Some people stay here the whole day just waiting for their number to get called. And if the doctors run out of slots…" you shrugged lightly. "You just come back tomorrow and hope you still don't die before then."
Wanda stayed quiet while taking everything in. And somehow, underneath all that she's seeing, nobody was even complaining anymore. Like this was normal and suffering quietly had simply become part of the process.
She felt everything at once—pity, irritation, guilt she couldn't fully explain. Not because clinics like this shocked her—she knew places like this existed. Of course she did. She just never actually stood inside one long enough to feel it.
You were watching her carefully while she absorbed everything around her, almost like you were waiting to see what kind of person she'd become after seeing this side of the city.
Then after a moment, you looked away.
"What about you?" you asked quietly, adjusting the sleeping baby in your arms. "What are you even doing here?"
The redhead hesitated for a moment, then quietly said, "Uhm…I think I will become a partner now. Not just a partner, but a part owner of the company." She paused right after, almost like she regretted saying it here, in a place like this, at this hour. It felt a bit insensitive, like she was bringing up success while surrounded by people who are literally struggling.
You laughed lightly at that. "Why are you telling me this?" you asked. "Where's your girlfriend?"
"She's out of the country."
You clicked your tongue immediately. The sound was full of judgment. "Just admit it. You're not faithful."
That earned a small snort from her. But she didn't argue or defend herself. She didn't deny it either.
"Be like me."
That caught her attention.
"Oh?"
You nodded seriously. "I'm already faithful to her, even though we're only in the talking stage."
"You have a girlfriend?" her eyebrow slowly rose.
"Not yet, but hopefully."
There was something oddly dreamy about the way you said it, Wanda noticed. But for once, she didn't tease you about it. She just lets you keep that smile to yourself.
Then you tilted your head at her. "You really have no friends, do you?"
That made her look down for a moment, like she didn't know what to do with the question. Then her eyes met yours again, and there was something softer there—something almost embarrassed, almost exposed. This is a woman who had everything—money, power, looks. And yet, here she was, completely alone. It's kind of heartbreaking and pathetic.
"Okay," you said after a beat, exhaling. "We're friends now. But my rate will be higher—forty to fifty dollars per hour. And I will be strict on time too. If you go over three hours, there's an extra charge." You smirked at her slightly, watching her listen like she was actually considering it. "And no touching below the neck."
"Okay, deal." Her agreement came out fast—way faster than you expected.
You blinked at her. "Wait, what?"
She just nodded once like it was already settled. "Your terms are fine."
"You gotta be kidding me," you muttered under your breath, blinking at her. You were just joking, but this woman didn't even flinch. She said it so casually, like agreeing to your ridiculous pricing was just another line item in her day.
Wanda didn't hesitate for long.
"What about this?" she said suddenly. She glanced around the clinic before pointing toward a young kid in the corner who had been coughing nonstop for what felt like forever. "Give up your line here. Let the kid take it instead."
You followed her finger, then frowned slightly. The baby in your arms is still deeply asleep. You went straight here after work instead of going home to sleep, you were about to curse the shit out of her when she landed her offer.
"I'll pay for your vaccine at a private clinic. You'll get it faster, no need to wait here." She glanced at you briefly, unfazed. "And your paid three hours with me doesn't count," she added smoothly. "Let's just say this is your…HMO coverage."
You stared at her. "You're ridiculous."
"It makes sense," she said without looking up. "You get your vaccine—your HMO. You don't wait here until mister sun comes, and the kid gets your slot." She finally glanced at you again. "Everyone wins."
You bite your lip, glancing between her and the baby sleeping in your arms. You'd be stupid to decline that kind of offer.
"Fine," you said at last. "But I need to bring this baby back first."
Wanda tilted her head slightly, then said in a low, joking tone, "Don't. Let's keep her."
You shot Wanda a look, then walked back to the baby's mom without saying anything else. You made sure the baby was properly handed over, said a quick thanks, then headed straight out of the clinic.
Wanda was already waiting by her car when you came back.
You checked your phone before getting into the car. It was almost 5 AM, the sky started to lighten a bit but the city was still mostly asleep.
Wanda started driving and after a bit, you finally spoke. "How did you even know I was there?"
"I asked your coworker. Kate, right?" she said, eyes on the road.
You just hummed. "Hm."
Silence followed after that. A few minutes later, Wanda noticed you weren't endlessly talking—very surprising. She glanced over, she thought you were simply staring out the window or you just at one point, be silent. Her eyes lingered for a moment. You really had fallen asleep.
Your head rested awkwardly against the glass, arms loosely folded, breathing slow and even. Whatever energy had been keeping you upright earlier had clearly run out.
The next thing you knew, consciousness returned in fragments. Your eyes slowly opened. For several long seconds, your brain struggled to piece everything together through the lingering fog of sleep.
Where—
Oh yes, Wanda's car.
A groggy frown crossed your face as you pushed yourself upright, trying to gather your bearings. Your neck protested immediately, stiff from sleeping in an awkward position.
"Hey." Wanda's voice cut through your thoughts.
You turned toward her. The best response you could manage was a sleepy, half-conscious hum.
"Mmh."
Your arms stretched overhead instinctively. Every muscle in your body seemed determined to announce its existence all at once. Several joints cracked loudly as you twisted in your seat.
You rubbed your face. "How long am I asleep?"
"Almost two hours."
"What about you?"
"What about me?" she asked, though the answer seemed obvious.
"You really didn't sleep?"
"No." Wanda's fingers tapped lightly against the steering wheel. "I really can't."
You blinked.
You studied her for a moment. The exhaustion from earlier was impossible to ignore now. Not just today. Thinking back on everything she'd told you, it sounded like she carried that exhaustion around constantly. You shifted slightly in your seat.
"Do you see anyone?"
She raised an eyebrow. "Anyone?"
"A doctor. A psychiatrist. Therapist. Something."
For a moment you expected her to dodge the question or brush it off. Instead, Wanda surprised you.
"Yes."
"Really?" your eyebrows lifted.
She nodded. "I've seen psychiatrists before." The answer came easily without embarrassment or defensiveness.
"As part of treatment?"
"Partly. But right now I am just on meds."
You nodded slowly. That made sense. Honestly, it was reassuring. A lot of people ignored things until they became impossible to ignore. At least she wasn't doing that.
You looked at her for another moment.
"I have a goal now."
"A goal?" Wanda immediately looked suspicious.
"Yep."
She sighed as she started the engine of her car. "I don't like the sound of that."
You pointed at her dramatically. "My goal is to make you sleep."
Wanda stared then barked out a short laugh. "Well, that's terrifying."
"It shouldn't be."
"It absolutely should be." She shook her head. "You saying you have a plan to make me unconscious is not comforting."
"Sleep, Wanda." You correct while rolling your eyes.
"How exactly are you planning to accomplish it?" She gestured vaguely with one hand.
You sat back confidently. "I'll have my ways."
Wanda laughed. "That is somehow even more alarming."
You waved her off. Then a thought crossed your mind. "Actually."
Wanda immediately groaned at that. But you just ignored her.
"You know they say sex helps people sleep."
In Wanda's mind she had already crashed her car with what you just said.
You continued anyway. "It is science. It releases endorphins, oxytocin. Apparently people get sleepy afterward because it helps reduce stress and relaxes the body which makes people fall asleep faster."
Wanda slowly turned her head toward you.
Not fully because she's still driving but enough to give you a look. A look that clearly said, Where exactly are you going with this?
Meanwhile, you appeared completely unaware of the effect your statement had. Or maybe you just didn't care.
"So, you should have sex."
She glanced over at you again before looking back at the road. The thing that made it difficult not to laugh was how genuinely invested you seemed in the explanation. You weren't being flirtatious or trying to be suggestive. You were talking the same way someone might explain the benefits of drinking tea before bed—completely earnest.
She shook her head slowly, one hand resting on the steering wheel while the city lights slid across the windshield in long streaks of gold and white. Wanda bit the inside of her cheek despite her obvious attempts to remain composed.
Then, without warning, she leaned toward to face you. One eyebrow lifted. A mischievous glint appeared in her eyes.
"So, you wanna test that theory?"
Everything inside your brain immediately stopped working. You don't know if it was because her face was inches closer to yours or for what she just said. For one full second, you panicked. Your eyes widened before your finger flicked directly with the center of her forehead.
"Aw!"
Wanda immediately recoiled. One hand abandoned the steering wheel for half a second to clutch her forehead while she stared at you in disbelief.
"What the hell?!"
"Fuck you!" You pointed at her with genuine outrage. "No, seriously. Fuck you. You have a girlfriend and the first person your brain comes up to that idea is me? Pervert. You really aren't faithful!"
The accusation hung in the air for a few seconds before Wanda finally let out a laugh of pure disbelief. She wasn't offended, but she genuinely couldn't believe she was being scolded over what had been, in her mind, a harmless joke. Unfortunately for her, you were completely committed to this now. The more she laughed, the more serious you became. You sat straighter in your seat and folded your arms across your chest, looking every bit like a disappointed parent preparing to lecture a troublesome child.
"I was joking." Wanda groaned dramatically, still rubbing her forehead with exaggerated misery as though you'd inflicted a life-changing injury.
"You know," you said casually, "I actually have a better way to make you sleep."
"What is it now?" She groans.
"Punch. One good punch."
She barked out a laugh. "You can't be serious."
"Wanna test that theory?"
"Want me to crash this car?"
"Go. I would even say thank you."
The answer came so quickly that Wanda actually glanced over at you. You were completely serious. Or at least serious enough to make it concerning.
Your head rested against the seat, your expression carrying the exhausted look of someone who had already accepted too many responsibilities for one day. Between classes, work, and whatever sleep deprivation had convinced you to nap for two hours in a stranger's car, the threat apparently wasn't as effective as Wanda had hoped.
In fact, you looked mildly tempted.
"I'd finally get some rest," you added with a small shrug.
Wanda stared at you for a moment before letting out a disbelieving laugh.
"That is not a normal response."
You merely looked out the window.
