Each winter’s quiet visit reveals more of the truth until you discover you're fated to a werewolf.
summary ༄ 6.5k words, eventual smut//sex (MDNI), slowburn, slight injury (r. burnt hand), slight hurt/comfort, female alphas have dicks, oral/fingering/p in v (r receiving)
It had been cold lately—an insidious chill that crept under your skin and refused to leave. Snow clung stubbornly to the trees, blanketing the world in white, relentless in its descent. Walks to the market had become exercises in endurance: shoulders hunched, coat drawn tight, each exhale a visible cloud fading into the frozen air. Every step outside your cabin was a shuddering preparation for the harshness beyond your door.
Tonight, the storm raged worse than usual. The radio, flickering in the corner, warned of six inches already fallen and urged all to stay indoors. Inside, the cabin was warm, safe—your cat curled at the edge of the bed, purring softly as snow hammered against the windows. Peaceful. Cozy. Perfect. Until the world decided to intrude.
A soft, hesitant knock at the door made your heart skip. You set your book down and crept toward it, eyes peering through the frosted curtain. Through the snow-blurred glass, a figure emerged—bundled in thick layers, their face mostly hidden beneath a snow scarf and hood. Your pulse quickened, equal parts alarm and curiosity. You were fearful, but you've always been one with a gentle heart. As if the cat behind you, stretching lazily, wasn't some proof of that. Knife within reach, you cracked the door open, and the bitter rush of winter air cut across your face.
The figure looked down at your small, tense frame. Her dark eyebrows drew together, eyes—green and piercing—catching the dim light. Her voice was muffled by layers of fabric, yet the words were clear:
“May I seek shelter here just until the storm calms?”
With only the slightest crack of the door, she slipped inside, letting the snow fall from her coat in small flakes that melted on the rug and floorboards. She moved deliberately, shedding her gloves and hood, each motion quiet and precise.
You stayed by the dining table, watching her, your eyes tracing her from the boots dusted with snow to the careful way she removed her outer layers. When she finally pulled back her scarf, her face emerged—green eyes sharp, unblinking, taking in your cabin with a silent assessment before landing on you.
She said nothing. Not a word. Only a faint nod, almost imperceptible, as if acknowledging the space she had entered.
You cleared your throat, feeling the weight of her gaze. “You… you can warm up by the fire,” you said, your voice loud in the quiet room.
She moved toward the hearth with slight hesitation, letting the heat touch her face. Snow fell from her hair, from her shoulders, and you felt the small intimacy of the room expand around her presence. The cat stirred, watching her silently, then resumed its rest.
"Would you like something…? water, tea… bread?"
No response from her, but when you come to sit by her with offerings of hot herbal teal and bread, she takes it with another nod your way. You only glance to her momentarily. There's a strange sense of peace besides her despite your sizing. Even then, you still have a knife stowed in your boot.
"What're you doing up in these woods," you ask quietly, glancing over at her.
"I'm from here," is her short response.
Well, no duh you thought. You can't find out if she doesn't want to talk, or if she's just painfully shy. In other words, it seems she doesn't wish to talk too much. With a sigh, you press your hands against your knees, standing.
"Well, my name's written on that cup of yours there. I'm going to head to sleep. You can sleep on the couch there if you'd like. Don't be afraid to wake me up if you need anything, okay?"
You stand, sock clad feet pattering as you walk towards your bed, sliding under the sheets as sleep overtakes you. The next morning when the storm cleared, you wake to one less presence in your home. The sun streams into your home gently, lighting the note on your dining table. A soft ripped piece of paper that read, "thank you for offering your home. I hope you enjoy the rest of your winter - wanda."
She was a stranger nonetheless, but your intention so far has never been wrong. She seemed like a big dog. Giant and intimidating, but a gentle soul. With a soft smile on your face, you tuck the note away in your bedside drawer.
It wasn’t until the following winter that you saw her again. A soft rapping at your door, and there she stood—bundled in snow gear once more, her green eyes finding yours. This time, she smiled, just slightly, as you offered her the same steaming cup of tea.
Unbeknownst to you, she had been coming each winter. Each visit, she grew a little less guarded, a little more at ease. And slowly, you found yourself looking forward to it. It became a quiet tradition. Neither of you ever spoke of it. If the subject arose, you both looked away sharply, as if merely mentioning it could burn you.
Over time, you’ve learned a little more about her—where she’s from, her family, her town, her past. And she, in turn, has learned about you. Where she was once the quiet one, she now takes the lead in conversation, asking questions, probing gently, curious to know more about you. Slowly, the silence that once defined her presence has softened into something warmer, more engaging, a quiet companionship built over time. A delicate companionship.
You’re making dinner, the oven humming on medium heat as you prepare something for the both of you. In an instant, your hand brushes against the hot surface, and a sharp hiss escapes your lips. Pain sears through your skin, red spreading across your hand.
Before you can fully register it, you feel her presence. She’s beside you, moving close with a quiet swiftness. Her expression mirrors yours—pained, concerned—and her cold hands find yours, holding them gently as she inspects the burn.
For a moment, time seems to stretch. Her eyes lift to yours, and you suddenly notice just how close you’ve become. Her hands linger on yours, and her gaze flickers to your lips. The hair on the back of your neck rises; your breath catches. Slowly, deliberately, her face moves nearer, eyes closing… and then, at the last moment, she pulls back, smiling softly. Her hands pat yours before she steps back toward the couch.
“Seems it’s just a burn. Be more careful—always so clumsy,” she says, her tone teasing.
You remain frozen for a heartbeat, still caught between shock and the lingering closeness. When it finally fades, you glance down—and notice your hand. The welt that had been forming is gone, pain vanished. Leaving you wondering if you had even been burnt in the beginning.
It was fall—the time just before winter, when the first bite of cold feels familiar, almost welcome. You were at the market, gathering food, stocking up for the months ahead. You’d woken with a headache and a slight fever, but brushed it off, blaming it on deep sleep. Now, though, you could feel it creeping deeper, settling into your bones.
Stupid. You cursed yourself as you walked home, your body betraying you. Everything was shutting down. The trees, the orange and brown leaf-dusted bushes—they blurred together. You weren’t even sure you were on the path anymore. Nothing made sense. You were cold, yet burning. Head pounding, body aching, nose running. The fever made your vision swim, and you squinted against it, leaning against a tree, fighting to stay upright. And then it was too much. Your body turned against you completely. The world bled at the edges of your vision, brown and black. The last thing you registered before the ground swallowed you was the unbearable weight of your own weakness—and then nothing.
Something pressed at the edges of your mind, and you woke with a sudden, unexplainable awareness. You were warm, wrapped in layers of furs, lying on the floor of a small hut. Despite the dizziness clouding your senses, you sat up abruptly, aware that you had no idea where you were.
Outside, you heard movement—the crunch of leaves, the shuffle of footsteps passing near where you had lain. Panic surged through you, heart racing, as you stumbled out from under the furs. A woman you didn’t recognize stepped into the hut. Your eyes shot to her, wide and alarmed, chest hammering, every nerve on edge like a trapped deer. And then—behind her—you heard a familiar voice, calm and grounding. Before you could process it fully, the figure you knew quite well appeared.
“You…” you gasped, breathless, as if you’d run a mile. “You… you’re… where am I? What… what’s happening?”
Questions tumbled from your lips, spiraling out of control. Wanda gave a brief nod to the other woman before settling at the end of the furred bedding. Her voice was low, measured—familiar.
“You’re in my village,” she said, meeting your gaze. “I brought you here after finding you unconscious.”
You sank onto the furs, still shaky, every muscle tense. Your mind raced, trying to stitch together what had happened. “Unconscious… I… I don’t remember…” you stammered, voice barely above a whisper.
The unknown woman stayed at the edge of the hut, silent, her eyes calm but unreadable. She didn’t speak, just watched you, like she was letting you take the lead in understanding.
Wanda leaned closer, her hand brushing yours in a quiet gesture meant to reassure. “You got sick in the woods,” she explained softly. “Fever… exhaustion… you weren’t able to make it back. I couldn’t just leave you there.”
You looked up, eyes wide. “I… I don’t know what to say…” Your throat felt tight, your body still trembling.
She takes a leap, reaching and resting her hand over yours for a brief moment and it feels like you've been burnt at her touch. "no need to say anything. you saved me many moons ago. now I get to return the favor."
You stare at her, mouth opening to respond, but before a word escapes, the other woman steps forward again. Wanda’s hand retreats from yours, leaving a lingering warmth behind.
The newcomer has markings along her arms and chest—symbols, intricate and deliberate. Now that you notice them, it strikes you that everything in this hut, everything surrounding you, feels grounded, earthy, far removed from the world you knew in the city.
She kneels beside the mat with an exasperated huff. “Can’t wait forever, Wanda. I need to give more,” she says, reaching beside her for jars of oils and herbs.
Seeing your hesitation, her eyes narrow slightly, and she tilts her head toward you. “Nuh-uh. None of that,” she chides gently but firmly. “This heals you. You want to be healed, yes? Then sit still.”
Her hands hovered over the supplies for a moment, waiting for your compliance. Her presence was commanding, yet strangely grounding. Once finished, she gathered her things and slipped out of the hut without another word. Wanda looked down at you. She had never been one for words, or long stories—but now her eyes carried weight, a heaviness that made your chest tighten. Something about her unsettled you, though you couldn’t name it.
“Wanda…” you began, but she didn’t pause.
“I’ll be back later to check on you. Rest,” she said softly, and then she was gone.
The crunch of leaves followed her into the distance, leaving you alone in the hut, the lingering warmth of the furs and her presence both comforting and strange.
later that night, you're awaken by the shuffle of leaves nearby. You sit up a little, expecting wanda to walk in, but you realize quick that whoever is walking towards the hut is not her. the steps are too heavy, too slow. as if they're trying to not wake up whoever is in the hut. you reach for the knife in your shoe, but realize it's been taken.
You freeze, every muscle tight, heartbeat hammering in your ears. The figure steps fully into the doorway, their presence filling the hut like a shadow with weight. Their eyes lock on you, unnervingly focused, glinting in the firelight that filters through the frost-covered window.
You stumble back instinctively, hand reaching for nothing—knife gone, mind racing. The air feels thick, charged, every breath catching painfully in your chest.
“Who… who are you?” you croak, voice shaking, barely above a whisper.
No answer. Just that unnerving gaze, and the slow, deliberate shuffle of their boots on the wooden floor. Panic claws at your chest. You stumble toward the door, desperate, the world tilting as adrenaline surges.
“Wanda!” you scream, voice breaking, raw with fear. You burst out into the cold night, lungs burning as you sprint toward the village fire. Shapes gather around it—figures seated, still, eyes wide as they turn to you. The orange glow illuminates their faces, frozen in a mixture of shock and calculation.
Your voice cracks as you gasp, "Someone’s in the hut—someone’s trying to—”
The firelight flickers, and for a moment, everything freezes. The figure that scared you is gone, or perhaps waiting, just beyond the edge of the glow. All you can do is stand there, shivering, heart pounding, as their stares weigh down on you.
The crowd goes quiet in a way that feels wrong. Not shocked-into-silence quiet. Not curious quiet. A different kind—something tight and uncomfortable, like you’ve walked into the middle of a conversation you weren’t supposed to hear. A few of them lean back subtly, as if your presence itself is unsettling. Others stare too intently, assessing you the way someone might assess a threat they don’t want to trigger. The fire crackles, but even that sound seems muted under the collective tension.
You take one step toward the group, trying to find someone—anyone—who isn’t looking at you like a problem. But the instant you move, several heads turn sharply.
Someone whispers, “Human,” like the word itself is a curse.
Your stomach drops. The cold feels deeper. Before you can speak, a hand wraps around your wrist—not hurting, but firm enough that you stop breathing for a moment.
Wanda. She doesn’t say anything. Just pulls. Hard enough that you have no choice but to stumble after her. The crowd parts, not out of kindness, but caution. You hear someone mutter something low and unhappy, but the wind steals the words before you can catch them.
“Wanda—wait—” you try, but she doesn’t slow, her steps relentless and clipped, snow crunching under her boots in a pace that borders on angry.
The huts blur past. The trees blur. Your breath fogs in frantic bursts. By the time she shoves the door to her hut closed behind you, your legs feel unsteady.
The quiet inside is suffocating.
You’re still catching your breath when everything inside you suddenly snaps.
“What was that?” you demand, louder than you mean to. “Why did everyone look at me like—like I wasn’t supposed to exist? What… what is happening? Where am I actually, Wanda? Fucking evolution times?"
You hear the panic in your own voice and wince, but you can’t reel it back in now. Not after what just happened. Not after the look on those villagers’ faces.
“Who are they?” you push. “And who are YOU?”
Wanda stands with her back to the door, shoulders tense, breathing a little too fast. Snow melts off her coat and drips onto the floor in slow, uneven taps. Her jaw works once. Twice. Like she’s deciding whether to tell the truth or lie.
When she finally speaks, her voice is low. Controlled. A little frayed around the edges.
“They’re not… human,” she says. No embellishment. No drama. Just the plain, blunt truth.
You laugh, eyeing her. Only seeing some of her expression due to the fact her hut is only lit by a single candle. But she cuts you off, stepping forward, her eyes steady and unflinching.
“They’re werewolves,” she says, and the way she says it—almost quiet, almost resigned—makes it feel less like a fantasy and more like a fact you simply hadn’t put together yet.
Your laugh this time comes out sharp and strained, bouncing awkwardly off the wooden walls. It’s not even real humor—just the only reaction your brain can muster when something sounds too far outside the world you know.
“Werewolves,” you repeat, the word tasting ridiculous in your mouth. “God, you’re kidding me? Are you joking? Is this some sort of—what—sick roleplay?”
You watch her carefully, hoping for the smallest hint of a smile, a smirk, even the twitch of her lips that would tell you she’s messing with you. Anything.
But Wanda doesn’t move.
No softening. No irritation. Just this still, careful steadiness that makes your stomach twist. The candlelight flickers over her face—half shadow, half warm glow—carving sharp lines along her cheekbones. Her eyes stay on you, unblinking, unreadable but undeniably serious.
“If I were joking,” she says quietly, “I would’ve laughed before you did.”
You open your mouth, then close it. The room suddenly feels smaller, the air heavier.
“Okay,” you say, hands lifting uselessly, “but that’s not—Wanda, that’s not real. People don’t just turn into wolves. That’s—science would’ve—someone would’ve—”
“Found us?” she finishes. Her head tilts slightly. “Some have tried.”