"At least I wouldn't have to go to work."
The fact that you said it so casually somehow made it funnier and sadder at the same time.
The car pulled into the parking lot of a private animal bite and vaccination center. Five minutes later, you found yourself sitting inside a small consultation room while Wanda occupied the chair beside you. The room smelled faintly of disinfectant. A metal examination tray sat against one wall. Medical posters about animal bites, rabies prevention, and wound care decorated the room.
You were currently trying very hard not to look like someone who's out of place again because even as a clinic, this place looks luxurious.
The door opened and a doctor stepped inside carrying a clipboard. After exchanging brief greetings and questions towards you, the doctor took a seat across from you and adjusted their glasses.
"Since the scratch is on the face," they explained, "we'll need to administer ERIG around the area where you were scratched, okay?"
For a moment, you simply stared at the man. The words registered individually.
Face
Inject
Then your brain finally puts the sentence together.
He's going to inject your face.
Your eyes widened immediately. "Wait." You sat up straighter. Your heart rate seemed to double in less than three seconds. You shifted back in your chair instinctively, as though distance alone could somehow solve the problem.
"Do I need to call for an assistant nurse?"
The question was delivered with complete seriousness. You weren't causing trouble but he could very clearly see your panic.
You immediately shook your head, then nodded. You weren't even sure yourself.
Meanwhile, Wanda had been watching the entire breakdown unfold. At first there was amusement. She wanted to laugh at you but she knows you would really do that plan of yours to make her sleep with a punch. A small smirk tugged briefly at her lips before she pushed herself up from her seat.
"I got her, doc. Don't worry," she said as she stood beside you.
The moment the doctor prepared the syringe, every ounce of confidence you had been pretending to possess throughout the appointment vanished completely. One second you were sitting normally in the examination chair. The next, you were staring at the needle with the expression of someone who had just received the worst news of their life.
"Alright," he said. "Just stay still for me."
Stay still. As if that were a reasonable request.
Your survival instincts completely abandoned logic. Sitting in the examination chair, you immediately reached for the closest source of emotional support available. Unfortunately for Wanda, that source happened to be her. You immediately wrapped your arms around her, burying your face on her stomach. Before anyone could comment on it, you were fully hugging her while she stood beside your chair.
The doctor chuckled before gently positioning your head giving you a last warning.
"Okay. Hold still."
You immediately squeezed your eyes shut. Then you felt the first injection. Instantly, every muscle in your body locks. Your grip around Wanda tightened and she started caressing your head which surprisingly helped you.
The sensation wasn't unbearable. It wasn't even particularly painful. But the knowledge that a needle was involved somehow made everything ten times worse!
"Okay, it's done."
Only then did you cautiously lift your head. Your expression looked as though you'd just survived a major surgical procedure rather than a few injections around a scratch.
"Thank, God." You sighed.
The doctor shook his head with an amused smile while finishing his notes. "You know," he said casually, "you're terrified of a small needle." Then he added, in a tone that suggested he was entertaining himself more than anyone else, "But you're not afraid of the big needle."
Wanda immediately turned away and a laugh escaped her. She was trying very hard to suppress it.
Meanwhile, you simply stared at the doctor.
"What big needle?"
The doctor only smiled and Wanda was now covering her mouth. Neither of them answered. Which somehow made the situation even more confusing.
"What?" You looked between them.
The doctor simply wished you well and continued writing prescriptions. While Wanda refused to make eye contact with you. The entire exchange made absolutely no sense.
Several minutes later, the two of you were outside. The evening air felt nice after being stuck inside the clinic. You walked beside Wanda toward the parking lot while she still looked suspiciously amused about something.
Eventually, your curiosity won.
"What was that about?"
"Hm?" Wanda glanced back.
"What did he mean by big injection?" You frowned.
The moment the question left your mouth, Wanda stopped walking. For a second she simply stared at you and she freaking laughed again. Not a polite laugh. Not a small laugh. A full laugh that irritated you.
You waited—completely serious. "What?"
Wanda looked at you, still laughing. "You seriously don't know?"
"No."
Another laugh. Then she finally shook her head.
"A cock."
You blinked. "What?"
"A penis."
Your brain took a moment to catch up. Your face immediately twisted in disbelief.
The realization hit you all at once.
For several seconds, you simply stood there in the parking lot staring at Wanda as your brain replayed the conversation inside the clinic from beginning to end. The fact that you had stood there asking, "What big injection?" with complete sincerity while apparently being the only person in the room who didn't understand the joke.
"Is that even ethical?!"
The outrage in your voice only made Wanda laugh harder.
"No, seriously!" you continued, genuinely horrified now that everything finally made sense. "He said that to a patient."
At this point Wanda wasn't even pretending to hold herself together anymore. The image of your confused expression inside the clinic combined with your current outrage was simply too much.
Meanwhile, the more you thought about it, the more offended you became.
The look Wanda gave you suggested she couldn't decide whether you were being dramatic on purpose or whether this was simply how your brain naturally functioned.
"You're ridiculous."
"No. He is." You pointed toward the building again. "That man has a medical license."
"I know."
"He should know better."
"I think he was joking."
"That's what concerns me."
Wanda laughed so hard she actually had to lean against the side of her car for support. Eventually she managed to compose herself enough to unlock the car.
"Okay."
You looked over suspiciously. "Okay what?"
Wanda opened the driver's side door before glancing back at you. "Now, now." She made a small calming gesture with one hand. "Let's calm down."
You immediately frowned. "I am calm."
"Sure, darling." Wanda shook her head, smiling despite herself. "Get in the car."
You continued staring at her. "I still think that was unprofessional."
"Get in."
"I want that on record."
"Get in."
The smile never left her face. With one final grumble, you finally climbed into the passenger seat.
Wanda had parked the car again in a quiet area overlooking a stretch of city streets. You sat sideways in your seat, one arm resting against the door while Wanda stared through the windshield, absentmindedly tapping her fingers against the steering wheel.
A few moments later, she reached into her purse and pulled out a small stack of bills.
"We've been together for almost four hours. Fifty times four..." Wanda calculated. "Two hundred."
She held the money out.
You shook your head and laughed, but took the money anyway because refusing it felt pointless at this stage. The second it touched your hand, however, you peeled off some bucks and handed it back.
Wanda looked down. Forty dollars. Then back at you.
"What are you doing?"
"I was joking when I said my rates went up." You pushed the bills toward her.
"So the original package remains unchanged."
"Yeah."
Wanda shrugged and accepted the money back. "You have plans after this?" She glanced over.
"Yeah." You stretched slightly before answering. "Classes later and then I have a night shift at work.
That earned a small look from her.
"Again?"
"Unfortunately."
"You don't stop, do you?"
A laugh escaped you. Not a particularly cheerful one. A laugh someone develops after repeating the same routine so many times that it stops feeling unusual.
"In this economy?" you said, shaking your head. "I can't."
You leaned back further into the seat, one hand absentmindedly rubbing your jaw.
"I have a lot of children to feed, you know."
Wanda raised an eyebrow.
"The children of politicians."
That made her snort. But you weren't finished.
"Every time I work, every time I pay taxes, every time I buy something, every time I pay a fee for a document, a permit, a license, a registration, somewhere out there a politician's third child gets another thousand dollar Gucci bag."
Wanda laughed.
You pointed accusingly at the windshield as though the system of corruption itself was standing outside.
"I'm basically sponsoring private school tuition at this point." Your expression remained serious for exactly one second before cracking into a grin. "I don't even know their names and somehow I'm helping fund their future."
The amusement in your voice couldn't quite hide the truth underneath. Because as ridiculous as the joke was, it came from a very real frustration. The frustration of watching prices rise faster than wages. Of seeing people work harder and harder while somehow falling behind anyway. And hearing corruption scandals so often that they barely felt surprising anymore.
You started counting on your fingers.
"Food wants money."
Another finger.
"Transportation wants money."
Another.
"School wants money."
Another.
"Corruption wants money."
Another.
"Corruption isn't a bill." Wanda counters.
"It feels like one." You looked at her with complete sincerity, the joke still present in your voice but softer now. Less playful. More tired. "I never subscribed to it, but somehow the charges keep showing up. The second people elected those politicians, I started paying the price too."
For a few seconds, Wanda expected herself to laugh. The setup sounded like another joke but the laugh never came.
For the first time since you'd started joking, she didn't have a comeback.
Because you were right. About the rampant corruption. About how expensive it had become just to exist. About how hard people worked only to find themselves running in place or how some people had no choice but to keep moving because stopping simply wasn't an option.
The uncomfortable truth was that Wanda wouldn't really know what that felt like. She had worked hard in her life. Nobody could take that away from her. She had spent years building her career, surviving impossible hours, competing against people who wanted the same opportunities she did.
But even then—there had always been a safety net. A family with money, connections, resources.
The knowledge that if everything somehow collapsed tomorrow, she wouldn't end up wondering how to pay rent next month. She wouldn't have to choose between groceries and transportation. Or worry about having to work a night shift after classes just to stay afloat.
And because of that, she found herself unusually quiet.
You, meanwhile, seemed completely unaware of the effect your words had. You were still looking out the window, smiling faintly as though you'd just told a series of dumb jokes and nothing more.
The fact that you could still laugh about it somehow made it worse.
For a few moments, the car remained quiet. The money still sat in your hand, you looked down at it for a second before letting out a small breath.
"Thank you." You lifted the money slightly. "For this." The words came quietly. "It's a huge help." You leaned back against the seat and looked down at the bills again, absently straightening the edges with your thumb.
Wanda noticed how you sounded really tired.
"You're welcome." The words came softer than usual. "Thank you too for being my friend..."
You opened your mouth to say you're welcome but Wanda continued.
"...friends with benefits."
"Oh, fuck you." Your curse came automatically then a laugh followed immediately afterward.
The conversation had somehow drifted into comfortable silence again. Eventually, Wanda glanced toward you as you reached for the door handle.
"Wait."
You paused. "What?"
She pulled her phone out from her pocket. "Give me your number."