She steps closer, slow and deliberate, not threatening—just intentional in a way that sends a prickle down your spine.
“Think,” she says. “Think about the night you burned your hand.”
Your breath hitches. You do think about it. How the welt vanished, how she touched you like the pain was hers, how she pulled back smiling like nothing had happened.
“That wasn’t…” You shake your head hard. “That wasn’t shifting into an animal.”
“No,” she agrees softly. “It wasn’t.”
Another step closer. You don’t back away, but your pulse stutters.
“But it was a sign,” she continues. “Of what I am. Of what my people are. Of what our bodies can do. You’ve seen pieces of it already—you just didn’t recognize them.”
Her voice stays level, calm, almost gentle, but nothing about her posture says she’s lying. There’s no waver, no hesitation.
“Wanda, this is insane. You can’t expect me to just… believe this.”
She exhales slowly, the sound barely audible.
“It’s not belief I’m asking for,” she murmurs. “It’s reality. Yours just collided with mine.”
"The fuck do you mean…?"
“I’m the head of this village. And with that comes my… second gender. We call it an alpha.” Her voice is steady, but there’s strain underneath. “Alphas have instincts. Bonds. We have things called mates, and you’re—”
Your heart slams in your chest. Too much. Too fast. You cut her off before she can finish, because you already know where it’s going.
“Prove it,” you whisper, surprising even yourself. "Prove your… this werewolf…"
Your voice isn’t challenging—just exhausted, scared, desperate for something that makes sense.
“You don’t want to see,” she says, almost a warning.
Your breath catches. “Wanda—”
She finally looks away, just for a second, jaw tightening.
“I don’t shift inside a hut,” she says quietly. “It’s dangerous. Confined.”
Your throat goes dry. "Then let's go outside."
The clearing is quiet in a way that feels familiar—too familiar. The same kind of quiet from that first winter she ever knocked on your door. The kind that presses against your ears and makes every small sound sharper, heavier.
The wind moves between the trees, brushing cold fingers across your arms. You wrap them around yourself, more out of instinct than warmth. The single candle inside her hut had been warm, but out here the night seems colder than you remember.
Wanda stands a few feet away. Her breath curls into the air. Her eyes are locked on yours—steady, bracing, as if she’s waiting for you to bolt or step closer or say something she doesn’t want to hear.
You swallow, unable to. There’s too much in your chest. Too much confusion, too much shock, too many pieces of your world shifting under your feet all at once. And then—it happens with no warning. No dramatic sound, no violent flash of movement. One second she’s standing there, boots planted in the snow, eyes steady on yours.
The next, where she stood is now a wolf. Light brown fur, sun-kissed in places that lean toward red. Shoulders broad, posture grounded, head low but eyes still unmistakably hers—green, sharp, watching you with a strange mixture of caution and… apology.
You don’t move. Your mind scrambles for words, but your mouth stays shut. Even your breath feels thin, shallow. You’re not afraid. Not exactly. But the shock hits you in a way you weren’t prepared for—like cold water thrown over your head.
Like reality rearranging itself faster than you can understand. You stare at her. She stares back. A minute passes. Or ten. You can’t tell. And then, without speaking—because you can’t, because you don’t know how to—you turn.
Your boots leave a path. You don’t look back. You walk into the dark because it’s easier than standing there, unraveling.
Wanda doesn’t follow.
That winter, your cabin feels wrong.
Too quiet.
Too still.
Too empty.
There’s no knock at your door.
No strong presence just outside your threshold waiting for tea.
No soft note left on your table in the morning.
No pine-scented breeze when she opens your door just enough to slip inside.
No awkward smiles.
No laughter muffled behind your hand.
No lingering glances that lasted a little too long by the fire.
Nothing.
You don’t realize you’re crying until your vision blurs and your breath shakes. You curl in on yourself on the edge of your bed, the cold finally seeping in after hours of pretending it wasn’t. Your cat butts her head against your leg, confused but insistent in that quiet way animals know when something is wrong. You bury your fingers into her fur just to anchor yourself. The furnace has been out, never turned on since you've gotten back home The cabin is cold enough that you can see your breath again.
You sit in the silence, feeling everything at once—the guilt of walking away without a word, the grief of losing someone you never let yourself admit meant more, the anxiety of knowing she wasn’t just someone. She was… something else entirely. Someone whose world you stepped into without asking, without understanding.
You wipe your face, but tears keep coming, hot and frustrating. You whisper into the cold air, voice cracking—
“I’m sorry.”
But the only response is your cat purring weakly and the wind brushing against the frosted windows. Winter stretches on. And for the first time since you met her, you spend it alone
A few weeks later, it’s January. You’ve been hollow for days—long enough that the ache has settled into something dull but constant. The dreams don’t help. Two, maybe three, where she was close enough to touch. Close enough to make waking up feel like hitting cold water. You’ve thought about going back.
Running, even. But you don’t know where that village is, not really. You don’t know how you got home that night. You just… woke up. Alone. You’re sprawled on your bed with a book you’ve read twice before, trying to disappear into it. The radio crackles on in the background, warning about a snowstorm rolling in later, but you barely hear it.
Then—A knock. Your heart leaps in a way you immediately smother. Wishful thinking. You turn a page you haven’t actually read. Another knock. Sharp. Certain. You’re on your feet before your mind catches up. The cold rushes in when you open the door—and she’s there.
Same snow gear. Same eyes locked on yours, full of a dozen unreadable things. You don’t think. You just reach. Tug her forward, pressing a desperate kiss to the edge of her mask where her mouth would be. It’s reckless, almost pathetic—but she doesn’t hesitate. She acts faster. Surges in with you, one arm already around your waist, steering you both inside. The other reaches back, shutting the door with a solid thud.
Your back bumps the kitchen counter, a quiet thud swallowed by the heat of the moment. Your arms loop around her neck automatically, pulling her closer. You shove the hood off her head, fingers sliding into her hair, and the kiss only deepens—soft gasps, shared breaths, the kind of closeness you’ve been aching for for weeks.
And then she feels it. The warm drops hitting her cheeks. Your tears.
She slows instantly. Her hands shift—one to your waist, one to your back—as she pulls back just enough to rest her forehead against yours. Her eyes soften when she sees your face, your trembling mouth, your fingers curled tight into the front of her jacket like you’re afraid she’ll slip away again.
You press your face into her chest, the words shaking out of you in uneven breaths.
“I’m lost,” you whisper. “And confused. I’ve never… had anything like this before.” Your hands clench in the fabric. “But every second without you feels like I’m dying. I—” Your voice cracks. “I want to try.”
“Then we’ll try,” she murmurs into your hair. “Even if it’s… complicated. It’s unnatural for us to be destined with those of your kind—”
You pull back enough to look at her, a shaky smile edging onto your face. “You mean humans?”
She gives a tiny huff, almost a laugh, the tension in her shoulders easing. “Yes. Humans.”
Then her expression shifts—more serious, more deliberate. She lifts a hand to your jaw, tilting your face toward hers. Her thumb brushes the tear tracks you haven’t wiped away yet.
“It’s not common,” she admits. “It’s not easy.” Her eyes hold yours, steady and unflinching. “But we’re meant to be together for a reason. The moon goddess—”
You groan softly, rolling your watery eyes. “God, there’s so much I apparently need to learn. Moon goddess?”
She pulls back just enough to give you a look—somewhere between offended and exasperated.
“It’s serious,” she says, deadpan.
You almost laugh, the sound half-broken. “I’m sure it is. I just—give me a second to catch up. You’re dropping supernatural deities on me after kissing me senseless.”
Her mouth twitches like she’s trying not to smile, but the seriousness doesn’t fade.
“It’s part of us,” she says quietly. “Part of why mates exist at all. I’m not trying to convert you or… whatever humans worry about. I just need you to understand it matters.”
You breathe out, shaky but softer. “Okay. Then teach me.”
In the weeks following, she visits often now, not just one or twice each winter. she brings little gifts as well. A fur blanket, your favorite flowers, a toy for your cat… each time she visits, she presses a gentle kiss against your lips as a greeting and parting.
You leaning up to press a kiss back, smiling. Heart warming each time. Love for her curling around inside you, making you feel like a gross child with her first crush. Waving with a cheesy grin as she walks back towards her home.
You come to learn so much more about her, more than what you knew. What the second genders are, what mates are, why the moon goddess matters, the origins…. it felt surreal, but after some time it become an after thought. She's even shifted at times, the the both of you feeling more and more comfortable with the topic.
She lays against the headboard, your body laying back against her chest. Your hands playing with her fingers, whispered conversations about last weeks inside joke. You laugh as her hands come to tickle at your sides.
Your body jerking about, until you're twisted around, chest to chest with her. You swallow at how close you are, haven't having this kind of intimacy yet. You grow a little nervous, eyes slipping to her lips, revealing your thoughts to her.
Her hands settle at your waist, her face inching closer, that prideful little smile curving her lips—fully aware of the effect she’s having on you. Your breath stutters. Then her mouth meets yours, and she’s guiding the kiss, steady and sure. She shifts you easily, drawing you onto her lap until you’re straddling her thighs.
A few soft kisses blur into something deeper, and suddenly you’re on your back beneath her. Your hands slip under her shirt, fingertips dragging lightly along her back. She shivers. You gasp into her mouth as she keeps kissing you, each one stealing more of your breath. What started sweet is turning warmer, heavier—her eyes darkening the longer your lips meet, the longer you pull each other in.
She breaks the kiss, panting softly against your lips. Her forehead nearly touches yours as she looks at you—your already hazy eyes, your flushed cheeks, the way you’re holding onto her like you’re afraid she might disappear.
“Are you ready?” she whispers. Her voice is the lowest you’ve ever heard it, warm and full and unmistakably wanting—but still careful. Still giving you every chance to breathe. And you do. You breathe. Nothing in you screams to run. You feel steady. Held. Safe.
You nod, your voice a breath against her mouth. “Yes.”
And she's on you, lips trailing down your neck and you keen. Your head falling back against the pillow. Body squirming under her as she kisses down your body, her hands. large and warm slide up your abdomen, up and up and now she's helping you slip your shift off entirely. it falls somewhere on the floor.
Her hand comes to just tug your bra down, breasts spilling out. Lips at your neck, now trail down to your breasts. Your cheeks heated as you shyly gasp at the attention. Your cute sounds, bring an almost cocky smile on her lips. She teases, wrapping her lips around one nipple, watching as you react all the more.
She wants to stretch it out, bring each sound from you. Tease you till you're shaking under her for more, pleading her.
Your pants fall off next, leaving you just in your underwear. Cold air, but with her above you, it's like a heater. You look up at her through your lashes as her eyes rake over your body. She curses under her breath, "my god, you're sculpted perfect." A slight laugh escapes you and she leans in, kissing you yet again. She shuts your little giggles when her fingers drag from the outside of your thigh to slide between your pussy lips.
Two seconds later. Your backs arched, hands clutching at the sheets around you. Moans and gasps escaping you as she rubs her finger on your clit over the cloth of your panties. Wetness seeping through, coloring your underwear two shades darker than its original color. The scent is driving her insane, straining at her pants. Her inner alpha stirs inside her, whispering in her conscious about hot you are. What she should do next. God damn she wants to do it all, but she knows you can only handle so much.
She grips your chin, bringing you to look down at your body. All to watch as she lowers herself. Each hand holding your legs spread. A gasp escapes you before her lips even collide with your cunt. A lick, from the bottom to top. Your hips jerk, clenching around nothing. She shuts her eyes, the smell of you right up against her neck bring her the brink of insanity.
She tears your panties to the side, her tongue now directly on you as she eats you out. Kittenish licks before have now translated to her shoving her tongue right up inside you. To hear and watch you choke on a whine. You're so wet, dripping all over her face, down her lips.
She could die a happy woman here, between your thighs.
At the brink of your orgasm, she pulls back. She shushes your whines, leaning her body over yours.
"shh, love. I'm not done. I promise," she whispers, pressing a kiss to the corner of your lips.
Her hands make quick work of her own pants, pulling them down. The size of her has you attempting to rub your thighs togther, aroused all over again. She laughs at your willingness, kissing you one more time.
"not yet," she whispers against your lips. "Gotta stretch you out first."
Oh and she makes you a mess. Her fingers, thick, stretch you so well. Pressing and swirling at a pace and spot that brings you to your first orgasm, almost tearing her skin as you drag your nails down her arms. While you're slowly coming back, she licks at her fingers. Savoring your musky scent, eyes darkening all the more.
Your legs are stretched, left wide for her to slot herself between. Wanting to watch your face as she slides her length up and down your cunt, watching as you try to clench around her. Your eyes, glossy, watching her with a sense of lust and love. She leans to nuzzle into your neck, pressing kisses. The moment she starts to press herself in, you're tugging at her hair.
"O-oh…" you murmur, hips rolling around.
Wanda hisses at how tight you grip her, how hot you feel as she sinks into you. "You're perfect," she mumbles against your neck, lips sliding all around your neck. You whimper, impaled under her, squirming your hips, just wanting her to move. Sensing your impatience, she pulls out before pushing back in.
You're hers and she hasn't even marked you as hers yet, but with the way you're taking her? it's enough.
Your porn sounding moaning. Bed squeaking under the both of you. The sounds of your bodies meeting at each thrust. You dripping onto the sheets. Her sweet, sultry murmurs against your skin. Your chests sliding against each other. Eyes locked on each other. Your hands digging at her back, the sheets, the headboard.
Your vision blackens, sight turning into a starry sky as you come down from your high. One you haven't ever reached before. Even after you come down, and she's still pushing into you, you're grinding your hips, seeking more. Pleading, begging.
Then comes a slight stretch with each thrust. It feels as if she's growing, more and more until she's unable to pull out comfortable. She falls atop of you, panting. Her lips find whatever part of your neck is closest, and she bites down. A painful choke of a whimper escapes you.
"Wanda-!"
A rush of feeling, emotion, connection fills you. A feeling that makes you want to cry, but also smile full of joy. She can taste copper on her tongue as she pulls back. The mark bleeding a bit, but it took it's place on the bottom right side of your neck. Already bruising. You look at her incredulously, eyebrows furrowed.
"What… what the hell was that?" you pant.
She looks confused. Her hair a mess from your tugging. She looks down at you, eyes occasionally glancing at where you're both connected.
"I.. I thought we've had this discussion. We've just mated."
Your eyes widen a little, a hand reaching to cup the mark on your neck. "is… is that why I felt emotions a seocnd ago… were those… yours?"
She shrugs, "probably, yeah."
You stare. Speechless. Your pulse is still racing, but the tidal wave of emotion from seconds ago has already thinned into something bearable—like an echo fading down a long hallway. She’s still braced over you, breathing harder than you are. Her pupils blown wide, chest rising and falling as if she’s just run miles. Her hands tremble where they rest on either side of you.
“Did it hit you that hard?” you whisper, stunned by how undone she looks.
She swallows, eyes dragging to your neck, then back to your face. “It’s not supposed to,” she says hoarsely.
You blink. “I thought this was normal for—”
“It is,” she cuts in. “For us.”
A beat. Her voice softens, strained at the edges. “But you’re human. You don’t feel the full hit. Not like I do.”
You freeze. “Wait—so that wasn’t my overload? That was yours?”
Her jaw clenches, and she nods once, almost embarrassed.
“It’s… a lot. The bond forms all at once for my kind. Your everything slams into me—your emotions, your scent, your instincts—like stepping into a storm at full force.” She sucks in a breath as if remembering it. “You only get a fraction of it. A whisper.”
A whisper? Your mind reels, thinking back to the moment: that dizzy burst of warmth, the ache in your chest, the weird joy-laced grief that wasn’t fully yours.
“That was just a whisper?” you breathe.
She huffs a faint, humorless laugh. “Yeah.”
Her eyes flick down to your mouth, then back up. “If you felt what I’m feeling right now, you’d be on the floor.”
You stare at her, stunned into silence. Her hand lifts shakily—shakily—thumb brushing the edge of the mark on your neck.
“You don’t feel the pull yet,” she murmurs. “Not fully. It’ll grow. Slowly. Human minds weren’t built to take all of it at once.” She pauses, voice dropping quieter. “My kind… we’re born for it.”
You lift a hand to her wrist, grounding both of you.
“Is it… bad? For you?”
Her breath catches.
“No. Not bad. Just—” She searches for a word and can’t seem to find one. “Overwhelming. Intense. You came through all at once. Everything I’ve held back for months. Everything I wanted. Everything I feared.”
Your chest tightens. “Wanda…”
She shakes her head, leaning down just enough that her forehead almost touches yours.
“It’s worth it,” she whispers. “You’re worth it. I just… need a second to let it settle.”
You nod softly, feeling only the faintest edge of what she’s drowning in. A pulse of warmth. A thrum beneath your ribs. Like a distant heartbeat echoing yours. She exhales shakily, finally letting her forehead rest against yours.
For the first time tonight, her body eases—just a fraction—but enough that you feel it. Her weight sinking into the mattress, her hands settling on your waist, no longer trembling. Outside, the wind howls against the cabin walls, snow hammering the windows in harsh, uneven bursts. The storm has settled in for the night, relentless and wild. But here—pressed beneath her, wrapped in her warmth—you feel the opposite.
Stillness. Heat. A quiet connection threading between your bodies, soft and certain.
You slide your arms around her back, feeling the rise and fall of her breathing. She melts into the touch like it’s permission she’s been waiting months for.
“You’re warm,” you murmur.
“So are you,” she answers, voice low, almost reverent.
The snow rages. The wind screams. But in the small space between your heart and hers, everything is calm. You close your eyes, and this time, when her breath brushes your cheek, you don’t flinch or question or pull away. You just hold on.
note - thank you to everyone who's supported me on this journey. I've been in a struggle trying to figure out the direction, but I feel I finally found it. hope you all enjoyed.
Genre: Angst, Smut, medieval AU fic, (also dark but dark parts aren't so much in this yet)
Words: 11.2k+
Summary: A plague has swept through your village and there's only one hope in finding a cure, but it lies in a strange plant that grows near the part of the forest you should absolutely stay away from... so when you don't and are caught by the witch, you must repay her for the property you stole. Except, as you learn more, you wonder just what sort of monster you've found yourself a prisoner of?
Warnings: non-consensual kiss, murder (not of major characters), sort of a stockholm syndrome going on (think beauty and the beast). fingering (r!receiving), clit play (r!receiving), outdoor sex, sex in a body of water, brief mention of dead parents, top!Wanda, dark!Wanda, bottom!r... lemme know if I forget anything. This first part is so mild compared to what is to come...
A/N: So I decided to cut it off here for now but the second part... ha.... it's where things get more fucked up. It's definitely got slight dark!fic vibes here, but it will have more of them in part 2 which my goal is to finish up the ending to 2 this weekend and have this whole thing out by Monday at the very latest! Also I suck at summaries lemme know if I can word this better.
gif not mine, shout out to marvel-romanoff
What you were doing right now was a risk and you knew that, but desperate times called for desperate measures. You couldn’t handle seeing the suffering that was sweeping through your village. It started with a few people, the elderly mostly, coming down with a strange illness that turned them into husks of themselves, giving them a slow and painful end. Then it spread further, to the children, until finally anybody was susceptible to this blight that cursed your people. With each day more and more perished and you watched helplessly, fretting for the day when you or, worse in your mind, a loved one came down with this mysterious disease.
And then that dreaded day did come. Your older brother, a person who embodied your entire world, the one person that made sure you had food on the table as a child and a roof over your head, fell ill. You saw the signs as soon as they started, the coughing, the specks of blood on his handkerchief he tried so hard to hide, the dulling of his once vibrant eyes. He pushed himself, still working in the lumberyards until he finally collapsed and from that day on you were either at the apothecary giving people temporary reprieves for this ailment’s nasty side effects, but never able to provide any of them with a cure, or you were at his bed side, hand feeding him and praying each day that his eyes won’t finally close for good.
You felt helpless, no matter how hard you tried to find a fix for this nothing was working. All you were was an apothecary apprentice, not yet ready to manage your own shop, just now practicing making your own elixirs and poultices. However, the woman guiding you seemed to have given up long ago on combating this blight. So, you stayed awake day and night, reading through old books and trying to find anything that might mention this affliction that has cursed your people.
It was a long shot, really, the thing that brought you out to the woods. In your desperate attempt, you had pulled dusty books from the back of the apothecary’s small library. In it, you found a string of illnesses that have similar, but not entirely the same, symptoms. The book was in bad shape, with a worn black leather binding that looked like it hadn’t been touched in the entirety of the time both you and your teacher had been alive. Either way, it claimed that a specific plant, one you had sworn you’d seen in parts of the forest, would be the best method to fight off the fever that was rapidly taking out the entire population. So, after reading as much as you could about what it took to develop an elixir, you found yourself wandering into the forest at daybreak and now here you were, starting to tip toe your way into a part of the woods that you absolutely shouldn’t be in.
You had heard the stories, you knew the parts of the woods that were off limits to you. And as you scoured the forest floor for a delicate flower, whose petals were as red as blood, but with a stem so vibrantly purple it looked like it would line the walls of every royal’s castle, you found yourself running closer and closer to the one place you absolutely should not be. For there, a witch lived.
Everyone knew her cabin lay on the outskirts of the forest, but close enough the whole village could see the plumes of strange crimson smoke that poured from her chimney and loomed over the town. Everyone knew, if you followed the smoke you’d find her cottage, an unassuming place from afar. However, the closer you got the more strange it became. Shrubs made of only thorns, bigger than any found elsewhere, began to line the way to her door. Behind her cottage, where the streams met, lie a small body of water, lined on one side with rocks and a small water fall, that glowed and sparked as if the water itself was alive. It was a pool of both beauty and oddity. One to avoid, yet men still made their way to her. It was always those who made desperate bargains for their starving families, or lonely wives begged for potions to make miracles, or bored youth dared their peers to brave going to the door. But all in all, it was a place you were always warned to avoid.
But now, you were two steps away from entering her territory. It only caused you a slight pause; then you took those two steps. For, there over the unspoken line of the witch’s property was a glimpse of blood red nearly hidden in the brush. It was as if the sun broke through the trees just to shine upon the very flower you needed. Or, really you needed its strange thorns and its twisted roots. Without much hesitation, you crept through the brush until you could reach out for the flower. Your fingers caressed the petal, moving down until you could ghost them over the thorn, pushing away the foliage of the neighboring plants to confirm, in your utter relief, that it was the exact one that book had described.
One elixir would not be enough for a town whose people were dropping like flies. So after plucking the flower, as carefully as possible, from the place in which it was rooted, your eyes scanned for more. To your surprise, suddenly, you saw many. The only drawback was with each new one you spotted, it got further and further into the witches’ part of the wood. Closer to her cottage, where the strange smoke ever poured out above the trees.
When you plucked another, soon you saw two more in the distance, and then another two and and another two, until you were practically in the witch’s backyard. However, you hoped that the tangle of thorns and the dark looming trees kept you hidden. You didn’t dare edge near where the streams met, for you heard other stories about the strangeness of those waters and it frightened you to your core.
As the last rays of sun disappeared, it was as if the woods got eerily still. For some reason, you thought you had way more daylight left, but maybe you were too preoccupied with your desperate need to find this hopeful fix that you didn’t accurately track the time. It was already difficult to see the sun, when the further you got into the woods, the thicker the trees were. Knowing what your brother told you as you grew, about especially staying out of the forest when the sun began to set, part of you thought you had enough and you should turn around and begin your work on crafting a tonic to cure your ailing village. But still, a louder voice in your head convinced you that you had no idea how much of these strange plants you may need to cure every single one of the sick that remained. So, you continued to gather, knowing it was necessary for the survival of all you ever knew and held dear, your concentration on the plants never wavering.
That was, until a twig snapped in the distance, echoing through the silent forest.
Your whole body went rigid and you leaned back up from where you had been plucking the plants with caution. The sound, you were sure, had come from behind you, so careful not to make your own sounds, you turned your body slowly.
There, behind a tangle of twisted thorns, glowing red eyes were staring back at you.
It could’ve been any number of dangerous creatures, but immediately you knew what was behind them. You had heard the stories, remembered the rumors. The description of her always mentioned the way her deep, scarlet eyes could simply stare at a man and make him go mad. That is why you knew, in that moment, that what stood in the shadows, stalking you, could be none other than the very Witch of the Woods that you had so carefully avoided up until this very moment in your life.
“I-I’m sorry,” you called out to the eyes still staring at you, “I realize this is your property and I have no business to be here.”
“That’s right,” a low voice broke the silence beyond the brush, “so why are you?”
“I needed a specific plant and it seems it only grows on this side of the forest.” You couldn’t keep your hands from trembling as you spoke, not knowing what to expect from this ill fated encounter. “You see, there is a sickness plaguing the village.”
“And you thought to take my property to help those pathetic beggars?” The figure finally stepped out from the shadows, moonlight shining down just enough for you to get a good look at who you were dealing with.
Your eyes widened as you finally, for the first time in your life, saw the witch everyone so feared. Men described her as a monster, but what was in front of you did not seem as such. While her presence still terrified you, her beauty struck you as entirely surprising. Without helping yourself, your eyes flicked to her hands that were crossed over her chest. There were finger tips, black as coal just as the stories told, but not crooked or shaped as some sort of monstrous talons.
The witch stood there while you took her in, her own face shifting from anger into curiosity as she watched you try to make sense of what was in front of you. She took a step forward and when she did that, that was what snapped you out of your inquisitive stare.
“I- yes!” You stuttered as you clutched at the satchel on your shoulder. “I suppose it is your property. I am truly sorry,” you bowed your head, surprising yourself by taking your eyes off the supposedly dangerous being that was slowly creeping towards you. “Might there be anything I can exchange for what I’ve gathered?”
The witch didn’t say anything, but instead took another few steps until she was right in front of you. When you tipped your head back up, her face was unreadable and the stillness of the forest began to feel suffocating.
“I um…” you shifted your shoulder, pulling the satchel to your chest and rummaging through it with trembling hands. “I found this in another part of the woods, near the brook. It’s not from your property and I think it has value…” your hands finally touched the small pouch that you had tucked in there. In your desperate search, as you scoured the forest for the plant you needed, you had stumbled upon a different flower. One you had not recognized, nor had you seen it in any of the books you read in your efforts to cure the blight. You don’t know why you plucked it, but you had, thinking its beauty may brighten your brother in his sickbed. As your fingertips brushed against its stem, delicately placed in the small pouch, you thanked the gods for thinking of even taking in the first place. Maybe it would be the one thing to appease the witch, even momentarily.
Trying your best to move delicately while your hands shook was difficult, yet you managed to pull out the strange flower with care. “It’s not much, but I can find more.” You weren’t sure that was true, never had you seen such a crystal blue flower that seemed to twinkle in different angles. Your eyes went back to the witch’s staring, unwavering in front of you. Extending your arm to the witch, you revealed the shimmering blue flower resting on the palm of your hand. “I was going to use this to… well, never mind what I was going to use it for. It can be yours, if you’d like it.” You outstretched your hand even more to the witch. She remained silent, her eyes dragging ever-so-slowly down to the flowers resting in your hand.
When her eyes returned to your face, you swore the red hue in them had faded a little and you couldn’t help but search her eyes, the curiosity returning to your own. “I’ll take it,” the witch finally responded, outstretching her own hand and covering yours with hers before she carefully wrapped her fingers around the stem of the flower.
Her touch, while not ice cold like the stories had warned, still made you shiver and you didn’t understand why. Maybe it was the way her eyes never left yours when she took it from you, or the way the intensity of her glare felt like it bore into your own mind. Either way, you didn’t dare look away or move a muscle.
When her hand retracted, her eyes finally left yours to inspect the flower. “You are correct, this is of great value to me,” she murmured as her charcoal finger tips stroked the petals with care. “However, it is nowhere near the equivalent of what you have taken from my land.”
“Oh,” your eyes finally shifted away from her face as you contemplated what else you could offer her in this moment. “I can give something more to you, but it may have to be at a later date.”
“You will have to,” the witch suddenly snapped her eyes back to you as she spoke. “I expect proper payment for the trespass and acquisition of what’s mine.”
“O-of course,” you stutter, your palms sweating as you took in the seriousness of her tone. “I promise to repay you...” You would have to get creative, trying to find proper payment. While you had promised her more of that flower, you were almost sure it would be an impossible feat to find such a rarity as that. Even if you didn’t understand what it was. Something told you, she understood that whatever form of payment she expected, it would be different than more of that mysterious flower. Maybe she expected monetary compensation? Although, if it was coin she wanted, you definitely didn’t have that. “I can come at first light with whatever repayment you see fit.” That was still a bluff, but maybe you could figure out something.
“No,” the witch husked, stepping so close to you that you felt her hot puffs of breath as she slowly took a deep breath in and exhaled. “I will retrieve my payment when the time comes.”