"Oh." You blinked then immediately grinned.
"Don't make it weird." Wanda rolled her eyes at the expression.
"I'm not making it weird."
"You are already making it weird."
You laughed but rattled off your number anyway.
A few seconds later she finished entering the last digit then she looked up. "What name should I put?"
The question should have had a normal answer. A reasonable answer. Your actual name, for example.
Instead, you immediately pointed at yourself.
"FWB"
Wanda stared. The silence lasted exactly two seconds before she barked out a laugh. The sound escaped before she could stop it.
"And that stands for what?" She giggles.
"Fabulously Wicked Baddie." You winked before reaching for the door handle.
A thoughtful hum escaped her.
"I think..." she began, a smirk slowly appearing on her face, "it's Frustratingly Wonderful Brat."
"Wrong, Frustratingly Wonderful Being." You shrugged. Your hand remained on the car door. "Just put whatever you want me to be." The air outside immediately greeted you as you stepped out of the car. "I'll head now. Thanks again."
And as you began walking away, you lifted the money one last time in a farewell wave before disappearing.
Wanda remained sitting behind the wheel for a few moments longer. Her attention remained fixed on her phone. Specifically, on the blank contact name waiting to be filled in.
She just ended up just typing your name.
But as she saved the contact and set her phone aside, she couldn't help hearing your voice one last time.
"Just put whatever you want me to be."
For some reason, that felt less like a joke and more like the beginning of a problem.
ik another anon mentioned films about suicidality but in terms of other rep, haibane renmei is also one i find to be much kinder and more humanising than the usual stuff you see + the writer was suicidal at the time so it came from a very vulnerable place
You shut your mouth
How can you say I go about things the wrong way?
I am human and I need to be loved
Just like everybody else does
There's a club, if you'd like to go
You could meet somebody who really loves you
So you go and you stand on your own
And you leave on your own
And you go home and you cry and you want to die
When you say "it's gonna happen now"
When exactly do you mean?
See I've already waited too long
And all my hope is gone
I really can't write right now. I don't feel like writing at all. It's like I've lost all my focus and energy. Looks like it's going to take a while to get back to it. I'm planning to recover by reading books and watching movies at a relaxed pace, but whenever this happens, I always worry if my enthusiasm will come back
Summary: You'd do anything for ten bucks—what more for forty an hour?
Pairings: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader
Tags | Warnings: Cigarettes were harmed in this chapter, alcohol consumption, mentions of prostitution, socioeconomic differences, excessive staring and laughter from Wanda, reader roasts people for a living
Author's Note: How many cigarette do you consume in a day?
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The digital clock hanging on the coffee shop wall blinked 2:33 AM in dull red numbers.
Wanda sat at her usual table, one leg crossed over the other, a thick book spread open in front of her while a cup of black coffee steamed quietly beside it. Her dark red hair was messily pushed back; she's dressed simply in black slacks and a plain white shirt beneath her suit jacket.
She looked calm, untouchable.
Which only made it funnier when someone knocked against the coffee shop window.
"I love you."
Her eyes lifted immediately. There you were outside, grinning at her like you already knew her. Mouthing the words through the glass.
Wanda frowned slightly, glancing around the nearly empty coffee shop to make sure you couldn't possibly be talking to someone else. But no, at this hour, she was the only customer left. Her gaze shifted back to you. You only smiled wider, a cigarette pack visible in your hand as you motioned for her to come outside.
Suspicious but intrigued, Wanda slowly closed her book, grabbed her jacket, and stepped out into the cold night air.
You already had a cigarette between your lips by the time she approached. The ember glowed faintly as you took a drag, smoke curling around your face before disappearing into the darkness—still smiling.
"Hey," she greeted cautiously.
"Hey, you," you replied with an easy chuckle, holding out the pack and lighter toward her. "Want one?"
Wanda hesitated for half a second before taking a cigarette from the box. You leaned forward automatically, shielding the flame with your hand while lighting it for her.
She inhaled slowly, eyes never leaving yours. The tension should've felt awkward. Instead, it felt strangely natural.
"See those two inside?" you asked, tilting your head toward the coffee shop window.
Wanda followed your gaze. Near the counter your two friends were doing inventories, completely unaware they were being discussed.
"That big guy?" you continued. "That's Vision. He has a crush on you. We all thought you were beautiful, actually," you admitted shamelessly. "So we made a bet. Whoever managed to say I love you to you first wins."
A corner of her mouth twitched. "How much did you win?"
"Five bucks each." You shrugged casually. "Ten in total. Honestly, if I knew you'd actually come talk to me, I should've made it twenty."
Wanda let out a quiet scoff through her smoke. "So that job interrogation before?" she asked, giving you a pointed look. "That was a bet too?"
"You remember that?" you laughed, almost guiltily, exhaling another cloud of smoke. "Listen, money is money."
The streetlight above flickered softly, casting gold across her features. You noticed the sharp line of her jaw, the way exhaustion sat subtly beneath her eyes, the cigarette glowing red between her fingers every time she inhaled.
She was intimidating…and beautiful you have to admit. And she looks like she goes to the gym—she's a bit muscular for a woman.
"Y/N, by the way," you said after a moment. "And you are?"
Wanda looked at you through the smoke she exhaled, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make you squint at her dramatically.
"I'm just asking for your name," you protested. "Not your social security num—"
"Wanda."
You repeated it immediately, like testing how it sounded in your mouth. "Wanda," you echoed with a grin. "No I love you too? That's cold."
And finally—she laughed. Low and warm and sudden enough to completely break through the composed, unreadable expression she'd been wearing whenever she's in the coffee shop.
"See?" you pointed at her like you'd accomplished something important. "I definitely should've made it twenty."
Wanda shook her head, still smiling despite herself.
"You know," you added more quietly, watching her carefully now, "you should smile like that more often." Your eyes lingered on her expression for a second longer. "Not like when you're here, you always look so serious, so formal."
And she did smile at that.
"Aren't you scared of that?" she asked after a moment, glancing down at the cigarette pack in your hand before looking back at you. Smoke slipped from between her lips slowly as her brows pulled together. "You don't look like a smoker."
You let out a quiet laugh through your nose. "My ex taught me how."
"Your ex taught you?" Wanda repeated immediately, something sharper slipping into her tone. "Some guy seriously thought it was a good idea to get a girl like you addicted to this?"
You looked down at the cigarette between your fingers, a smirk slowly forming. "Who said it was a guy?"
That caught her off guard.
You shrugged casually, though your eyes stayed fixed on the glowing ember. "Got lied to by my ex. So this?" You lifted the cigarette slightly before dropping it to the ground and crushing it beneath your shoe. "This is from her. She gave me this habit." Then you looked back at Wanda with a crooked smile. "Besides, everything forbidden is good, right?"
Wanda watched you quietly for a second before shaking her head faintly. "Not really," she murmured. "Some things just take their time killing you."
The words settled between you heavier than expected.
She looked away first, staring across the empty street while smoke curled around her face. Then she asked, "How long have you been here? I think you're new. I've lived here for about a year," she continued, gesturing lazily with the cigarette toward the luxury condominium tower a few streets away. "Ever since my condo got turned over."
You followed where she pointed, eyebrows lifting. "That building?" You let out an amused laugh. "Damn. You're rich rich."
For the first time all night, Wanda actually looked entertained instead of composed. Most people got weird around her money. Too polite, too careful. But you? You just said whatever came to mind.
Before Wanda could say something, your attention was already diverted to an orange and white cat brushing against your legs.
"Oh, there you are."
You crouched immediately, your entire tone softening as you scratched under the cat’s chin. The cat purred loudly, rubbing against your knee like it owned the sidewalk.
"He hangs around the café all the time,” you said casually. "His name is Manager because he acts like one."
You dug through your backpack and pulled out a cat treat stick.
Wanda stared. "You carry cat food around?"
"Sometimes, if I have extra money."
You tore the packet open and fed the cat while Wanda watched in quiet amusement. The cat finished the treat and you carried it without hesitation.
"I have been working at the coffee shop for almost two months now." You continued, you offered her the cigarette pack again out of habit while balancing Manager, Wanda shook her head once in refusal, and you tucked it back into your pocket with a nod. "Alright," you said, stepping backward slightly. "I should probably go collect my prize money before your boyfriend in there changes his mind."
"He's not my boyfriend."
"Oh?" you grinned.
Wanda rolled her eyes, though the corner of her mouth twitched again.
You smiled properly then. "Thanks for the extra income, Wanda." You say, waving the cat's hand to her.
And with that, you turned to leave.
Wanda stayed standing there longer than she should have, staring at the spot you'd just walked away from. Maybe it was because you were beautiful in a way that didn't seem forced. Maybe it was because of the nicotine-filled conversation, how talking to you had been surprisingly easy and enjoyable. Maybe it was how you baby-talked to the cat—how gentle and sort you are. Or maybe, as her psychiatrist would likely analyze, she saw a glimpse of herself in you.
But she didn't know what she saw or for what reason, she just all of a sudden came up to you and asked before you could even cross the street as you got out of the cafe.
"Hey."
You turned around.
Wanda hesitated for exactly one second before blurting out, "How much if you stay with me the whole night?"
You froze, then slowly looked offended. "Excuse me?" you said flatly. "I'm not a prostitute."
The embarrassment hit Wanda immediately.
"Fuck," she muttered under her breath, dragging a hand through her auburn hair. "That came out wrong."
"Yeah, no shit."
She huffed out an exhausted laugh before meeting your glare again. "Okay. Let me try that again." She pointed vaguely between the two of you. "How much if you come with me for…three hours?"
Your expression somehow got worse. "To do what exactly?" you asked incredulously. "You basically just reworded the first sentence. What do you think people do at this hour? Only sex, right?"
That actually made her laugh properly. And when she looked at you again, the amusement faded just enough for you to notice the exhaustion sitting behind her eyes.
"No," she said softly. "No sex."
Her voice dropped quieter after that, sincerity replacing the teasing tone completely.