Your eyebrows scrunched at that. The wording was strange but maybe she knew from your appearance that coin was something you’d have to earn and save in order to repay her. Or worse, maybe she knew what promises you did just try to make were a bluff. Either way, it sounded as if she would give you time to acquire the payment she expected. You had never heard stories of the witch coming into the village, but then again it would make sense if she did. She couldn’t possibly provide everything for herself.
You stared at her, eyes filled with confusion and for a moment she simply stared back, utterly unreadable. Then after a moment, her hand reached forward, as if to touch your face. You stayed perfectly still. Her finger brushed your cheek. “Thank you,” her lips twisted into a smile that made your blood run cold as she spoke, “for the beautiful gift.” The way she said the last word was curious to say the least. Your whole body shuttered at that simple utterance. She stepped back, her smile growing wider for a moment. You heard a small chuckle escape her lips and then in a flash, red smoke swirled in front of you one minute. The next, you were alone in the moonlight.
—————————-
Weeks had passed and the witch hadn’t come to collect as she had said she would. You had carefully set aside coin when you could in case she asked for a large amount. It was a struggle, especially when your brother still was bedridden in his process of recuperation. To make matters worse, the illness was still sweeping the village and growing with each day. People were getting desperate. The flower you collected from the witch’s territory had cured some, but when one person recovered, two more fell ill.
It had done exactly what you hoped it would, actually. It had fought off the fevers and you were successful in securing your brother’s recovery. However, it wasn’t enough. You were running low and you couldn’t stomach the idea of going back to the witch’s home. If she had yet to collect your debt, you truly did not want to accrue more. Each day that the witch hadn’t shown herself was a day filled with relief for you, still having not yet shaken the dark look in her eyes the moment she took the strange flower you offered from her. But, even in your relief of having not seen her yet again, you were getting more and more jumpy with each passing day. You’ve heard so many stories of the witch, yet none of them mentioned the strange nightmares that now plagued your dreams after seeing her face to face.
And by strange, they were absolutely bizarre. Nonsensical flashes of imagery, swirls of red, her voice speaking to you (at least you thought it was to you) in a language you had no familiarity with. One that sounded as ancient as the old gods. Yet, in these flashes, in these words, came a strange feeling, one that wasn’t all that unpleasant. It was as if these dreams played on your curious nature, beckoning you to go back to the woods, to catch a glimpse of the witch again. To feel her warm fingers leave goosebumps on your skin as she trailed them over your skin once more. With the fear of seeing her, these dreams made you almost wish that you would. Your mind was both conflicted in your attempt to cure your village and the strange pull you were feeling at the very essence of your being to return to the woods and stand in front of the dangerous witch once more.
You fought those feelings tooth and nail every day in silence. Not a soul knew of this encounter that you had shared with the Witch of the Woods and any time anyone questioned you about the strange plant you had returned with to cure those suffering from the fever, they got a vague answer of a location in the forest that was in the exact opposite direction of the cottage.
But then, even if you were winning your battle to ignore your urge and stay in the village where you were needed, your temptation finally did come to you.
You heard the commotion from the shop rather than really seeing her at first. It was the crowds of people running towards the center of the village and shouts of panic that echoed outside the apothecary’s door that piqued your curiosity. You didn’t need to see to know exactly what was causing that public outcry for you to know the source, though. The feeling in your stomach, a mixture of dread and excitement, similar to the feeling you had felt that day when she was near gave you a hint at what had just arrived.
Moving as if in a trance, your shaking legs took you to the door. Your hand turned the knob and, against your better judgement, you peaked outside.
In all her brilliance, she was there. You could see her looming over the crowd. How was it that she was taller than every single person in the village? Was it a trick of her magic that made her tower over them? She had yet to see you, your head barely peaking from the doorway, but still your feet found themselves stepping outside.
If it was because you were afraid of what was to come or because you had a singular ounce of preservation sense left in you, your body at least remained at the back of the crowd. You watched as the witch scanned the mass of bodies, her eyes swirling with red, a matching red smoke playing at her feet.
The crowd were, for the most part still, their bodies shaking slightly as they looked up at the mysterious woman hovering above them. She didn’t speak, she waited, until finally a man stepped up. The mayor of the town was ill, you had known that because you had attempted to treat him. It wasn’t fever he was failing with, it was one of the more brutal symptoms. But this man who stepped forward in the crowd, you recognized as someone who worked closely with the head of your town. Someone the village trusted, someone who in this time played as the mayor’s second in command and was respected for the work he had done.
The crowd grew even more silent as the man looked upon the witch. “What brings you here?” his eyes didn’t seem to waver as he stared at the witch. However, hers never met his, instead she scoffed.
“That is not the question you want to ask me,” She replied, finally her eyes, a darker shade than they once were, turned towards him.
He squared his shoulders and cleared his throat. The stillness of the crowd felt suffocating. “Have you brought this illness upon us, Devil?” His voice was filled with false confidence as he uttered his true question.
Blood red eyes flared as they looked in the direction of the accusation. “No!” Her voice boomed. “But I can rid you of it.”
“Then do so,” a woman cried within the crowd. “Please! I have already lost one child to this blight.”
“It will not be for free,” the witch warned.
“We’ll pay anything!” Voices shouted in the crowd.
“Name your price!”
“Whatever it takes!”
You remained frozen, hiding at the back of the crowd as it grew restless, your eyes fixed on the witch.
“My price,” her voice echoed over them, “is simple. Give me the girl and your village shall be free of this plague.”
Questions flooded through the crowd. Murmurs of who she could mean or what exactly she wanted left the lips of nearly everyone in the mob before her. You stood glued to your spot, your frightened eyes watching as things unfolded before you. The pull in the pit of your stomach grew and twisted. As her words rang through the crowd, repeated with the questions of who and where this girl should be, they spun around your head like a whirlwind. You knew exactly who she was talking about, even if you didn’t want to admit it to yourself. All you had hoped is that she didn’t see you in the back and that no one in the crowd would think to accuse you of being the one she seeked.
That hope didn’t last long. To your horror, as if in slow motion, you watched as the witch outstretched her hand. Her pitch-black finger pointed and moved over the crowd as all in the mob before her fell silent again. Only a single gasp could be heard as a woman you had known as the baker’s wife turned to where the witch was pointing, finally realizing who this mystery girl was. With a sickening gulp, your eyes finally moved from the witch to the crowd, all now staring right to where the witch was pointing. Right to you.
“Her,” the witch confirmed as her eyes finally fell to you. “Hand her to me and your sick will be healed.”
—---------------------------------------
What happened next was chaos. Everything that transpired from the moment the witch pointed to you until now was a blur of angry shouting, hands tugging at you, until finally your body had been forced to the front of the mob–and in a result, into the witch's clutches.
The next series of events felt fragmented, but had led you to where you were now. You were perched on a lavish bed in what you assumed was the cottage you had been standing outside of weeks ago. How you got here, you weren’t entirely sure you understood. Once the mob had shoved your body towards the witch, her arms clasped around your chest and held you tight. You weren’t sure if you should’ve been thankful that she had caught you before you had fallen head first onto the cobblestone or if you should be cursing the gods for the fact that a village you worked so hard to save handed you over without a moment’s hesitation to the one thing they feared most. Or, maybe second most after seeing how this blight had decimated a small portion of the population…
Either way, once you felt the Witch’s arms clasp around your waist and pull you to her chest, in a matter of seconds a rumbling laugh echoed through the town, the source of which you were sure was the red-headed witch that had you in her grasp. She boomed out a thank you to the towns folks and promised an end to the plague, all while locking you tightly against her. Even if you wanted to struggle, the iron grip she had on you mixed with the fear you felt being in her clutches, had you frozen, glued to her chest. And after a moment, the red smoke picked up like a storm brewing in the wind, filling all your senses, until you finally blinked, coughed, and you were exactly where you are now.
Except, you think you’ve been sitting on this bed for maybe about two hours now. Watching, the only part of you moving is your eyes, as Wanda moves about what you’re assuming is her own home, gathering things you didn’t recognize. Her attention is barely on you other than the brief moment she pushed your shoulders to peel your body off of her.
It occurred to you, maybe far too late, that you should start defending yourself in some way. So after an hour or more of silence you finally clear your throat to speak. “What um… what is it that you want?”
Wanda doesn’t even stop in her tracks, filing through small bottles of odd little trinkets on shelves, but her eyes do flick to you briefly. “I got what I wanted.” Her tone was so flippant and didn’t answer a single thing for you.
“But from me… what do you want from me?” You clarified, your hands trembling at your sides as you looked up at her from where you were perched on the edge of her bed.
She paused this time, her whole body turning towards you and let out a small laugh, dry and humorless. “You don’t know?”
You blinked and slowly, hesitantly, shook your head.
“Do you not know what it was that you gave me? The promise you made?” She took a few steps towards you and it took everything in you not to crawl away in fear.
“I said I would repay you, but taking me from the village– It– I fear all my coin is back in my home.”
“That’s not the promise I meant.”
Your eyebrows scrunched and she stalked ever forward until you were scooting back on the bed. You weren’t fast enough to scurry away, however, and suddenly she was leaning over you. Her hands fell to either side of you on the bed and you shrunk back as she got into your personal space. “You gave me a promise,” she repeated her eyes filled with a searing seriousness that made you shiver. “The flower you presented to me, you had no idea what you were giving away? The magnitude of what it symbolized?”
Your blood ran cold as your memory flashed back to the beautiful flower. Something so insignificant to you when you plugged it from a clearing in the woods. But now, as you ran through the memory over and over in your mind, you saw the strangeness that surrounded it. When you were looking for the plants needed for the tonic, your mind didn’t focus on anything but them. But when you saw that flower you had stopped, the woods had gone quiet, the sun had shown through the trees directly onto its glimmering petals. You weren’t one to pluck such beauty unless necessary. So why, at that moment, did you so badly want to take it? Your excuse was to give it to your brother, but in reality you just wanted to have your hands wrapped around the stem, your fingers brushing against each delicate petal. And when the witch had caught you plucking away her property, it felt as if it was the rightest thing in the world to give that mystifying flower to her and only her.
“I placed that myself,” the witch drawled. “Only to appear at the most opportune of time. Only to be picked by specific hands and you…” she took a deep breath and leaned closer, her black finger tips reaching up and grabbing you by the chin. “You took it without so much as a second thought.”
“I– I did not know,” you stuttered, wincing as her fingers squeezed slightly against your jaw. “I am so, so sorry.”
“Sorry?” She chuckled, leaning back, but never releasing her hold on you. “What an odd thing to say when you’ve promised yourself to someone for all eternity. Shouldn’t the correct response be a thank you? I have agreed to accept your promise of eternity.”
Your eyes grew wide and you tried with all your might to turn your head away, but quickly her hand squeezed so tight she forced your face to look right back at her. You hissed in pain as she leaned closer yet again, a twisted smile upon her face.
“I don’t understand,” you whined as the witch’s eyes began to swirl with red yet again.
“You see,” she continued, “where I am from, a world far from this, we have a custom. Beings like me, beings who are… cursed, must wait for someone pure of heart to come, offer themselves to us with this particular item, a magical item, and then they are ours.”
So many questions battled to escape your lips, but you knew there was more. As much as you didn’t want to hear how stupid you were for sealing your fate without even knowing it, you knew you needed to learn more.
“And then what happens?”
The witch licked her lips before leaning in as close as she could without actually touching your lips. Her breath came out in hot, ragged puffs, her eyes slipped close for a second before opening again and showing a glowing red. “Then, my pet, creatures like me are free to do whatever they please. You have no idea the gift you have blessed me with, the power that will return to me.”
“What… what will happen to me?”
“You,” her lips trembled with delight as she pondered her next words, “will be mine to corrupt.”
A gasp made its way to your lips but was cut off by the firm placement of her lips onto yours. Your eyes nearly fell out of your skull as you felt the hand on your chin tighten, her thumb tugging down slightly so you were forced to part your lips for her. Never have you felt this, never had you even been kissed. But now, this witch–this creature as she stated–was stealing this experience from you just as she had claimed she had stolen you from your life.
The worst part was, after a moment of feeling her lips against yours, it wasn’t this horrendous moment you thought it would be. Instead, it felt as if you had drunk too much wine and your head was spinning. Your eyes slipped closed and you felt the witch’s other hand snake around your body. It was at that moment that you realized you were pushed more onto the bed than before and she was now hovering over you, pulling your body until your chest met her own.
That’s also when you began to realize exactly what was happening and who it was that was stealing this kiss from you. Your body went ridge and you tried to push on her shoulders. That only made her kiss you harder. Without much thought your teeth clamped down onto her bottom lip and finally she released you with a low growl.
You looked up at the witch, eyes swirling, blood trickling from her mouth. Instead of a snarl for the attack you just landed on her lips, her twisted grin was back.
“Pure as you might me,” she purred, “you still surprise me.”
She pushed herself off the bed, leaving you there, curled in on yourself, panting and trembling. It was as if this moment never happened, her back turned from you yet again to go back to work at whatever it was she was concocting.
You just laid there, watching her as long as you could. But after a while, your eyes grew tired and your head lulled back.
When you opened them again, you noticed that the sun no longer showed through the cracks in the cottage windows and the witch was now sitting in a wooden rocking chair across the room, a book open on her lap. An enticing aroma filled the air and you realized, as your mouth watered, that you had yet to eat today.
The witch noticed as you sat up and your head snapped back to where she sat in the corner of the room when you heard her book slam shut.
“Finally,” the witch complained, “you’re a fragile mortal.”
“And you… are not?”
“Not what? Mortal?” The witch’s eyes remained locked with yours and you were just thankful she remained seated.
You nodded in response.
“Well you call me a witch, do you not?” Your stomach dropped as she finally stood up. But to your relief, she didn’t stalk closer as she did before. “Although, I have watched as your kind has exterminated countless mortals, deeming them an evil witch too. Therefore, I suppose, I am not that, nor am I mortal.”
“What are you then?” Your voice felt hoarse as you propped yourself up on shaking limbs.
“Little one, there is not a word in your language that makes you understand just what manner of creature stands in front of you. Some have called me a god, your people call me a witch, others a queen. There have been many names for me.”
“And what is yours? Your name, I mean?”
The witch only looked over to you, her hands busy with a pot over on the table across from you.
“You may call me Wanda, but I request that you tell me yours now in exchange.”
“It’s (Y/N),” you heard yourself say before you could stop yourself. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you heard the old teachings of your late parents echoing that names held power to the mysterious beings that dwelled in the forest. Then again, she gave hers so willingly. Wanda, what a simple name for a being that you couldn’t even begin to comprehend. She could’ve lied, she could’ve given you a fake name, but as your mind ran over each syllable internally, you somehow knew she offered you this truthfully.
“Here,” Wanda was in front of you before you even noticed, handing a wooden bowl full of what looked like stew and what you were now realizing was the source of the delicious aroma that had woken you. “Mortals must have food to keep their strength. Eat, you will need it.”
For the second time, without thinking, you didn’t hesitate to do as she asked. This food could be full of any number of poisons or concoctions, but it smelled so delicious you didn’t stop yourself. Plus, it sounded–to your utter dread–like she planned to keep you for a while, so why would she kill you now?
To your relief the rest of the night was silent. Wanda went back to reading in her corner of the room as you finished the bowl. When you were done, wordlessly she stood up and plucked it from your hands. Your eyes lingered on the ink black tips of her fingers and you knew she noticed, yet she said nothing, offering you no information to what might cause this slight difference that sets her apart as something other than human, other than like you.
You remained on the bed for the night, your eyes watching Wanda as she continued to page through her book, every once in a while standing up to check something on her shelves of strange trinkets and items. You had assumed maybe these were items she may use to concoct one of her infamous magic potions that people come back with from the village. Maybe, if you looked closer you’d find ingredients not unlike the ones found in the apothecary, but you didn’t dare get up and closer to where she sat.
As the night hours stretched on, you found yourself lulling back to sleep again. It wasn’t until you felt a shift in the bed did you jolt upright from your slumber.
“What are you doing?!” You nearly gasped as you scrambled as fast as you could away from the body that was crawling next to you on the bed.
“I don’t need as much rest as a mortal, but I do like to dream,” Wanda deadpanned.
“We’re to share a bed?” you clutched at the blankets underneath you, your eyes wide with panic.
“Why would we not?”
“I do not know you,” you scrambled. “It is indecent to share a bed!”
“You do not know me,” Wanda repeated with a growl, “yet, you are now mine. So, it is within my every right to share a bed with what belongs to me.”
You gulped, your face twisting into one of panic again.
“What you have promised me,” Wanda hissed as she leaned closer to you, “is not unlike a marriage between you mortals, only with more power, more magic.”
You shivered as you watched Wanda crawl ever closer to where you stayed rooted to the edge of the bed.
“You are not simply mine because I took you,” she continued. “You’re mine because the moment you gave me the item needed to release me from this curse, you took it on yourself. Where once I was bound to the land, my body and soul trapped here, you freed me and in return bound yourself body and soul to me.”
Her hand came up to your face, her pitch black knuckles brushing gently on your cheek. It took everything in you to stop from shivering. “So, we will be sharing a lot more than a bed.”
You swallowed hard at that. If this is to be something of a marriage, whether you liked it or not, you knew something of the things that happened in a marital bed. You were not prepared for that, you did not know this woman before you. In all honesty, things like marriage and courting were distant thoughts in your mind as an adult. It was a silly dream you had to be whisked away by a brilliant prince or a dazzling knight when you were a child, but when you had lost your parents and watched as your brother struggled to provide for the both of you, that dream died. Instead, you were focused on your apprenticeship at the apothecary, hoping one day to take over and provide for your brother in the way he did for you.
But now here you were, Wanda’s body so close to yours, her eyes getting that red glimmer again as her fingers began to play with a strand of your hair. “Does it scare you, pet?” she cooed as her hand tangled into your hair and forced you to lean closer to you. “When I kissed you today, was that your first?”
“Yes…” you shivered.
Her other hand reached up to trace her fingertips along your lips. “And when I take you, it will be your first?”
“Of course,” you said with both anger and dread.
Wanda leaned in, her lips brushing against your cheek this time before moving to your ear. “You're a surprising thing,” she whispered. “But I will not take from you again unless you give yourself to me willingly.”
Your head turned in shock at her words. A surprising act of kindness from a being who could overpower you so easily.
“But just know,” Wanda licked her lips as her fingers yet again traced over your own. “One day, sooner than you expect, you will give yourself to me. And this kindness of mine only remains, if my patience is not tested.”
You gulped at those words. Wanda pulled back from you all at once and you were left just staring at her. “Tonight,” Wanda looked back at you. “We rest. I’m sure that is an acceptable reason to share the bed for you?”
All you could do was nod and watch as Wanda extinguished the candles throughout the cottage with a flick of the wrist.
That night, your eyes remained open as you lay perfectly still next to the sleeping form of this unknown creature you now knew as Wanda. There was a large part of you that wanted to sob and scream, an even larger part that wanted to sneak out and run, but you did neither. Instead, you watched, wordlessly, as Wanda’s face remained calm, soft even, in the moonlight.
At some point, in the late hours of the night, you too fell asleep again. This time, dreaming the same dreams you’d been plagued with before your capture. Only now with more clear imagery. Moments flashed in your sleeping mind, moments with Wanda. Your bodies intertwined, dark clouds of smoke surrounding the both of you, but in these clear visions, rather than the fear you expected, all you felt was warmth.
—--------------------------------------------
Weeks went by and you were surprised at how easily it came to you to fall into a rhythm of living as Wanda’s captor. Where you definitely were aware of the restraints figuratively placed upon you, she gave you everything you needed. She fed you, she provided you with clothes much nicer than the ones you had left behind in the village, and she informed you that the strange glow of the pond behind her cottage was just a result of the plantlife that grew within it, crushing your fears and providing you with a beautiful place to bath under the stars each evening.
Of course, she also let you know that if you did try to run there would be consequences to your actions. Something she didn’t go into detail about but you understood that the capability of her rage was endless, and you did not want to test that. Yet still, you found yourself longing to go back to your village. You wanted to know if she made good on her promise, if there were still those that suffered the plague. Your heart would twist at the thought of your brother, all alone, still recovering from the plague and regaining his strength.
You wondered if he knew what the village did, if he knew they handed you over. Part of you wondered if he was okay with that, in order to save himself from the plague. While he was better from the elixirs you made for him, the path to recover was still a long one for him before you left. The struggle he went through just to take one small step from the brink of death was already a lot for his body. Maybe he was okay with his only sister, a source of burden for most of his life, to be gone from his care.
At least that’s what you told yourself when you wondered why you had yet to see his face outside of Wanda’s door, demanding for your return. Although, maybe it was a blessing that he didn’t show. You had seen Wanda’s rage in these weeks, at least peaks of it. Every once in a while a villager from a neighboring town would show up at her door, sometimes they would test her patience just a little too much or demand what they had no right to demand from her. She would send them scream and if they pushed their luck. It was the silence that fell throughout the woods that really made your skin crawl, when they pushed her too far and the screams would abruptly stop.
But, you also got chances to see her be kind. Quickly, you realized when mothers or children showed up at her door, it was easy to sway her to provide a solution. She kept most of the magic she performed hidden from you, but what you did see, you understood, had the power to change the course of people’s lives. If a child had a serious ailment, she could cure it better than any of the poultices or tonics you’ve made ever could. It had you, in those moments, in awe of her.
Not to mention the surprising gentleness she showed you. It was a test for her and you could tell. She was used to taking what she wanted, but she had to hold herself back when it came to you. She never stole another kiss from you, never forced herself upon you. When you slept, she stayed on one side of the bed and never crossed over to yours. Of course, there were small touches here and there. Her hand would press to the small of your back when a knock came at the door, urging you to go out back while she attended to business. Or a hand would brush hair from your face when you came in after bathing. Things like that were starting to form a different image of Wanda in your mind. One that complicated the image of the evil monster she herself tried to imprint into your brain.
In moments like that it was almost as if she cared for you. That the tie that you unwittingly forced upon yourself and to Wanda went both ways, that she was yours just as much as you were hers. It was silly thinking, but as the weeks stretched on that feeling just got harder and harder to ignore.
Until finally, something had to break.
A family had come to her door this time and you had been out back, tasked with picking some roots specific for something Wanda needed. You didn’t question it, you were happy to be out of the cottage, even if it meant you couldn’t stray that far from her land. Except, as the day's breeze swept through the trees, you found yourself wandering, your mind on all that has changed in what you think might be around the past three months now. Time felt different with Wanda, so keeping track was difficult.
Your hands brushed against the soft leaves of plants as you walked, your eyes still scanning for similar root to what Wanda requested, but also plucking small flowers here and there. Maybe it was childish, but you thought they might brighten her eyes if you showed her flowers you found beautiful.
When a twig snapped in the distance, you thought yourself still close enough to the cottage that no one would dare wander around, unless on the specific path that leads to her front door. It wasn’t until a man, armed with a bow, stood right in front of you did your feet halt in their tracks.
“Are you the witch that lives in the cottage?” he motioned with his notched arrow to your new home.
“No,” you said, your hands coming up slowly. “I am not a witch.”
“I watched you leave from there. You live with her then?”
You swallowed and nodded. “What is it that you want?”
“What are you to the witch?” He ignored, stepping closer as you stepped back.
You couldn’t answer that question easily. Her captor? Yes, maybe. Her companion? That seemed like it didn’t quite fit. Her wife? You were unsure, but the way Wanda talked of the binding between you two, it seemed as though you were, even if there were parts to that union that had yet to occur.
“What are you to the witch, I said!” He repeated and you startled.
“I– Well… I am her helper!” It was all you could think of. “I am tasked with gathering ingredients for her.”
“Does she care for you?”
“What?”
“The demon took everything from me!” His voice was harsh. “I had a wife! Useless as she could be, she was still mine and one day she says she visited your witch, gained what she needed for a better life, drank some blasted potion and vanished before my eyes! The witch took her, I know she did! So I ask again, does she care for you? Are you important to her?” This wasn’t an innocent question and something in your mind told you that if you answered yes, it would be trouble, but if you answered no, he would not believe your words. So instead, your eyes scanned the woods, trying to find anything to distract him.
Your only thought was to take the handful of flowers you had stuffed in your satchel, throw it smack at his face, and turn to run. Luckily for you, it worked in stunning him for a moment, but he was running right behind you a moment later. You heard him call for you to wait, but you refused to stop, your feet trying as best as they could to carry you back to the cottage.
A root stuck from the ground and your ankle tangled around it before you could make it back onto Wanda’s property line, causing you to fall hard onto the forest floor. There was pain as you tried to scramble back to your feet but the man was back on you, his arrow once more trained between your eyes.
“Run once more and I release my arrow.”
You twisted to look up at him, struggling to catch your breath.
“You are to bring me to the witch,” he demanded. “And I will put an end to her.”
It felt like ice running through your veins as he seethed out his demand and for whatever reason you could not understand, the last thing you wanted to do was lead her into danger.
“You might as well kill me,” you snarled back at him. Why was it that the thought of being her demise, even as her own prisoner, made your blood run cold? Never did you think you’d defend her, but now suddenly you’re willing to die for her.
“I will give you one more chance,” the man barked, “bring me to the witch and I will let you live.”
“If you kill me,” you spat, “she will tear you apart for taking what’s hers.”
His eyes grew wide for a moment at the realization that you stood firm in protecting Wanda. His stance shifted and your eyes narrowed as you watched him ready the bow, pulling back even further to make sure his arrow would fly true.
But when you blinked, right as he began to release, the arrow never came. Instead a plume of smoke formed in front of you and in an instant, the bow was on the ground, the arrow had never reached its target, and there was a sickening squelch of sound before an even louder thud hit the ground in front of you.
Your eyes took a moment to understand what had actually occurred. Standing in the middle of the smoke, as it dissipated was a seething mess of red hair. You couldn’t see Wanda’s eyes, but you could imagine the blood red rage that swirled around them. Her whole body was trembling and in her hand was a jagged knife, blood dripping from its sharp edge.
The man was on the ground at Wanda’s feet. She had slit his throat.
The woods were silent again, save for the ragged breathing of Wanda as she stood, her body towering over your assailant.
After a moment, she doesn’t turn to you, but she says, “you wandered too far, pet.” Her voice is filled with contempt. You shiver at the anger that is found in them.
“I… I didn’t mean to,” you stammer as you struggle to get up onto your feet. “I wanted to bring you flowers and I just didn’t pay attention to where I was.”
She didn’t say anything to that, her body still shaking with rage as she stood over the man’s corpse.
It wasn’t until she heard your hiss of pain did her head snap back to look at you. Her eyes were wild with anger, but in them too was concern. “The cretin hurt you,” she seethed.
“No,” you stumbled. “I tripped trying to run back to the cottage.”
“But it was because of this mongrel.” Her eyes darkened. “I shouldn’t have given him a quick death. I should’ve made him watch as I–”
“You’re hurt!” You didn’t let her finish, partly because it frightened you to know in what depth her mind could go when it came to these dark fantasies, but also in part because you felt genuine concern when you saw the signs of crimson ooze from her side.
“The arrow nicked me,” Wanda’s demeanor changed from rage to annoyance. “I will be fine.”
You stood up fully this time, stumbling slightly on your now sore ankle. Wanda steadied you with a firm hand on your elbow as you stood in front of her. “Still,” you mumbled as your hands brushed the fabric of her clothes back to see the wound. “We must treat it.”
Wanda didn’t say anything to that, her eyes watching you as you began to rummage in your satchel for a rag and dab at the bleeding cut.
“Let’s go back to the cottage,” you mumbled, “I can bandage you from there.”
Wanda nodded, her hand never leaving your elbow as she walked the two of you back.
—----------------------------------------------
“You told me the pool wasn’t magic,” you huffed as you stood at the banks of it.
“Would you have bathed in it otherwise?” Wanda deadpanned as she slipped the rest of her clothing off and began to step in. “It heals, that is all.”
You had tried to insist on bandaging her wound once you returned to the cottage and Wanda had entertained that thought for a moment, but as soon as the sun set and the glow of the moon showed over the water’s surface, she had removed all the bandage and insisted on going for a swim.
That also when she insisted you did too, something you both had never done together. But when she revealed that the small quarry where the streams met behind her cottage did in fact have magical properties, that was when you allowed yourself to follow Wanda curiously outside towards it.
“Healing is all it does?”
“Yes, but only under moonlight” Wanda said, her body now fully nude but submerged in the water. “And you’re hurt too, so remove your clothing and get in.”
Your face flushed as she watched you expectantly. With shaking hands, you removed your clothes slowly, Wanda’s eyes shining in the moonlight, but never once leaving your body.
Your feet slowly dipped into the pool of water as if it were the first time you’ve ever enjoyed bathing under the stars here and once your ankles were fully submerged, the ache you felt in them and the small sting from the various cuts you received from your fall, all disappeared.