"I just…" she exhaled slowly, glancing away for a second before looking back at you. "I can't sleep."
The street suddenly felt quieter.
"I just need someone to talk to."
And somehow, that's how you ended up sitting across the woman in a terrace bar at almost three in the morning.
The music was low, drowned beneath the hum of distant conversations and clinking glasses. Warm lights hung above the rooftop, soft enough to blur everything around the edges and make the city below look prettier than it probably was. Wanda sat comfortably across from you in the booth, suit jacket discarded beside her, whiskey sour resting loosely in her hand like this place was second nature to her.
Meanwhile, you were trying very hard not to look like you'd never been somewhere like this before.
Because you hadn't.
You kept glancing around without meaning to. At the expensive-looking drinks being carried around by waiters. At people laughing too loudly in clothes that probably cost more than your monthly rent.
Everything about the place screamed money.
And this woman in front of you fit into it effortlessly—you didn't.
And to make things worse, you were still carrying your bag, not even a cool freaking bag. A worn-out backpack that you literally looked like Dora. Honestly, the entire bag looked like your whole life was inside it—your charger, taxation book, sticky notes, barely passed case study papers, and probably some emotional damages too.
Wanda watched you shove it further as you looked at your cigarette pack. "You brought your whole house with you?"
"I came straight from work…and school just so you know," you muttered.
"Still." Her eyes flicked toward the bag again. "You look like you're about to ask me if I've seen Swiper."
You looked offended immediately. "First of all, that's Boots. Second, don't disrespect my bag, you ignorant."
And this woman just laughed. And somehow, hearing her laugh made the entire situation feel even more ridiculous.
You finally found your Marlboro blues and pointed it towards her warningly. "If you do something bad to me, I'm letting Vision handle you."
Wanda immediately threw her head back and laughed—again.
God, you were funny without even trying.
"I mean," she said once she calmed down, amusement still lingering in her voice, "Isn't it obvious I'm gay? I'd rather have the other girl handle me."
You shrugged casually. "It is obvious. And honestly? If Kate's the one handling you instead of Vision, you'd probably enjoy that more."
That earned another laugh from her.
You pulled a stick from your pack, sliding one between your lips before lighting it. Smoke drifted lazily upward while you squinted at her suspiciously.
"Wait," you said slowly, forehead creasing. "How much was your offer again? Just so we're absolutely clear here."
"Forty dollars an hour."
The silent what the fuck that crossed your face made Wanda hide a smile behind her glass.
"Forty?" you repeated.
"Per hour."
You leaned back against the booth, genuinely stunned. For someone juggling three jobs just to stay afloat, that amount of money sounded insane. Three hours with her would already be more than what you made in a week in your one part-time job.
"Forty dollars an hour for company," you murmured, staring at the cigarette between your fingers. Then you looked up at her properly. "You must be really sad and friendless if you're willing to pay someone that much just to talk to you."
Wanda didn't laugh this time but she didn't look offended either. She simply took another sip of her whiskey sour, eyes lowering briefly to the amber liquid in her glass.
"You know," you continued after a moment, "that drink's only gonna knock you out for a couple hours max. Then you'll wake up again."
Wanda listened silently.
"Your body needs deep sleep, not drunk sleep," you said, leaning your elbow against the table. "Warm milk helps, apparently. And I read somewhere that insomniacs usually can't sleep because they think too much. I'm used to staying awake anyway. Remember my ex? She said, she was from New York, so the time difference was awful. I kept adjusting my sleep schedule just so we could spend time together."
Your laugh this time was quieter. Bitter around the edges.
"But the whole thing was bullshit in the end." Smoke slipped from your mouth slowly as your gaze drifted toward the neon lights behind the counter. "Turns out I was basically losing sleep for someone who lied to me the entire time."
Wanda stayed quiet through all of it but not in a dismissive way. Still, after a while, it started getting on your nerves.
You narrowed your eyes at her slightly. "Hold on," you said, sitting up straighter. "Is it also a part of my job to just talk and overshare my life while you just...stare?"
That finally made Wanda glance up.
"What about you?" you asked. "Why are you rich? What do you even do?"
Wanda leaned back against the booth, her gaze briefly flicking toward the city skyline outside the window. "I'm a stockbroker," she answered calmly, gesturing toward the tall building across the street. "I work there. Stark Capital."
You turned slightly to look at the massive glass tower behind you before facing her again.
"So basically," Wanda continued, "I convince people to invest their money into industries—technology, telecomms, food companies. Shit like that." She swirled the ice in her drink absentmindedly. "I negotiate deals all day. Meetings, presentations, clients, investors. A lot of handshakes and pretending to like people." Her tone stayed casual despite the exhaustion underneath it. "High stress. High stakes."
You watched her quietly while she spoke.
Everything about Wanda screamed control. The perfectly tailored suit she has. Her calm voice. The unreadable expression she wore like armor. Even her posture looked expensive. She barely reacted to anything emotionally, always composed, always measured.
No heart, you found yourself thinking.
She belonged in an entirely different world from yours. Wanda was the kind of person who probably spent more on one dinner than you made in days. She lived in a luxury condo, worked in a glass tower, and talked about million-dollar deals like they were normal. Meanwhile, you worked yourself to exhaustion just trying to survive. Three jobs, cheap coffees, cigarettes. You dreamed about having money someday. Not even luxury—just enough that life would stop feeling like a constant emergency.
But Wanda?
Wanda looked like someone who had already won at life and still couldn't sleep at night.
"You know," Wanda said quietly, reaching over to take the cigarette from between your fingers, "you should stop smoking."
Her fingers brushed yours briefly before she brought the cigarette to her own lips instead, taking one slow drag before putting it out in the ashtray.
"Because the things we love usually end up ruining us."
You looked down at the dead cigarette in the ashtray before shrugging lazily.
"Well then, it is what it is."
Wanda let out a quiet laugh through her nose. "That's such a terrible mindset."
"And yet people keep surviving with it."
"Barely."
You pointed at her glass. "You're drinking whiskey at three in the morning. I don't think you're exactly the poster child for healthy coping mechanisms either."
"That's different."
"How?"
She opened her mouth, then stopped.
You grinned immediately. "Exactly."
Wanda shook her head, before finishing the rest of her drink in one go. "You always argue this much?"
"Only with rich women who kidnap me into bars."
"I will pay you."
"You implied prostitution first."
"That is not what I meant."
"That's exactly what it sounded like."
Wanda groaned quietly, she's already afraid someone would hear. "Can we please move past that?"
"No," you said instantly. "That humiliation stays with me forever."
That finally got another real laugh out of her.
Music pounded through the speakers, people laughed too loudly, glasses clinked nonstop somewhere behind the counter. The place was crowded now compared to earlier, full of drunk conversations and messy flirting.
You ended up sitting alone near the railings overlooking the city while Wanda disappeared into the crowd for another drink.
Your cigarette glowed orange between your fingers while you stared absentmindedly at the city below—it looked completely different from up there.
Headlights moved endlessly below like glowing rivers, cars slipping through intersections in slow streams of white and red. Buildings stretched across the city with hundreds of tiny lit windows, each one probably holding somebody still awake at this hour.
You leaned further against the cold railing, smoke slipping slowly past your lips as your eyes wandered across the endless maze of lights below. Somewhere down there were people working late shifts because they had no choice, students trying to stay awake long enough to finish requirements, exhausted employees calculating whether they could still afford rent after groceries and bills. Somewhere down there were people counting coins before buying dinner while others worried about gas prices, tuition fees, hospital bills, and overdue payments.
And then there were places like this—high above everyone else, where alcohol cost more than an entire day's salary for some people, where conversations revolved around investments, businesses, vacations, and opportunities instead of survival. It almost felt like the city itself had a hierarchy. The higher you went, the farther away you became from struggle. Down below was noise, pressure, and desperation—people rushing to catch trains, working double shifts, trying to keep themselves afloat financially while life kept demanding more from them. But up here, there was soft music, expensive glass tables, and people pretending life wasn't hard because money had made it quieter. The divide felt embarrassingly obvious from this height.
So this was what it looked like to be on top.
Across the room, Wanda stood near the bar laughing with a blonde woman who clearly had no concept of personal space—the blonde kept touching Wanda's arm. You looked away with a scoff before taking another drag.
Then suddenly a shadow fell beside you.
"Hey."
A tall guy with tattoo sleeves slid onto the stool next to yours. He smelled strongly of alcohol and bad decisions.
When Wanda brought you here, you genuinely thought rooftop bars like this only accepted rich people with sleek hair, expensive watches, and faces that looked moisturized by generational wealth. Everyone inside looked polished in an exhausting kind of way.
But this man is looking like a divorced mechanic who fights security guards recreationally.
"Can I buy you a drink?" he shouted over the music, grinning at you.
You stared at him blankly. Then deliberately exhaled cigarette smoke straight into the air.
"No thanks."
And just like that, you turned your attention back to the skyline. Apparently that wasn't clear enough for him because a second later, he reached out and grabbed your arm.
Your reaction was immediate—you caught his ear between your fingers and twisted hard enough to make him yelp.
"OW—what the fuck?!"
"I can literally make you sleep with one punch," you hissed, leaning close enough for him to hear every word clearly despite the music. "Try touching me again."
Wanda had been mid-laugh with the blonde when she noticed the commotion at the bar. Her eyes narrowed as he saw the tattooed man trying to extricate himself from your painful grip. Without hesitation, she pushed through the crowd, her hand reaching out to grab your wrist firmly.
"Let him go."
She pulled you away from the man, her arm wrapping around your waist. Her other hand extended towards the man, a warning gesture just to keep him at distance.
"You fucking pervert!" you shouted, not even bothering to look back when the man retreated.
Wanda trailed behind you. "Are you okay?"
You leaned at the railings as you grabbed your bag to get a pack of your lights. "I didn't know you weren't loyal to your girlfriend." You said accusingly. You had asked about her relationship and she told you she's dating somebody.
She blinked in surprise, clearly taken aback by your sudden statement. "What? What did I do now? Where did that come from?" she asked defensively.