When you were fully submerged, you couldn’t stop yourself from covering your chest as Wanda waded towards you. The look in her eye was one you’d seen many times in the past few months. It was one that told you Wanda was hungry, but she was trying her best not to give into it.
“Here,” Wanda murmured as she took one of your hands that was wrapped around your own chest. “Feel.” She pressed the hand to her side where the jagged cut had been, it was all but vanished. There was a small hint of raised skin where it once was, as if it was an old scar. “It’s gone now, see?”
Your hand remained on her naked side for a moment, your eyes trying their best to see through the water with the help of the moonlight while Wanda’s remained glued to you. She was breathing slightly harder than usual and you could tell the close proximity to her while the two of you were in such a state was greatly affecting her.
“Thank you for rescuing me,” you mumbled as your fingers continued to trace, not just where the cut was anymore, but forwards, tracing the muscle of her abdomen. “I’m sorry that you got hurt, because of it.”
“All is forgiven, little one,” she reassured, her voice sounding slightly strained.
“I just wanted to bring you something beautiful,” you said more to yourself than to her as your eyes slowly dragged up her naked form in the moonlight.
Wanda stretched a hand forward slowly, her fingers brushing against your cheek before tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “You are a curious little thing,” she whispered. “Bringing me flowers when the gift I want remains right at my finger tips but yet to be given.”
There was a pause. Your eyes locked and you understood exactly what she meant. You knew what she wanted before she even said it. And as if a moth to the flame, you closed the distance.
Your arms encircled her waist in the water, your naked forms pressing to each other. You titled your head up, and knowing your exact intentions, Wanda leant down until your lips found each other in a second, this time much sweeter kiss.
Her hands fell to your hips, pulling you impossibly closer until you were unsure of where you ended and she began. The way she kissed you back was slow this time, deliberate and savoring in the moment.
You two remained interlocked together for a moment, kissing with a languid lust that made your head swim, until finally it was her who pulled back.
“Careful,” Wanda husked, “I am close to my limit and you are tempting me to take what I’ve been waiting for.”
You took a deep breath, your hands running up and down Wanda’s sides in a way that made her shiver this time. It was a reaction that you revelled in. It was all you needed to make up your mind.
“Then take what you’ve been wanting, Wanda,” you breathed.
Wanda blinked and for a moment, her ever steadfast gaze wavered and was replaced with one of surprise and hesitation. But that lasted a mere second before being replaced with both an excitement and a hunger that shone in the light of the stars.
Her hands pulled your body back to her own, kissing you this time with a little more fervor as she waded the both of you back onto the opposite side of the pool, to its rocky outcrop. When her tongue licked along your lips, this time you willingly parted them for her and when hers brushed against your own you weren’t sure if it was you or her who moaned into the kiss.
Wanda’s hands moved down your body as she kissed you until you felt them grab at your hips and, with a squeak that was muffled by the way Wanda was capturing your lips, she hoisted you up, forcing you to hook your legs around her waist. Twisting the two of you, with this new hold on you, in two seconds she pressed you to the cool rock at the water’s edge. Her lips finally leaving yours to kiss at your neck.
Your eyes screwed shut at all of these new sensations. To feel Wanda’s naked body in between your own legs, nothing between either of you, just bare flesh, had your head reeling. And then the way she was kissing your neck, leaving long, slowly licks and nips in places that had you shivering and felt more sensitive than you ever expected. It was all overwhelming. Your body was already trembling, and you just hoped that Wanda didn’t notice.
When Wanda’s hands went to your breasts and began to toy with your nipples, you couldn’t stop the whimper that fell from your lips, only for it to be met with a chuckle from Wanda. “You are devine, my love,” Wanda murmured against your skin as she nipped at a newly discovered sensitive spot that made your heart race faster and your hands tremble as they clawed onto Wanda’s back. “I have waited far too long to feel your skin on mine like this.” Her fingers pinched and played with your nipples in a way that sent unfamiliar heat between your legs. Everything that was happening, it felt both torturously slow and overwhelmingly fast all at once.
“Wanda..” you breathed out as your body began to rock into Wanda’s, trying to find some sort of release for the building feeling that was making your head swim.
“I know, pet,” Wanda cooed. “I will give you what you have wanted too.” One of her hands went back to wrap around your waist, steadying you between the rock and her body as her other began to snake down your stomach until she reached between your legs.
You jumped at the gentle brush of her fingertips under the water when they found your clit. But with an encouraging hum from Wanda, your body relaxed again as she began to make light circles around it.
The feeling of her fingers between your legs was something unimaginable to you, but in the best way possible. Your lips found Wanda’s again as she started to apply more pressure and you felt that same pressure begin to build, reaching a peak you weren’t sure you quite understood. All you knew was that it felt incredible and the more it went on, the harder it was to kiss Wanda at the same time. But when she stopped, your lips tore from hers and a whine fell from your mouth.
You saw Wanda smirk in the moonlight before feeling those fingers dip down further, tracing your entrance. “From tonight onward,” Wanda purred, “you are mine in every sense.” With that you felt two of her finger tips push into you. Your head fell forward onto her shoulder as they pushed further, until they were up to the knuckle.
“Yours,” you whined into her shoulder, not fully aware of what you were even affirming, “in every way.” Your hips began to grind into Wanda’s own body until finally she moved her fingers, pulling them out before pumping them slowly back in.
She was gentle with you in a way that even surprised herself, but she knew this was what your first time had to be like. Her fingers stroked inside of you in a steady pace, curling up to press on a spot that had you crying out her name. Her free hand came up to tangle in your hair when you began to move better in time with her fingers on your own.
“That’s it, pet,” she cooed as her fingers began to quicken inside of you, pumping at a pace that made it almost difficult for your own body to follow. The way you were grinding, your legs still hooked around Wanda, your hands clawing at her back, had Wanda utterly enthralled. With the help of the water and the way she had you pressed against the rock wall of the pond’s edge, it allowed for you to continue to get off on her own fingers while she curled them inside you and made sure to press at just the right place at just the right times.
Moans were filling the air and you thanked the gods that Wanda lived so far from civilization, because otherwise this would be a scandal that swept through the village. Every neighbor would’ve been sure to hear the way you moaned Wanda’s name and cried for her to keep going. The feeling that was building when Wanda was playing with your clit was returning as well, growing ever closer as Wanda began to pump her fingers with a little more roughness, a little more possessiveness to it. Your whole body felt like it was trembling and with each stroke of Wanda’s fingers inside of you, white hot pleasure was being sent to your core. It only took a few more moments, Wanda’s hand tugging and tangling in your hair as your body moved faster against her own, before you fell over that edge with a low moan.
Wanda talked you through it too, mumbling soft things into your ear in a way you had never heard her talk before. Telling you that you were beautiful, that you did perfectly, that you were cherished. It was almost as if she loved you, in the way she was petting your hair as your body pressed limply against hers when you came down.
The both of you were breathing hard, Wanda’s fingers were no longer inside of you, and instead her hands were wrapped around body as she pushed off the wall and waded the both of you towards the banks of the pond.
“Now you know what you have fought against all this time,” Wanda whispered as her body emerged from the water, her hands still holding you to her as if you were just as weightless in the water as you were outside of it. “This is what you have missed each night you have denied me, my love. And now that you are mine, you shall deny me no more.”
Your head stayed resting on her shoulder. Wanda had maneuvered you until she was cradling you in her arms. Both your bodies dripped as she walked you to the cottage.
“Tonight, you must rest,” Wanda pressed a kiss to your forehead as she opened the door to the back of the cottage with nothing more than a simple point of her finger. “Tomorrow is a new day for us, pet.”
There held in those words a lot more meaning than you could comprehend in this moment. If you had looked up, as Wanda carried you to the bed, you would yet again see the powerful blood red swirl in her eyes. If you had looked up, when Wanda placed you gingerly in the bed, you would’ve seen the twist in her smile once more. If you had looked up right before Wanda blew out every candle in the cottage, you would’ve noticed the inky black of her fingers spread up to her forearms.
But tomorrow would be a new day, and much more was to come.
Request by @hersheyismyfav - Can u do CEO Wanda that she is a work alcoholic and her wife struggled to get her attention so basically more on fluff and u can add some smut if u want to
CEO Wanda Maximoff x F!R
A/N: Thanks for the request! Though I just noticed there's not a lot of fluff, SORRY!
If this meeting goes on any longer, Wanda will personally throw her brother from the window.
Being the CEO of a successful company is hard enough, but being one while you’re merging with Stark Industries is a special kind of nightmare reserved for the seventh circle of corporate hell.
The money’s pretty fucking good, though.
“Let’s continue this tomorrow” Wanda finally snaps, her twin brother frowning. She gives him a look, and he has no option but to agree.
As everyone’s leaving the conference room, Pietro approaches her with a smile that means he’s up to no good.
“Sorry, I forgot the missus keeps you on a tight leash”
“I haven’t been home for dinner in three weeks. So yeah, I think this finance projection can wait until tomorrow. Or better yet, next week”
“Tomorrow we have that interview with Forbes. We’re the cover story, remember?”
It was all so corny. From war torn Sokovia to business moguls. Everyone can be rich, follow the American dream and all that crap.
“Make sure Hill reviews the questions before the interview. And we approve before publication, confirm that as well” she says, gathering her things and walking towards the elevator.
“You know, I’m twelve minutes older” Pietro says, and Wanda laughs at that.
On the way home, she calls you twice, but you don’t pick up. That’s weird, considering at this time you’re already home. Unless something came up at work, but even then you’d text Wanda.
“Good evening, Miss Maximoff” the doorman greets.
“Ernest” she says with a smile, and just as she’s about to walk past him she stops. “Oh, you haven’t seen Y/N, have you?”
“She left a couple hours ago, all dolled up. Thought she had a date with you”
“Oh. No, I would remember. Maybe she had plans and I forgot” Wanda says with a confident smile, though she’s about to have a fit.
Did she forget about any kind of plans?
No, her assistant would remind her.
Still, she practically sprints to the elevator, hoping this is all a big mixup and you’re fast asleep on the couch.
“Detka” she calls for you, walking around the big penthouse, but there’s not even a note.
Wanda’s about to call the police when she hears the door open. You’re humming a tune as you walk inside, laughing at something you’re reading on your phone.
“I was worried about you” Wanda says and you jump, eyes widening.
“Jesus, how long have you been standing there?” you say, removing your jacket.
Wanda looks at your casual outfit, the black leather skirt and the red picot corset top making her lose her focus for a second.
“I called you. You weren’t picking up the phone” she crosses her arms and you walk past her, the smell of alcohol and cigarrettes clinging to your clothes.
“It was Alana's birthday. Just went out for a bit” you smile at her.
“Did you smoke?” she says before she can stop herself. Wanda doesn’t mean to start a fight, but she was worried and you walk in, back from a party, looking like that, smelling of sweat and alcohol and not bothered by your wife’s concern.
“Wanda” you warn her, knowing where this is going.
“A text would have been nice, that’s all I’m saying”
“Right back at you, darling”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
You look at her, and Wanda knows she fucked up.
Because that’s exactly what you want her to ask.
“We’ve had dinner together three times in the past two months. When we go out you’re on your phone eighty percent of the time. I could have my tits out and you’d be talking about equity with the board” you push her against the wall, smirking. Her eyes drift to your cleavage, but she’s not getting anything out of you. “So, forgive me for going out once to hang out with my friends, instead of sitting around waiting for you to remember you have a wife, Wanda”
“It’s been complicated…”
“Yeah, I heard it before. It’s complicated, you’re busy, this is a big step in your career. I’m happy for you. But I feel like an idiot waiting for you to come home every single day, Wanda” you roll your eyes, turning to walk away before she sees the tears.
Wanda calls for you once again, and you ignore her, walking up to the bathroom to draw a bath. You sit there, watching as the water fills the tub, wondering how things could get so messy between you two.
Her career had always been a big part of who she was. You respected that, admired it.
But you feel so alone, and you tried telling her that. It was always the same answer.
It’s complicated. It will be over soon. We’ll travel somewhere nice, where there’s no signal.
You’re not sure you believe Wanda’s empty promises anymore.
Still, washing away the day makes you relax, and you rest your head against the edge of the bathtub.
“Kotenok”
“Go to sleep, Wanda” you mumble, not even bothering to open your eyes, even as you hear the bathroom door opening.
“Detka, I’m so sorry. I was unfair to you. Please” she insists when you refuse to look at her.
“If all you wanted was a trophy wife you could have gone with that blonde bimbo from college”
“Detka” she chuckles and you turn to look at her, trying really hard to keep yourself from smiling. “I’m sorry”
“I’ve heard you say that so many times lately, Wands. Don’t tell me you’re sorry. Show me”
“You’re right. Of course. I love you” she kisses your temple, calling it a small victory when you don’t pull away.
Still, you’re not sure she’ll change now.
—
It’s not often that you’re proven wrong, but in this instance, you’re happy with it.
For the past week, Wanda’s been more or less on time for dinner, and whenever she’s stuck at work, at least you get an apologetic text from her to let you know.
Which is why you figured it’s fine to do your part, going to visit her at work for lunch. She could use a break, and no one, not even Pietro can talk her out of skipping a meal.
You, however, can sweet talk your way into anything when it comes to your wife.
“Hey, Yel” you answer the phone as you wait for the food, knowing Wanda’s usual order from the deli around the office.
“Hi, bebé. What you up to?”
“Nothing, just getting lunch for me and Wanda. You?”
“Going over the last details of my photoshoot. Are you sure you can’t come to Sorrento with me? I’m so nervous” she pleads.
“Yelena, they trusted you with the cover shoot and no one’s asked me to step in. You got this. Plus, it's our wedding anniversary so I’ll be busy” you explain, putting your phone between your ear and shoulder as you hand over your card to pay.
“Wanda can come too!”
“With the way things are at work, trust me, that’s a no” you sigh, even if a trip to Italy with Wanda is the one thing you’d love to have.
Yelena whines and objects, mentioning the myriad of things that could go wrong. But you come up with a solution for all of them.
In the end, she gives up and you hang up with a smile, knowing she’s not used to people saying no to her charming ways.
But there’s no way you’re missing your wedding anniversary. Now more than ever, you need this.
People in the hallway greet you and you strike up an easy conversation with most of the ones working on Wanda’s floor. Her assistant scrambles to her feet when she sees you, walking to take the food from your hands.
“Phoebe, I got it. Take a break. Is she working you to death too?”
“No! Yes. Kinda?” she grimaces.
“Well, like I said, I got it” you wink at her.
What you’re not expecting to see is Wanda in the middle of a very tense call, Pietro sitting at the chair in front of her huge mahogany desk.
“Oops, sorry” you say, sitting next to Pietro. He tries to peer into the bag and you swat his hand away. Before he can protest, Wanda glares at the both of you to keep quiet.
You had hoped she was free for a quick lunch break, but judging by her frown and the tone of the person on the other side of the line, this is going to be a long conversation.
“He said what?” Wanda says and Pietro stands up.
“My cue to go”
“I will kill you” Wanda whispers yells as he runs away, covering the phone with her hand.
All you do is look between them, amused. It can’t possibly be that bad.
Though your smile is wiped away by Wanda’s next words.
“No, we can go to dinner this Saturday. I’m completely free. Don’t worry, we’ll talk to the investors there. They’ll have a great time and we’ll pay for everything. Yes, I’ll be there, I don’t have anything important that day”
Wow.
You look at her, hoping she remembers it’s your wedding anniversary. But she’s massaging her temples, confirming the details and saying her assistant will make the reservation.
Well, you don’t recall a bunch of investors standing next to Wanda as she said her wedding vows.
Five more minutes go by, and you have accepted the fact that she doesn’t even remember that she does in fact have something very important on Saturday.
“I’m almost done” she promises, panick flickering in her eyes as you stand up.
“I have to pack”
“Pack? Where are you going?” there’s a hint of anxiousness in her tone that almost makes you think she still cares. For a moment, you consider reminding her of the date, give her the chance to correct her mistake instead of keeping the hurt to yourself.
But why is it on you to make her care about this marriage?
“Italy. I’m helping Yelena with a phoshoot”
“When do you leave? Yes, I’m still here” she says, torn between the conversation happening on the phone and your explanation.
“I don’t know. I’ll text you later” you say, and she’s about to protest, but then the person she’s talking to gets louder to get her attention and Wanda has no choice but to answer.
Thankfully, you don’t run into anyone as you walk back to the elevator. You furiously wipe away a couple of tears, feeling stupid and irrelevant.
“When do you leave?” is all you ask when Yelena picks up the phone.
“The shoot is in three days but I’m leaving tonight to prep…”
“Ok. I’m coming with you”
“Seriously? That’s amazing! Let me send you the airline details so you can…” she says, typing on her computer.
“No, we’re taking Wanda’s jet” you say and she’s silent for a moment.
“Alright. Cool. Text me the details?”
“Yeap”
Your wife doesn’t miss you, you’re sure she won’t miss her jet either.
—
Wanda looks at your last text, trying to figure out if you’re upset.
She was communicating better about her schedule, and trying to be home earlier than usual. It wasn’t a lot but it had to make up for something.
Still, you left for Italy without saying goodbye. Wanda came home to a note on the kitchen about leftovers and a reminder to water the plants.
And now, even with the time difference, you barely reply to her texts asking about your day.
The only time you replied was to send her a picture Yelena took of you, a cigarrette in your hand as you smiled at the camera.
Wanda knew you were waiting for her to say something about your smoking habits -and your promise of quitting for good-. It meant you wanted to pick a fight, because if she wanted to bring up broken promises, you’d have a list with all of Wanda’s crimes ready to go.
“Why do you look so desperate?” Pietro says as he walks into her office, flicking the spot between her eyebrows with his fingers.
“Why are you so stupid?” she groans, rubbing at her skin.
“Is everything ready for tomorrow?” he says, sitting in front of her.
“Yes, dinner at Knobu. 8 o’clock”
“I meant yours” he says, confused. He pulls out his phone to answer a text, half listening to Wanda.
“What do you mean? We’re having dinner with the investors”
“No, I’m having dinner with the investors. You’re having dinner with your wife. It’s your wedding anniversary”
Pietro only looks up after a few minutes of silence. His face falls when he catches up to everything.
“Please don’t tell me…”
“I forgot”
“Nice, sestra”
“She told me she was going to Italy for work, I..:”
Her mind looks for an explanation. The day you stopped by for lunch. How she scheduled the dinner right in front of you, saying she was completely free.
And then you stood up and left.
Fuck.
“Wanda” Pietro calls for her, knowing she’s spiralling. “Breathe”
“I’m a terrible partner” she says.
“Look, you can still fix it. Send her flowers, or something else. Something huge. She’ll understand. Or go find her. I’ll cover for you”
“Right” Wanda calls the hangar, her mind racing with everything she has to do. She’ll pack a bag, leave immediately to find you…
“What is it?” Pietro says when she hangs up the phone abruptly.
“She took the jet”
Her brother lets out a loud laugh at that. You never use any of the luxuries that Wanda insists are for your comfort and pleasure.
Taking the jet without so much as a warning means you don’t give a shit.
“You’re gonna have to get her a very big bouquet”
“Shut up”
—
It’s been a rough couple of days. You want to enjoy the lovely views, the food, the people. But all you can think about is Wanda.
You’re at a loss for what to do. You’ve communicated your needs and concerns, and Wanda listens, but then does nothing about it. Calling to say she’ll be late is below the bare minimum, to be honest.
Part of you wonders if maybe you’re drifting away because she’s moving forward. After all, her company has grown significantly. Wanda’s always busy, always learning.
You have a job as a creative director in one of the biggest publications in the world. As much as you love it, you know it can’t compare to being a powerful CEO.
Maybe Wanda wants someone who will challenge her, push her to be even greater. Maybe, she’s outgrowing the wife that wants to spend a quiet afternoon watching old movies.
You’re grateful for the photoshoot, the work taking your mind off of everything that’s been haunting you for the past few days.
“Wonderful” you look over Yelena’s shoulder, approving of the light. “What about an overhead shot so you can get the pattern of the dress”
“I love that” the blonde nods, setting up everything.
The subject for the cover is Kate Bishop, Olympic champion, archery prodigy and daughter of a very wealthy and controversial woman. Still, she’s very humble about it, and follows Yelena’s instructions to the tee.
While they continue, you take out your phone. You still haven’t answered Wanda’s last text. You have no idea what to say to her, because apparently she hasn’t even remembered your anniversary. The petty side of you thinks you’ll wait until the end of the day, to send her a “happy anniversary” message.
Let her crash out while you put your phone in do not disturb and drink the night away.
Once Yelena is happy with the work done, the team begins to pick up everything.
“I’m having lunch with Kate” she begins to tell you, clearly hesitating on the next part.
“Cool. Have fun” you wiggle your eyebrows, and she rolls her eyes.
Not like you missed the way both of them were looking at each other. But Yelena already knows why you decided to come and feels somehow responsible for lifting your spirits.
“You don’t want to join us?”
“No, and neither do you. Go, ask her out on a real date”
“Yeah, yeah”
Debating between lunch or a nap, you decide to go back to your room. But the stillness makes you regret your decision immediately, and you want to run away. You need noise, movement, tourists pushing you aside while they take their generic photographs of Sorrento.
Just as you open up the door to leave, your eyes meet green ones.
“Hi” Wanda says.
“Uh… what are you doing here?”
Your wife flinches and you regret your tone immediately. She flew across the world to see you and that’s how you greet her?
“I mean… sorry, I’m a little tired. Come on in” you step aside and she nods. Wanda’s eyes linger for a bit in the room, the two beds and Yelena’s mess on her side of the space.
“We couldn’t find a room for me so… we had to share” you explain, clearing your throat.
“I’m sorry” she says and you look at her, frowning. “For forgetting… I said it right in front of you, that I had nothing important that day. Detka, I am so, so sorry”
“I know you are. You say you’re sorry on the daily” you sigh, and Wanda nods. She knew she fucked up big time, so she’ll take all the shit you give her.
“I know I’ve been a terrible wife lately” she apologizes and you let out a sob that makes her shut up.
You hate crying, especially when you’re mad. Because you want to scream at her, not weep like some silly little girl.
“The thing is… I’m not even sure you want to be married to me anymore. Maybe you’ve outgrown me, or your priorities shifted. I don’t know, Wanda. I just know I feel so alone and like I don’t even know you, or us”
“Of course I want to be married to you. You are my whole reason to exist. Please, you have to believe me. I’ll do anything” she finally crosses the distance, craddling your face in her hands. “I’ll do anything to prove it to you. Please”
You let her hold you until your tears stop, and then you sigh, feeling like you ran a marathon.
“Sorry I took the jet”
“No, you’re not”
Wanda chuckles when you laugh, and you finally break apart.
“Do you have to go back?”
“No, not without you. I’ll stay here as long as you want to” she promises.
“Well, we could have dinner tonight then. For our anniversary” you nod and Wanda’s eager to agree.
“I’ll tell Phoebe to…”
“No. I pick the place. I don’t want something fancy and stuffed where people have to dress to the nines”
“Ok. Anything you want, kotenok”
“I’ll see you here at seven. Don’t be late”
“Yes, dear”
For now, you’ll choose to believe she’ll keep this small promise.
—
Wanda doesn’t know what to expect as she returns to your room. She bought some yellow flowers, your favorites. But when she knocks on the door, Yelena’s the one who opens it.
“Well, look who remembered she has a wife” she says.
“Yelena!” you scream from the bathroom. “Be nice”
Yelena glares at Wanda, but moves aside so she can walk in. Even if you’re the one who has taken the younger woman as your protégé at work, she’s also very loyal to you.
“Sorry, I took a very long nap after going to the beach” you greet Wanda, taking the flowers. “These are lovely. Thank you”
“I’ll put them in some water” Yelena offers with an angelic smile, that disappears the minute you turn around. Her frown comes back when her eyes meet Wanda’s.
“I’ll be back later. You still going out with Kate?” you ask Yelena and she shakes her head.
“Nope, I’ll be here, waiting for you. In case you need anything”
Wanda has to stop herself from snapping at Yelena. You’re her wife, she shouldn’t be acting like she’s not supposed to be around you. But then you’re taking Wanda’s hand in your own, because of course you can read her body language.
It’s a short walk to the restaurant, and you enjoy watching the lights of the city as you find your way to the terrace. You never drop Wanda’s hand, because in spite of everything you’ve been through, of course you have missed her touch.
However, once you step inside the restaurant, you’re practically yanked from her arms as a beautiful woman calls for you, pulling you in for a hug.
“Bella bellissima” she says against your temple and you laugh. The woman links her arms with yours and leads you to the table with the best view of the beach. As you sit down, you keep talking to her, Wanda barely catching a few of the words she can understand with her limited Italian.
“Ti porto un po' di vino, tesoro. Solo il meglio per te”
“Grazie, Bella”
“Why do you call her bella?” Wanda says, trying to keep her jealousy aside.
“Huh? Oh, that’s her name. The night we got here, Yelena and I got a little drunk… and we were saying her name means beautiful and she’s also very beautiful, hence… Bella bellissima” you try to laugh, squirming in your seat. Now you’re lucky that Wanda’s in the dog house for her screw up, or you’d be on your knees, begging for…
Well, not begging, because your mouth would be very busy doing other stuff.
“So how was the shoot?” she tries to change the subject, because it’s that or throwing the waitress over the terrace.
“Good. Yelena’s great, and Kate was such a great model. They seem to like each other a little too much” you smile, knowing what’s behind the looks they gave each other throughout the entire morning.
“Well, it’s not an unusual place to meet someone. A photoshoot” Wanda says and you laugh.
That’s how you two met, after all. It was during one of your first events, back when you were a junior editor. A luncheon, putting together the most brilliant minds in the world for a discussion, or a measurement of egos. And there was Wanda, easily catching everyone’s eyes. Effortlessly magnetic, it wasn’t long before you were sucked into her orbit. And when you asked for her number, she was happy that it was for dinner, and not some interview.
“Did you ever imagine we’d end up here?” you ask, thinking back to that day.
“Yes. I knew I wanted to be with you since we met” Wanda says, which makes you smile. “I just wish… I hadn’t taken you for granted”
“Wanda…” you say, feeling like this isn’t the place to discuss such difficult topics.
“No, please. Just let me tell you how much I love you. How sorry I am for being so caught up with work. All I ever want in life is you by my side. The rest is just noise. And I’ll never let it get this bad again. I swear on my life, detka” she takes your hand, looking defeated, and scared. Like she thinks she realised too late and she lost you already.
But that could never be the case.
Still, darling Bella chooses that moment to come back with wine and some appetizers. She only looks at you as she speaks, a huge grin on her face as she places a hand on the back of your chair.
“Ecco il vino e qualche antipasto, ti porto subito il resto, amore”
All you can do is nod and smile. Bella lingers for a second too long and you fear for her life.
A hand creeps up your thigh and you turn around, panic in your eyes as Wanda smirks at you.
“Wanda”
“I know enough Italian to understand she called you love” she says, inching closer. Your breath hitches. “If she so much as looks your way one more time, I will buy this damn restaurant and have her fired”
“It’s a family business. Her family” you clarify, as if that makes a difference at all. Wanda’s smile only widens, her other hand cupping your chin until you only look at her.
“I haven’t forgotten I belong to you” she says, her lips barely touching yours. “And you? You still remember who owns your pretty cunt?”
“Yes”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, Daddy” you whisper, heat flooding your cheeks as she presses her lips against yours.
“Good girl”
Luckily, they seem to be short staffed, so Bella can only do so much staring. You won’t deny part of this mess is your fault, because you can be very flirty when you’re drunk. And Yelena wasn’t really interested in making you hold it back, because in her words, you deserved a break from everything.
The food is amazing, and conversation flows easily. To your surprise, Wanda leaves a huge tip, probably because she feels bad about the way she practically groped you in front of Bella as she was bringing dessert.
“Let’s go for a walk” you say, though it’s chilly and as usual, you forgot your coat. But Wanda simply shrugs her jacket off, and puts it around your shoulders, her hand keeping you close to her by the waist.
You only ask once about work, specifically about who’s covering for Wanda while she’s gone.
“Pietro can handle things. And if he can’t, maybe we shouldn’t be doing this at all. I need people who can manage. If I run everything on my own I’ll end up working myself to death"
You only nod, looking at the rising moon and the silhouette of Mount Vesuvius.
"You like to be in control. Not that it's bad in some situations" you say, blushing.
“I know, detka. But it’s not sustainable for anyone, either. What will happen when we start a family?” she says, almost too casual for your liking.
“Don’t say that. Unless you actually mean it” you walk up to the edge of the railing, arms crossed. You’ve both wanted a family, but it’s never the right time. With all that’s happened, you figured you’d have to push it another year or two.