"What do you think you did?" you retorted, crossing your arms over your chest, finally looking at her.
Wanda scoffed, tearing open a pack of gum and popping a piece into her mouth. "You're judging me," she said around the gum, her tone implying that you had no right to criticize her. "Look, I don't know you. And I pay you to accompany me tonight."
"Why don't you ask that chick you've been eye-fucking to accompany you?"
Wanda's eyes flicked briefly toward the blonde still standing near the bar before returning to you. A slow, knowing look spread across her face as she watched you struggle to light your cigarette against the cold wind outside.
Then she smirked. "You're affected."
You scoffed immediately. "Me? Affected? You wish."
The lighter finally sparked. Just as you brought the cigarette toward your mouth, Wanda suddenly reached over and stole it from your fingers.
"Hey—"
She casually pulled the gum from her mouth, pressed it onto the cigarette tip, then flicked the whole thing over the railing without a second thought.
You stared at her in complete disbelief. "Did you seriously just assassinate my cigarette?"
"It was irritating me."
"You're irritating me."
Wanda's smile only widened at that, completely unbothered by the glare you sent her. The wind pushed loose strands of her auburn hair across her face while she leaned lazily against the railing beside you, looking far too pleased with herself.
You crossed your arms tightly over your chest. "You asked me because this is simple," you muttered.
Wanda's brows lifted slightly. "Simple?"
"You pay me. I stay. End of story." You shrugged casually, though your eyes stayed fixed on hers. "With girls like her, there's expectations attached.
"You think I'm avoiding complications?"
"I think you're avoiding emotional responsibility."
Wanda tilted her head slightly, quietly studying you for a moment. You talked too much, but worse—you noticed too much. It was irritating but strangely funny. A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she looked away briefly.
"God," she muttered softly, shaking her head. "You really love attacking me."
You smirked immediately. "You make it easy."
Then her watch buzzed softly—three hours had already passed. Finally, the war is over, she thought.
Later, the two of you ended up sitting on the hood of Wanda's black Mazda in the parking lot, the cold air biting at your skin.
You watched her thumb through the cash with practiced ease. "Do you always walk around carrying this much money?"
"There's always something to pay for." Wanda shrugged casually as she handed you the bills. "One hundred twenty."
You stared at the money for a second longer than you meant to. It was ridiculous how much that amount mattered to you. Meanwhile, Wanda handed it over like it was nothing. You can't help but let out a smile even if you don't want to, this is the money you make for a week!
"You know, this really does make me look like a prostitute."
"Sorry," she admitted, leaning back against the windshield. "I'm kind of a swindler. I literally make money by screwing people over professionally." She smiled faintly, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "One way or another."
"Well no wonder you can't sleep," you said casually. "You should resign."
"I will if you quit." She countered, pointing at the stick between your fingers.
"Hey, this is my lungs. I fuck my own body. While you, you fuck people over."
Wanda shook her head, laughing softly.
God, you were unbelievable.
You lift the cigarette to your lips and inhale deeply. The red tip glowed brighter as you held the smoke in your lungs for a moment before exhaling slowly.
You smoked like someone who didn't care what happened tomorrow.
Unfiltered. Reckless. Honest.
Wanda couldn't stop watching you.
"What about you?" she asked quietly and curiously after a while. There's just something mysterious about you even if you already told her one-fourth of your life. "Would you really do any job as long as it pays?"
You exhaled smoke directly toward her face before smirking.
"If I feel like it."
Then you hopped off the hood of the car, waving the money slightly at her.
"Thanks for tonight, rich lady."
Wanda stayed leaning against the car as you disappeared into the empty street, cigarette smoke trailing behind you in thin ghost-like ribbons.
Last on the list. You just had to rip my heart out a little, didn’t you?
I know folks are asking for a part two, and I got a suggestion about how it can go if you need inspo;
A year or so later, you get a message/Wanda shows up at your doorstep. Vision left her, either because she “was putting too much on him” or “refused to let him rely on her”. She asks if you can ‘practice’ again, or maybe just asks for a friend to help get over it.
I could see this slowly developing into practice if it’s the latter, only this time it really does hurt way worse since Wanda might find someone again.
But if it’s the latter, maybe it’s a bit better. A little nicer, yknow? No pressure, no pain, if you can ignore the gaping whole in your heart in the shape of her laugh. Until she asks again.
“Practice”
A word you’re coming to hate. But your hopeless to refuse, how can you? You’ve practiced love before, and so what if this time your “practicing” being in love with someone.
And it’ll only hurt that much worse when she meets someone else.
(I’m partial to wandanat myself, but it can be anyone. Because it’s not you. It’ll never be you, and you know it. You open your phone again, find her contact.
11 becomes 10.
A round number once again.)
Just a few ideas! You can ignore this if you want, sorry I got a little carried away 😅
Hi, thanks for sending this message!
I was a little worried bc I thought everyone wanted a happy ending for Part 2, but honestly, that would've been really hard to pull off with this story.
People like this R with such a kind of behavior pattern just keep falling into the same cycle, unless they manage to break out of it themselves, or someone comes along who gets it and is willing to stick it out with them...
If Wanda comes back to R, she can't be the latter bc she has proved she couldn't be.
As for the former, R really does need to work on things, whether that's therapy or something similar. It takes time, and honestly, I'm not sure what healing through that process even looks like. Part of that is my own headspace, but truthfully, I can't bring myself to picture what R's life might look like once she's in a happier place, and I'm not sure I wanna, either.
Anyway, I think I could write a story where R never finds happiness, but I'll think about what else I can write.
Oh, don't say that! You totally inspired me. I might need a little time to get back to writing, tho, until I’m feeling better.
Summary: Neither of you could sleep, but for entirely different reasons.
Pairings: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader
Tags | Warnings: None yet
Author's Note: I will post this series first while we wait for that Wanda one-shot🫶
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Ruthless, relentless, fucker.
Someone like her couldn't sleep.
Insomnia, that cruel thief, came from too many places at once—regret, overthinking, depression, anger, self-blame, loneliness.
And you.
She cannot pinpoint where it all started, the first time she saw you, the middle part of the story, or the part where it all ended. There are so many fragments in her mind, she recalled every detail of her time with you—the memories, the vivid dreams—you know?
The kind that you want to forget.
Ruthless, relentless, fucker.
Wanda Maximoff was a predator in the corporate jungle—business shark, the woman who never lost. Failure was not in her vocabulary. Every negotiation was a battlefield, every risk a gamble where the only acceptable outcome was her victory. She built her reputation by crushing competition without mercy.
So when the knock came at her condo door, she didn't break her stride. Still on the line, still playing her million-dollar chess match. She yanked the door open with one hand, phone to her ear with the other—her hard expression was replaced with a smirk instantly when she saw her girlfriend standing at the other side.
"You should give me your keys."
"I'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Rogers. Glad we could make this deal happen—just like old times," she muttered, hanging up. Another victory was secured. Now, she had another matter to win.
Wanda pulled her girlfriend inside by the waist, lips already finding hers.
"You wanna move in? I thought that was against your rules."
The woman grinned against her. "You know I love bending rules." She kissed her harder.
In Wanda's world, you are what you ride, who you ride.
And who you fucking ride.
But even in her girlfriend's arms, Wanda couldn't escape her disease—wakefulness. While she slept naked, tangled in her sheets, Wanda slipped out into the night. The city air was sharp, biting, but it cleared nothing. She walked aimlessly until she found herself at her old haunt—the cafe that once served as her insomnia refuge, her second home.
The woman was deeply engrossed in her book, the pages turning quietly as she sipped her coffee that she didn't notice the crew talk behind her back—literally.
"She's in med field, I think," Vision said, his voice low. "She's always here every damn night. She's probably a nurse or a doctor, I'd say a doctor."
"No she's not," Kate corrected Vision. "She's a lawyer." She pointed her finger at the nocturnal customer, who was still unaware of their conversation. "She's always reading books, you see?" then snapped her fingers as if to tell Vision to think.
You had just clocked in for your shift, the smell of roasted coffee beans doing little to soothe the pounding in your head. Three hours of class earlier—three hours of standing because you failed another recitation that is half of your grades. You weren't even sure how to fix it anymore. The thought of balancing school and work felt heavier than the trays you carried every night.
You couldn't sleep. Maybe it was your failed recitation once again or maybe it was the exhaustion that ran so deep it looped back around and kept you awake. You told yourself you were just tired—but there was a difference between being tired and being drained.
You worked three jobs because in this economy, one job is a joke, two is a privilege, and three is barely enough. Unless, of course, you're one of the lucky ones—a nepo baby, or worse, a daughter of a corrupt official who sleeps on silk sheets paid for by the same people skipping meals to afford rent. That while you get burnt from hot coffees that you serve and count loose change, your taxes, your sweat, end up in their pockets. The same public officials smiling on TV, preaching about public service or their projects plastered with their names and faces on it, with mouths that only ever feed themselves.
So no, you couldn't sleep. Not when you spent your nights fueling the very system that kept you awake.
And when the bills came—piling higher every month—you just stared at them for a while. You'd pay what you could, delay what you couldn't. Some things couldn't be delayed, though. The body keeps score, after all. The headaches came more often now, sharp and pulsing. The dizziness hit at random, sometimes mid-shift, sometimes mid-sentence. You'd been losing more hair too—clumps at a time—but you can worry about that later on.
You tied your apron, exhaled sharply and tried to shake it off. You needed this job. You needed the paycheck. So you breathe gaslighting yourself as you walk at the back doors, even if all you wanted to do was collapse and scream into your arms.
You spotted Vis and Kate bickering by the espresso machine the moment you walked in. Same as always. Vision was wiping a cup like it had personally offended him, while Kate leaned on the counter, gesturing animatedly with a spoon in hand. They didn't notice you right away, too caught up in their quiet argument.
"Some things never change." Part of you wanted to laugh, but exhaustion tugged heavier at your face. So you just slipped behind the counter, brushing past them with a tired sigh, "What's the debate tonight?"
"Hey stop with your pre-law shit, okay? No more debates, just some…bet." Kate grins, eyes glinting with mischief.
Vision groaned beside her, already shaking his head. "You're unbelievable," he muttered, but Kate only smirked wider.
You blinked, half-amused, half-tired. "Bet? On what now?" you asked, though you already had a sinking feeling where this was going.
Kate pointed her chin toward the woman sitting by the window—same one who'd been coming every night for weeks. "On who guesses her deal first. Doctor or lawyer. I'm team lawyer, because I love you so much and I just love the craft that you do."
You slightly jab Kate as a soft laugh escapes you. Truth is, you really wanted to be an engineer but you didn't make it to the slot that's why you ended up taking a pre-law.
"Team doctor here." Vision says while pointing at himself.
You crossed your arms, your brows furrowing as you studied the woman from a distance. "I don't think she's either," you murmured, tapping your fingers on your arms. The two looked at you curiously. You bit your lip thoughtfully before speaking up again. "I think...something about business." You were having a good feeling about your guess and that only implies one thing.
"Okay, how much for the bet?"
The two looked at each other before landing their offers.
"One dollar." Kate started, her tone was so punctuated as if what she was offering was a million dollars.
You scoffed at the lame offer. "Hey, what I will do is not easy, I will go and bother her you know? And can you see her arms? What if she'll make me a punching bag?"
Vision raised the stakes. "Four each."
You let out a successful chuckle, satisfied, "Fine," you agreed. "Four each. Losers will cover all the dishes and inventory for the whole week." Your body still ached from the three-hour class you'd barely survived, and your brain was fried from all the cases that made zero sense—but somehow, the small spark of competition and money lit you up again. At least this way, you thought, the week might actually go by a little easier—less counting, less scrubbing, more breathing, more sleep, more review, more money. You needed a win, even a small one.
"You know, if she ended up being a lawyer I will set you up with her." Kate teased, feeling so strong about her bet.
"Lawyers dating lawyers is actually a curse, Kate. So no thank you."
The two looked at each other at your snappy remark before watching you take a few breaths. You walked towards the woman seated alone, you pointed at her half-eaten croissant with a smile.
"Ma'am, is it okay if I take this now?" you asked, trying to sound polite despite your exhaustion.
No response—just the soft flick of a page turning.
"Ma'am," you tried again, "there are a lot of kids dying of hunger, you know?" It was your go-to line—part joke, part guilt trip, and it usually worked like magic. You could even launch into a ten-minute rant about people dying in hunger in Palestine if needed.
Finally, the woman sighed, closing her book with a quiet thud. She looked up at you, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.
"I'll just take it out."
You blinked, caught off guard—not by her words, but by the way her voice sounded. It was deep and raspy…tired.
"Okay, doc," you said, seizing Vision's bet, you stare at her long enough as if to wait for her to correct you and voila, she did.
"Uh…I'm not a doctor."
"Oh, so a lawyer?" Pulling out the next alas, leaning your body slightly in the direction of your friends, looking subtly at Kate cheering for her answer.
She shook her head slightly. "No."
You smirked and pulled the final card, which is your card. "A businesswoman then?"
She hesitated, then allowed a small nod. "Something like that."
Triumphant, your smile widened. "Thank you, Miss Businesswoman." You made sure to say it loud enough for your friends to hear before snatching up the croissant and strutting back to them, hand outstretched for your winnings.
They groaned, shoving the bills into your palm.
Wanda isn't interested in knowing people she doesn't need.
What I fear is that people who like me will end up disappointed in me and start to dislike me
I get really nervous before sending them a message because I don’t want to offend them. After I send it, I worry until I get a reply. Wondering if I chose my words poorly, said something rude by mistake, or if it was even okay to send in the first place. It’s just how my mind works
Replying to a message someone has sent me is less stressful than sending one myself
Summery: Wanda Maximoff calls on a Tuesday night—no question mark, like she already knows you'll answer. You do. You always do. You are steady. Manageable. Easy.
Note: Well, my emotions are basically dead, so I'm just gonna post this. Please say something nice in the comments to cheer me up 😞
masterlist / ao3
Invariably, the person you find yourself drawn to ends up choosing someone else. You get filed away—a good friend, a shoulder to lean on, just someone who's always around.
Without even noticing, your go-to lines become: What are you waiting for? You'll never know if you don't try. And then, worse: Want to practice? Just pretend I'm them.
The one person who was ever meant for you never shows up. That's what you believe. And every time that thought hits, it pulls you under.
Your contact list has eleven names.
Four are family. Two are coworkers you've never spoken to outside of work emails. One is your dentist. Three others—you have to think before you can place them. Fewer people, fewer complications. Complications have always felt like something that happens to other people—the loud ones, the ones who cry in public, the ones who call their friends at midnight. You are steady. Manageable. Easy.
And then there's Wanda Maximoff.
She comes to the same monthly knitting circle—late, always, dressed like she imagined the evening differently than it turned out. Auburn hair, always slightly undone, catching the light when she moves. She argues passionately about projects she hasn't finished yet. She laughs at her own jokes before she finishes telling them. People turn toward her the way plants turn toward light. Warmth just comes off her naturally.
Between the two of you, maybe forty sentences total. You've counted.
Wanting and doing have always felt like two separate countries, and you've never learned to cross the border.
In October, Wanda's partner of two years leaves her.
She texts you on a Tuesday night—hey are you up—no question mark, like she already knows the answer.
You are always up. She calls and talks for an hour without stopping: the whole story, every detail, the last conversation replayed almost word for word. She is the kind of person who needs to say a thing out loud before she can believe it happened. When she finally goes quiet, she says, "I don't know why I called you. I just knew you'd pick up."
"I'm glad you did," you say.
Both things are true. The second one is easier to say.
She heals out loud.
By November she is rage-texting you at ten at night. December, she's dragging you to a terrible holiday movie and crying at the happy ending anyway, laughing at herself between tears. By January she's making plans again—small ones, tentative, like testing weight on a healing bone.
Come February, the worst of it has passed. Coffee on Saturdays, then dinner, then walks with no destination—her talking the whole time, you listening and watching the way streetlights catch in her hair when she turns to make a point. A few weeks of this, and it starts to feel like a rhythm.
One evening she stops in the middle of a bridge, leans on the railing, and looks down at the water. The light off the river catches in her hair, turns it almost copper.
"I want to try again," she says. "With someone. But I feel like I forgot how."
You wait.
"Can we practice?" She turns to look at you, eyes completely serious. "Like—dates. Getting close to someone. You're the safest person I know."
The word safest settles in your chest like something heavy and warm at the same time.
"Sure," you say.
So you practice.
Wanda throws herself into it the way she throws herself into everything—completely. She shows up at your door with flowers once—reservations already made, already laughing before you open it, mid-explanation of the joke. Good morning texts go from twice a week to every day, like something she's decided to do for the rest of her life. At a late-night diner she sits across from you for three hours and talks about her childhood, her fears, the specific way grief lives in the body. She wants to know yours too.
This is the part where you should match her.
When she asks what you're thinking, you say nothing much. When she asks if you're okay, you say always. One door stays closed, and she—busy with the warmth of her own opening up—learns, after a while, to stop checking it.
She gives you everything. You give her what you can reach.
In April, she's half-watching a show from her end of the couch, legs folded under her, half-watching you.
"You know what's weird about you?"
You raise an eyebrow.
"You're always okay." She tilts her head. "Like—I pour everything out and you just hold it. You never spill."
"Spilling seems like a lot of work," you say.
"I'm serious." A beat. "You never need anything from me."
"You've got enough going on."
She looks at you a moment longer than usual. Then she smiles—soft, a little unreadable—and turns back to the TV.
Walking home that night, you think about what she said. You file it under nothing important.
You keep going.
May is warm and unhurried.
The Saturdays stretch longer. One afternoon she falls asleep on your shoulder mid-movie, and you sit very still, watching the credits roll, not wanting to be the reason it ends. Another evening she reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, just because it was there. The moment passes without a word.
Then one night she kisses you.
Slowly, the way you do something you've been thinking about for a while. You don't pull back. When it ends, she rests her forehead against yours, and you stay like that, close enough to feel her breathe. Her nose brushes yours. Neither of you says anything.
She starts coming to your apartment after that. You have never shown this place to anyone, and she has nothing to measure it against—no sense of how rarely this door opens at all. She just takes off her shoes at the entrance and makes herself at home, easy and certain, and you let her, and it feels like something you could get used to.
You file that under nothing important too.
That's what you tell yourself.
By June, a name starts appearing in her texts.
Vision said the funniest thing today. Then: went to that ramen place with Vision, have you tried it? Then just: Vision.
He texted her first, she mentioned once, like it was nothing. Like that's just what people do.
She talks about Vision the way she talks about everything she loves—in full, vivid sentences, like she's already narrating a film she's fallen for. You listen, say the right things, keep showing up—Saturdays, dinners, the long walks.
Presence feels like enough. Eventually, you think, she'll see what's already there.
She sees something. Just not that.
One evening, somewhere between the second drink and the walk home, it comes out before you can stop it.
"You've been talking about Vision a lot lately."
She looks at you. Something shifts in her expression—not quite a frown, just attention, suddenly focused.
"Yeah?" A pause. "Does that bother you?"
The honest answer is right there. You step around it.
"Is this practice?" The words land before you can pull them back. "All of it—the dates, the kiss, the sex. Is that what we agreed on?"
The word sits there between you for a moment.
"Right," she says. Quiet. "Practice."
She doesn't bring it up again. Neither do you.
But something has been named. She knows where the door is now.
July is bright and relentless, the kind of weather that has no interest in how you feel.
Wanda still texts. Still shows up. But something in the rhythm has shifted—a half-beat off, like a song you know well, played slightly too fast. You can't point to anything specific. When you try, it slips.
You tell yourself it's nothing.
It doesn't quite take.
August arrives the way it always does—sudden and total, the heat sitting on everything like a held breath. You have the fan running and the curtains half-drawn when she shows up, a reusable bag over one shoulder, already mid-sentence about something that happened on the train.
She picks the movie. She always picks the movie. You order in, eat on the floor because the table is covered in books you keep meaning to shelve, and somewhere in the second act she pulls her knees to her chest and goes quiet in a way that has nothing to do with the film.
"I need to tell you something."
The screen keeps going. Someone on it is laughing.
She and Vision. A few weeks now. She'd wanted to find the right moment. Her voice is careful, the way you handle something you know might break.
"You brought me back," she says. "I couldn't have gotten here without you." A beat. "You know that, right? You're everything to me."
"I'm really glad," you say.
One second. Your throat tightens.
Then it passes. Steady. Easy. The voice of someone who is always okay.
She hugs you at the door, long and tight, her chin hooked over your shoulder. Then she's gone, and the sound of the latch is very small in the quiet.
The movie is still playing.
You go back to the floor. Settle into the space she left. The takeout containers are still there, her half-finished drink beside yours. Outside, the heat presses against the windows like it has nowhere else to be. The fan turns. The people on the screen keep laughing at something you've already forgotten.
You don't turn it off.
Days after, you open your contacts.
Eleven names.
You scroll through slowly. How many of them know what you look like when something actually hurts? How many would call you at midnight?
The number is smaller than eleven.
And then—slowly, the way light comes up in a room—you start to see it.
Wanda came to you because you felt safe. You held your hands open and asked for nothing back. She poured herself into that space and you held all of it, and it was true—the flowers, the diner, the good morning texts—every bit of it. She just told the story the way she needed it to go.
And you let her. Every I'm fine, every need you swallowed before it could reach the surface—that was you, making room. Shaping yourself into something easy to leave.
She told you that you were everything to her, and she meant it.
She just meant it the way you mean it when you thank someone for holding the door.
You find her name and press delete. It takes about two seconds.
Ten names. A rounder number anyway.
You close the contacts screen.
Outside, summer hasn't loosened its grip. Somewhere out there, Wanda Maximoff is happy. You hold onto that, because it's real and it matters and you want it to be enough.
The rest is real too.
No matter where you stand, no matter who turns toward you with that much warmth—when it comes time to choose, you are the last name that surfaces. The steady one. The safe one who holds the door.
Ah, I guess I'll just keep rotting away like this. I dimly think my spirit will never be free, and I'll just die when my worn-out organs finally fail. I don't really want to live another ten years anyway, so I guess that's fine.This feeling of being trapped is painful and exhausting. I probably feel this way because there's no mental excitement in my life. But I can't get along with others no matter what I do. I find socializing painful and annoying, so there's nothing I can do about it.Maybe this is what they call a midlife crisis. Seriously, why am I even alive?
Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Original Female Character
Words: ~2,200
Summery: Three days after coming home from the hospital, the baby gets her names.
Note: This is one of the stories from a series called Bitter Fruit.
masterlist
Intro
The winter morning light was thin, casting slanted beams across the hospital corridor.
When the nurse held out the paperwork, Wanda was holding the baby—a girl. Yael stood beside her, working through the discharge forms with quiet efficiency. Paperwork had never been part of the job, out there, but her hand didn't waver.
"Parents' names go here," the nurse said. "Since you're married, we can list both of you." She said it the way people say things that are simply true.
Yael took the clipboard. She looked at the form for a moment, then wrote. Without a word, she held it out to Wanda.
Wanda was looking at the baby's face.
She hesitated before taking it. Those sea-glass eyes—somewhere between blue and green, like shallow water—found Yael's. Yael's chin dropped, barely a movement. Then she shifted, gently lifting the baby from Wanda's arms. Wanda slowly wrote her own name into the remaining space in the parents' section. When she finished, she looked away from it immediately.
"The space for the child's name is the only part still blank."
The name field. A small void.
"You have fourteen days to file. No rush."
Outside, the air was sharp and frigid. Yael walked ahead. They crossed the parking lot without speaking. The baby slept in Wanda's arms. Wanda lowered her carefully into the car seat in the back.
Yael stayed in the back seat, beside the baby. For a few seconds after the door closed, she looked out the window.
"Let's go home," she said.
Wanda buckled her seatbelt. "Yeah."
The car pulled up in front of the bookstore. The sky was still a murky white.
Yael stepped out and lifted the baby from the car seat—that careful, uncertain grip. Five years of heavy work—pallets, beams—and she still hadn't worked this out. The baby's face scrunched, as though she might object. Then it smoothed.
Yael let out a breath. "Doesn't complain much." Something moved at the corner of her mouth—close to a smile, not quite there—and then she was already turning toward the door.
Wanda unlocked the front door. The brass bell gave its tired, friendly sound. They moved through the quiet shop—old paper, lemon oil, winter light slanting through the tall windows—and toward the stairs at the back. Yael went first. The treads creaked under her feet. The baby slept on.
The door at the top opened into the apartment. South-facing windows. Winter light, coming in.
Day One
The room was just beginning to lighten when Yael woke.
Habit. Five years of waking before dawn to get to the site—it was in her body now. Beside her on the narrow bed, Wanda was still asleep, a small crease between her brows. And from down the hall, from the small room at the end, a sound.
The baby was crying.
Yael sat up. Wanda's eyes opened. For one moment they looked at each other.
Yael opened the door and there she was, in the thin winter light: small body, improbable volume. Yael picked her up. Better than yesterday, a little. Not good, but better.
When Wanda came into the kitchen, the sound was still everywhere—through the walls, inside the walls, filling the apartment. She opened the cabinet above the counter and took down the tin of decaf. Two teaspoons per mug. She'd bought it when Yael moved in, and she'd made it the same way every morning since.
She looked at the door to the small room.
She'd cleared that room alone. Back when Yael was still keeping her distance—still saying not yet when Wanda showed her the scan. Wanda had moved the old boxes herself, carried the Jarvises' leftover things down to the stockroom. The crib arrived flat-packed and she'd built it herself, in the quiet of an afternoon. One fitted sheet. A few burp cloths. She'd kept it understated on purpose—because what if Yael said no. But now the crib was there and the baby was there and Yael was there.
The kettle started to complain.
Yael came out of the small room and settled on the sofa to feed the baby. Wanda stood at the edge of the kitchen, mug in both hands, and wasn't sure where to look, so she looked at the window.
After a while, Yael held out her free hand. Wanda brought her one of the mugs. Yael took it one-handed; the other arm stayed around the baby.
They sat in silence for a while. The sound of the baby drinking. Their own coffee going cold.
That afternoon, Wanda sat on the sofa with the baby while Yael slept beside her. How much the birth had cost her body was still plain to see. In sleep her face looked younger—the jaw unclenched, something eased. The light caught the reddish tones in her short dark hair. The thin chain at her collar caught it too; beside the chain, the glint of a gold ring.
Wanda looked away.
The baby's mouth moved. Some small dreaming business. Wanda watched her face—the shape of the brow, the line of the lips. When the baby's unfocused eyes drifted toward her, there was one brief moment where something seemed to catch. Just for a second.
She couldn't say yet who this face belonged to. She stopped that thought before it went anywhere.
A name.
Fourteen days. Day one.
Wanda looked at the window. The winter afternoon stretched thin over Agloe Street.
Day Two
In the morning, Yael took care of the baby while Wanda opened the shop for a few hours. One regular came in and bought two paperbacks. That was it.
Just before noon, Wanda started going through the desk in the back office instead of heading upstairs. She'd been putting it off—old catalogs, booksellers' association pamphlets, Mr. Jarvis's handwritten notes. Things she kept meaning to sort through.
When she pulled two pamphlets out of the back of a drawer, something slipped out from between them and fell to the floor.
A business card.
Argleton Office Supply. Sales Representative. Victor Jarvis.
She put it face-down on the desk.
She stood there for a moment, hands flat on the wood. Then she picked it up again—just the edges, without turning it over. Just paper. There was a phone number on the other side. An email address. She knew that without looking.
She slid it back between the pamphlets. Set the pamphlets at the edge of the drawer. She didn't throw it away.
Upstairs, afternoon light filled the apartment. The angle of the windows caught Yael's eyes—hazel, Wanda had learned by now, though they rarely showed it indoors. In that light they were greenish, almost gold. When Wanda moved, the color went back to dark.
"You're back early," Yael said.
"Quiet day."
Wanda hung her coat over the chair. The baby was awake in Yael's arms, looking at something—the ceiling, or nothing at all.
Wanda crouched beside them and looked at the baby's face.
A name. The father. The paperwork.
The baby looked at Wanda. Or seemed to.
"What are you looking at?" Wanda said, very quietly.
No answer. The baby opened her mouth, then closed it again.
Later, Yael fell asleep on the sofa. Wanda took the baby without waking her.
She stood in the kitchen with the baby against her shoulder, one hand resting on the small warm back. The apartment was quiet—no kettle, no creak of floorboards, only Yael breathing from the other room and, closer, the small sounds the baby made. Something between breath and voice.
Wanda didn't move.
The baby turned her head and her cheek came to rest against Wanda's collarbone. The weight of it was almost nothing. Wanda felt it everywhere.
She looked at the small face. The jaw was still unformed. But something in the set of it—the way it rested—reminded her of Yael asleep.
She stood there until her arm went numb.
That night, Wanda couldn't sleep. Yael's breathing was steady beside her. She thought about the business card in the drawer, then made herself stop. She lay looking at the ceiling until, at some point in the night, Yael's arm fell across her stomach. Heavy. Warm. That was all.
Day Three
The baby cried at two in the morning.
Yael started to get up. Wanda put a hand on her arm. "I'll go."
The small room was dark. Wanda lifted the baby out of the crib and the crying eased. She rocked slowly and moved into the hallway—the pale streetlight coming in through the north-facing window.
After a while, the baby quieted. Not asleep, just still. Wanda stopped rocking too. They stood there together in the dark, looking at the window.
"Can't sleep?"
Yael was in the doorway, one shoulder against the frame. That expression she had sometimes—not quite awake, not quite asleep.
"I was asleep. Just woke up."
Yael came and stood beside her. She looked at the baby, then looked at the window.
The silence held for a while.
"I've been thinking about the ring," Wanda said.
Yael didn't move.
"I have the other one," she said. "A ring. Same as yours. In a drawer." She kept her eyes on the window. "I never put it back on. I couldn't throw it out either." She looked at the baby. "I don't know what to do with it. I didn't want to decide alone."
Yael was quiet for a moment. Her hand moved to the chain at her collar—not to pull it out, just to touch it—and then dropped away.
"I brought mine to a pawnshop twice," she said.
Wanda said nothing.
"Both times I brought it home." Yael's voice was even. "I don't know why."
Another silence. The streetlight lay in a long pale strip across the floor.
The baby made a sound in Wanda's arms. Something half-protest, half-drowsy. The kind of sound that fills a room.
"A name," Wanda said. "I've been thinking—Veneda. For the middle."
Yael turned to look at her.
"It's Slavic. Same root as Wanda. I liked the idea of it being something carried forward. Not her own name exactly, but something passed down—is that strange?"
"It's not strange," Yael said. No hesitation.
Wanda looked at the baby. "I want you to choose the first name."
The silence this time was longer. Wanda didn't fill it.
Yael looked back at the window. One more time, her fingers found the chain. She didn't lift it. Just touched it, then let go.
"Zia," she said. Still looking at the window. "I heard it somewhere, a long time ago. It stayed with me."
Wanda said it back quietly. "Zia."
"Zia Veneda."
Out loud, the name held its own weight.
Wanda looked at the baby's face.
"Zia Veneda," she said again. Testing it, this time.
The baby didn't answer. But her eyes moved.
The three of them stayed there for a while.
Outro
Morning came.
Wanda was up first. She made the decaf in the kitchen, two mugs, and said the name once under her breath. Just her lips moving. No one to hear it. But it stayed in the room a little.
Yael came out of the bedroom. Her hair was doing the thing it did in the morning—slightly unruly, the short dark strands finding their own angles. Wanda held out a mug. Yael took it.
"Zia's still sleeping," Wanda said.
The first time she'd said it. Yael's hand paused, just briefly, before it finished closing around the mug.
Then, from down the hall: a sound. Small, certain.
They both turned toward it.
Wanda started to move and stopped. She looked at Yael. Yael was already walking.
Wanda watched her go into the small room. Then she turned to the window. South-facing. Winter light, coming in. A little brighter than yesterday—or maybe it only seemed that way.
There was still so much undone. The business card in the drawer. The ring in her drawer. The paperwork. Nothing resolved.
But this morning, the baby had her names.
Wanda moved toward the small room with her mug. Inside, she could hear Yael lifting the baby. A small voice, and then Yael's lower one answering—she couldn't make out words. She stopped in the doorway.
She looked in.
Yael was facing the window, the baby held against her. The north-facing light was thin and winter-pale, and both of them were in it. Then Yael turned. She looked at Wanda. She didn't say anything. She just shifted, slightly—making room.
Wanda went in. She stood beside Yael.
Zia was asleep between them, still that face that belonged to no one yet. But the corner of her small mouth was lifted, just barely—something that might have been satisfaction, if a face this new could hold such a thing.
Yael's free arm came around Wanda's waist. Not pulling her in. Just there. And then Yael's lips touched her temple—one second, maybe two. That was all.
Summery: She shows up once a month, sometimes less, and offers no explanation. You told yourself you understood the arrangement—until a slant of light or rain on pavement made the whole careful architecture collapse.
Tags|Warnings: Open Ending, Melancholy, Established Relationship, Cigarettes as a Metaphor
Note: A short one-shot. This story was inspired by a manga. Not that angsty, I think! If you enjoyed it, reblogs, likes and comments really do keep me going, don't be shy 😊 Questions always welcome!
masterlist / ao3
You have a "woman."
She stays at your place once a month, perhaps even less frequently, and then vanishes back into the unknown. She sees several other women besides you, and she offers no explanation or apology for it. Never disclosing her residence or her occupation, she simply drifts in, eats, does what needs to be done, and departs the following morning by the time you wake up.
---
You have told yourself you understand the arrangement. You have named it, categorized it, held it at the proper distance the way you might hold a photograph of somewhere you have never been. This works, mostly. It works until you catch a particular slant of light through the subway window, or smell rain on pavement before it falls, and then the whole careful architecture collapses without warning, and you are left with nothing but the fact of her.
---
The first time you truly noticed her, she was seated on the subway. Her gaze was fixed on the smartphone in her hands, yet her posture remained remarkably poised. Occasionally she would look up, and the intensity in her eyes as she stared down the tracks intrigued you. They were a restless green—not a fixed color but a living one, shifting the way sea glass shifts when light moves through water, darkening into something ancient and forested, or clearing into pale crystal depending on the angle.
After that, you began to watch for her intentionally. She was always disciplined, riding the same car at the same time, disembarking exactly one station before yours. Some days she carried a book she never opened. Some days she carried nothing at all—no bag, no phone, hands resting in her lap with a stillness that looked less like peace than like something held carefully in place. You noticed she always chose the same seat when it was available, second from the end, and when it wasn't, she stood near the door without holding the rail, absorbing the motion of the train with a slight adjustment of her weight, automatic and unconscious, the way sailors do.
While your attention was captured by her, she never seemed to take any notice of you. Once, the train lurched, and in catching yourself you must have made some sound, because her eyes moved in your direction—not to your face, but somewhere just past it, the way you'd check a noise in a room you'd already decided was empty. You assumed it would always remain that way.
Then came a rainy Friday. In the afternoon, the sky suddenly unleashed a torrential downpour. The charcoal clouds were thick and oppressive; it didn't look like it would let up anytime soon. Remarking to yourself how unusual this was for the season, you unfurled the folding umbrella you'd kept stowed in your bag since the last storm—pale orange on the outside, the underside a vivid yellow floral in hogushi-ori weave, a souvenir from Japan. The moment you stepped out from under the overhang, you felt someone's presence beside you. You braced yourself instinctively, but upon realizing who it was, the tension drained away.
The woman you had only ever watched from a distance as she got off the train.
"Hey, I'd rather not get soaked today. Mind if I join you?"
She spoke in a composed, alto voice. Half a shoulder was exposed to the rain, and her coppery hair had darkened as it absorbed the moisture.
You stared at her profile for a moment. Then: "Sure."
---
Rumors circulated that she drifted between various women. Peggy, Maggie, Carol, Jane, Pepper, Wanda, Maria, Agatha—names without context, without explanation. Whether those names belonged to real people or were merely fabrications, you couldn't say for sure. You had learned, early on, that with her the question of what was real was not the useful one.
You'd even heard a story about someone presenting her with a ring, asking for her hand in marriage, only for her to press it back into their mouth in a parting kiss. She is quite the celebrity in certain circles, so there is never a shortage of gossip.
Don't get too deep. You told yourself this every time you met, every time your bodies intertwined.
The nights she came, she did not announce herself with noise. You would hear the door, and then nothing for a moment, and then she would be there, shedding her jacket the way water sheds off a roof—without fuss, without ceremony, as if rooms were simply things she moved through. You had stopped asking where she'd come from. The question had a way of making the air go flat.
There was a particular hour, somewhere between midnight and the kind of dark that feels permanent, when she would lie still and you could almost convince yourself that she was simply a person, resting, the way people do. Her breathing would slow. Not asleep—you had learned the difference—but somewhere adjacent to it, someplace she allowed herself to go when she thought you weren't paying attention. You paid attention. You had always paid attention. You had enough sense not to say so.
Once she said, to the ceiling more than to you: "I used to not be able to sleep in rooms with windows." A pause. "I'm fine now."
You didn't ask what changed. She didn't offer it. The city outside went on making its low, indifferent sounds.
---
In the morning, your voice was still thick with sleep. "Oh, Natasha." You pulled a pack of cigarettes she'd left behind from the bedside drawer. "You forgot these."
Taking the pack from your hand, Natasha pulled one out and placed it between her lips. You silently extended a lighter.
"Why do you have such a nice lighter? You don't even smoke, do you?" she asked in a flat tone as she took it from you.
"Oh, that? I got it from someone," you said nonchalantly. "If it's that nice, do you want to take it?"
Natasha considered your offer for a moment. "No, I'm good. Even if I have a nice lighter, I just end up losing it immediately." She spoke with practiced ease, the cigarette still dangling from her lips, as she flicked the flame to life—and then said nothing. But you had seen it—the fraction of a second before the nothing, the small adjustment behind her eyes, like a door closing quietly in a house you weren't supposed to know had rooms. She drew on the cigarette. Exhaled.
"The room is going to reek."
You said it flatly, which was worse than shouting.
---
Teeth brushed, clothes changed, coffee brewed. Sandwiches made from whatever was in the fridge—you didn't ask if she was hungry; by now you knew she always was. The two of you ate without talking much. You ate slowly. She didn't, but she waited anyway, turning her cup in her hands, and you watched her do it and said nothing.
She paused at the front door. She didn't look back immediately—just stood there for a moment, her hand not yet on the handle.
"Aren't you taking your cigarettes?"
"I'll leave them here."
The silence did its work.
"I'll come back for a smoke." A beat. "As long as there are some left."
---
When the pack started getting low, you made sure to buy another of the same brand.
The visits had changed too—once a month, then twice, then something closer to weekly, the numbers accruing quietly like interest on a debt neither of you had agreed to take on.
The season had turned without you noticing—the way seasons do when you've been paying attention to something else. The rain came differently now, not the sudden vertical kind that had soaked her hair that first afternoon, but a low, horizontal thing that arrived without drama and stayed. Sometimes on the subway home, the light would catch the window at a particular angle, and for a moment the city outside looked like something submerged, and you would feel it again.
Then the train would move, and the light would change, and you would be simply a person on a subway, holding a bag with a pack of cigarettes in it that was not yours.