“You don’t believe me”
“I just don’t want to get my hopes up, Wanda”
“This isn’t a one time thing. I promise I’ll be home more. I won’t forget another anniversary. Ever”
“Only one way to find out” you smile. “I don’t care if next year we’re in Italy or at home in our pajamas. I just want you with me, Wanda”
“I can’t wait,” Wanda says, taking you in her arms and kissing your shoulder as you both look out to the bay. You try to take your phone when you get a text, but she only pulls you closer against her front. “Is Yelena checking up on you?”
“No” you say, trying hard not to shiver at the way she whispers against your ear. “So, uh… do you have enough room for me? Apparently Kate stopped by and I am not to interrupt for the next two to three hours”
“Of course, moya lyubov'” she laughs against your temple.
“Thank you”
“Anything for you, amore” she adds in a teasing tone and you huff.
“You’re unbelievable”
---
It’s been a week of drinking Aperol Spritz, sunbathing and swimming in the coast of southern Italy. Right now, you’re on a yacht, laying on the deck as Wanda reads a book.
“I don’t want to go back” you sigh, knowing New York will be hot, humid and too crowded.
“Me neither” Wanda says, kissing the back of your hand, flinching when you turn to look at her. “What?”
“My wife, the ultimate workaholic, isn't eager to attend her back to back meetings?” you say.
“Back to back, you say?” she smiles, standing up and towering over you. “How about me on my back while you ride me?”
“Wanda” you shush her, looking around, hoping no one heard her.
“What? Now you’re shy? I’ve been fucking you all week and you have been very vocal about how much you enjoy it, kotenok” she sits next to you, smiling. Her hand creeps up your thigh, pushing past your sundress, until she reaches your center, teasing and you let out a strangled moan. But she stands up, walking towards the captain. “We’re going back to shore, now”
“Yes, Mrs. Maximoff” he says, immediately following her orders.
Wanda leans and kisses you, biting your bottom lip.
“Are you going to be a nice girl for Daddy?” she whispers hotly against your mouth. You nod, but she squeezes your throat and you moan again. “Words. Use them”
“Yes, I’ll be a good girl for you, Daddy”
You’re inclined to yell at the captain to go faster, because the ten minutes it takes to get back to the mainland are pure torture for you. Wanda, on the other hand, looks completely unbothered, going back to her book.
So unfair, how she messes with you and then goes back to her controlled self.
“You’re staring” she says, unable to keep herself from grinning.
“You're evil” you huff, and all you get as response is another laugh.
Some of the tension leaves your body when you’re finally able to step out into the dock.
“Slow down. Why are you in such a hurry?” she laughs and if you weren’t so fucking horny, you’d push her into the water.
Still, she quits teasing as you walk back to the villa, already thinking of all the things she’ll do to you the minute you’re back in your room.
Unfortunately, for you, someone calls your name. A woman, sounding very excited to see you.
“Carina, come stai?”
“Vittoria, hi!” you say, being pulled into a very tight hug. “It’s been such a long time…”
“Yes, how could I forget? I was barely dressed. Thank God you were there to put on sunscreen” she laughs, but you’re sure those words will be your downfall.
“We were… shooting for Dolce & Gabbana. Remember? That ad in Capri” you explain to Wanda, and she just nods, but you can see the annoyance in her eyes. “Vittoria, this is my wife…”
“Of course, you’re the famous Wanda. Y/N here won’t stop talking about you”
“I’m glad” Wanda says, pulling you against her. “I’m terribly sorry, but I think I drank a little too much limoncello, so we’ll be heading back”
“It was nice seeing you” the model says and you smile, though it doesn’t reach your eyes.
For the rest of the short walk, you’re both silent. And then, the door to the room opens and Wanda pushes you against it.
“How do I say Get your hands off my wife in Italian?” she practically growls, ripping your panties and plunging two fingers inside.
“Fuck”
“What was that?”
“Daddy, please. I’m sorry” you moan, trying to move so her fingers go deeper. But instead of fucking you, Wanda takes her fingers out and offers them to you. Without complaint, you open your mouth, sucking your arousal eagerly. “Show me how sorry you are”
Wanda takes a fistful of your hair, and pushes you until you’re on your knees. Your mouth opens and she moves her thong to the side, fucking your face while you grab her hips to keep her in place.
“If you’re such a good girl, why do you whore yourself out so much, huh?” she pulls you roughly, until your nose nudges her clit and she moans. “Seems like all those sluts want you on your knees”
You try to say something, but all you manage is a whine, feeling your own arousal leak down your thighs.
“Who owns your mouth? Your cunt?”
“You” you say, though it’s barely understandable, as you're busy eating Wanda’s pussy like a woman starved.
“Fucking right, you’re mine” she says, humping your face until she comes with a cry. You let her ride out her orgasm, noticing she’s struggling to keep upright. Slowly, you stand up, taking her in your arms and kissing her softly. Wanda moans at the taste of herself in your lips, allowing you to practically carry her back to bed.
Kissing her shoulder, you wait until her breathing evens out and she looks up at you, smiling.
“I really hate that you work with so many models”
“They got nothing on you, baby”
“Yeah?”
“Promise” you kiss her hand, smiling. “Plus, they don’t even know who Mary Tyler Moore is”
“Oh, had I known that was what made me stand out…” she rolls her eyes.
“Well, yeah. That and your ass”
“Please, stop talking. You’re not helping your case” she swats your hand away and you laugh.
“How about you make me?” you challenge her, and she gives you a shit eating grin, pushing you on your back and straddling your lap. You let out a moan when you feel her slickness against your own cunt.
“Careful what you wish for, amore”
And sure enough, by the end of the day, your voice is gone from all the moaning and screaming.
⚰︎ tags: no use of y/n ⋆ mdni ⋆ wlw ⋆ mideval au ⋆ changeling!reader ⋆ softdom!wanda ⋆ praise kink ⋆ improper use of magic ⋆ scissoring ⋆ face sitting ⋆ established relationship ⋆ master/pet dynamic ⋆ word count: 3.2k
⚰︎ warnings: fluff ⋆ smut ⋆
⚰︎ every good pet gets a reward.
⚰︎ You ran down the street, small bag loot gripped between your teeth. Effortlessly sidestepping every human in your way, nobody paid you any mind. Even for those who knew the truth behind the little black cat scurrying down the town streets usually looked the other way. Unfortunately, being so infamous, you were the easiest way to deliver a message to your master.
You had known the moment you started being followed. You had far keener senses than any human or even that of an ordinary cat. You were still at the outer streets of the city. This was where the less savory characters called their territory. You had done nothing that you could think of to warrant being tailed, it wasn’t a crime to pass through the city, especially down Main Street.
Now sensing a third person following you sped up and changed your path, dodging carts horses and people. Skittering down an alley, you slipped through the cracks of the outer gate, there you saw a tin cup. The northern outer wall is where trash is often tossed, the castle was as far south as could be. Less royal staff ever found its way here to even address the poverty issue, they couldn’t care less about the debris.
With what magic you could summon, you swapped the contents of the bag for the tin, burying it fast in the leaves. Once you had finished, a rat ran past you startling you from your place.
“There it is!” You heard a voice yell. Sparing the man a glance you bolted from the wall, now empty bag still clenched in your teeth. You noticed the man held a crossbow.
Why were you being hunted? Surly hunting game hasn’t gotten so scarce that the people wanted to eat their house pets? No, this was personal. These men knew who you were. What you were. As men continued to peruse you, in your panic you were none the wiser that they were corralling you. An arrow missed your right side, so you moved left to the wall, hoping to cut in front of them and bolt into the woods for good. Only they had anticipated this and had set a trap. You saw it too late, you were going too fast to change course and were soon tied up in a net. Five men gathered around you, all sweating and out of breath. The sixth man joined last, slowed down by a large metal box. You could see amateur runes casted into the metal.
You struggled harder against the ropes now, biting and clawing, but still getting nowhere. When the first man approached the net you made sure to deliver a swipe of your claws through the holes. He kicked the net in retaliation, while holding his bleeding hand. You ignored the pain in your middle, claws now digging into his shoe.
“Bag it!”
⚰︎ Wanda could feel your panic from miles away. The icy feeling spread through her own veins, her own heartbeat picking up to mirror your own. You were only running an errand, a trip you had made hundreds of times. Wanda was confident that you could travel your paths in your sleep, there had to be something wrong. This feeling was a different feeling than what she has felt when your travels accidentally brings you across a snake, or if you happened to spook a stable horse.
When the feeling didn’t disperse she knew something was wrong. You weren’t spooked you were scared. She packed up her work quickly, flicking all the candles out with a swipe before she stood to leave. By the time she was outside the feeling hadn’t ceased, in fact, it had worsened. Wanda’s feeling of irritation for having to go save you from whatever had you so spooked was now replaced with rage. Anger for whichever creature was bringing you this much distress and pain.
⚰︎ You could feel the painful thrum of the iron box through the leather bag. It was hot against your skin, burning you everywhere you moved to try and find relief. You assumed the bag itself was blessed and treated with something, the smell stung your eyes and brined throat when you breathed.
You had been inside the stupid iron box for nearly thirty minutes. You knew what it was doing. You saw the runes. It kept you locked in and shut off all of your abilities, now just an ordinary very pissed off cat in a cage. Since your skin wasn’t making full contact, all it did was cause you a constant but bearable pain.
While eavesdropping, you learned they planned to deliver you to a buyer. Some rich mortal trying to do business with Wanda. Some idiot with no idea who he is actually dealing with. If you were not in this stupid box you would have told them that they would not be surviving long enough to see their new wealth.
The iron made you powerless, but not untraceable. Wanda was capable of magic far beyond these silly warding runes. As her familiar, your own soul was no longer yours, it belonged to her. The Scarlet Witch could find you in any universe if she so chose to rip open the fabric of time and space. All you had to do was just wait for her to arrive.
“Should we open the pouch?”
“No!”
“It’s probably a curse!”
“Yeah, dead on the spot! Or-or she’ll eat your firstborn son.”
“The buyer can decided what to do with the bag.” Too bad.
You wanted to hiss out a laugh, but you were conserving your breath. Even though you were still tied in the bag, unable to see your surroundings, but you felt her as soon as she materialized. You heard all of the men go still.
⚰︎ “You stole something of mine.” Wanda announced, standing before the kidnappers. They all stood stunned amongst the makeshift camp.
“Forgive us.” One of the men dropped to his knees.
“P-please, allow us to explain.” The next of the men said softly. He raised his dirty hands up in surrender. Wanda’s eyes zeroed in on the fresh cuts on his palm, three perfectly parallel angry red lines.
Wanda made her decision on how this little interaction would go.
The second man opened his mouth to excuse their actions but he never uttered a word. Frozen in place with his mouth open wide. His cohorts looked at him in anticipation, clearly waiting for him to save them.
Blood began to pour from his orifices, starting with his nose. The other men backed away from their friend in horror. They turned to flee, not making it far as Wanda was quick hold them in place with her magic. The red energy pulses thrummed in the men’s ears, drowning out their cries of terror.
With sickening pops, one by one each of the men dropped to the forest floor. Each man crumpled into piles of blood flesh and bones
Wanda’s attention was now set on the metal box they had set on a stump. Another twinge of anger flared as she easily identified the material as iron. Like most fae and other non human creatures, iron was a weakness and caused you pain. Lifting a discarded knife, she used it to open the latch of the cage. Elementary looks or not, Wanda did not want to touch the Runes on the outer sides of the metal.
The front side dropped open with a harsh creak, revealing a black leather sack tied with a rope. As soon as your ears picked up on the sound of the cage door hitting the floor of wherever you were you were fast to scurry out of the box. Still stuck in the bag, you only clumsily rolled yourself out and onto the forest floor trying to get out of the bag.
“Malyshka,” Wanda’s soft voice called. You stilled your thrashing, feeling the bag move. She began to untie the knots of rope. “Are you alright?” You dramatically yowled.
Yes.
“I’m sure you’re just embarrassed.” She cooed. You yowled again.
And that you were, but she didn’t have to point it out. You could hear Wanda’s silent laugh. As soon as the bad was open, you were bolting out, soon falling into leaves as your legs gave out.
Wanda crouched down to your feline form. You were shaking, muscles stiff as you tried to catch your breath. Cat instincts at the forefront, seeing the bag spooked you again. Your back arched, inky black fur standing straight up as you turned to the bag. You hissed swatting at the fabric.
“Hey, now.” Wanda fearlessly plucked you up off the floor, you wiggled to find your footing, still feeling the global pins and needles from the iron. You stilled as you watched your lost pouch float towards the two of you surrounded by a red glow.
Wanda opened the ties and realized it was full of leaves. “Tricky girl,” she laughed, you purred, pimping your head against her chin. “Let’s go find your delivery.”
You lead Wanda back to the tin, the heirlooms still safely tucked away in their cloth wrapping. When the two of you arrived home, to your horror Wanda gave you a bath.
The leather bag had been soaked in oils often used in less savory business. Wanda could pick up on it right away, you hadn’t been in the bag for enough time to do any damage but the faster she got them off of you the better.
After you pathetically allowed her to scrub your black coat, you let her dry you with her magic. The moment you were dry you leapt off into hiding.
“Malyshka.” Wanda called.
She followed you to your chosen hiding spot inside the empty cauldron that sat on the floor. You had your paws spread out, looking like you were about to bolt. You knew better, Wanda most definitely wanted to clean you in both forms. Benign or not, she hated when you tracked other magic back into the house.
Just like a mother would to her kitten she grabbed your scruff before you could jump away. She fought against a laugh as your body reflexed into a learned helplessness position, legs and arms curled up in mid air.
When she had you back by the basin again, using her own magic she forced you back into your human form. You blinked twice.
She stared down at you as if waiting for something,
“I’m sorry, Mistress.” You squeezed out. She hummed in acknowledgment.
“Clothes off.” She ordered while her magic busied around her prepping the tub.
You obeyed wordlessly, already feeling for shame and guilt of the day ball together in your gut. You tugged yourself free of your final garment, folding it with the rest. You jumped at the feeling of her hands skimming along your bare back and don’t to your ribs. The bruise on your side had started to bloom from where the man had kicked you in your feline form.
She hushed you as her palm splayed over your ribs, you could sense the anger radiating off of her as she observed the tender skin. You felt the warm tingling sensation of her magic wrapping around her hands that held your skin. The dull pain began to reduce into nothing as she healed your flesh.
“Thank you.” You uttered.
She still said nothing, helping you step into the basin of warm water. She was stewing in her own anger, it wasn’t anything against you and she didn’t want to take it out on you.
She had stirred in her own mix of oils and lyes it filling the room with a pleasant smelling steam that had you relaxing into the water. Her silence continued as she scrubbed your skin until she deemed you clean of all foreign magic residue. She almost felt bad when she had finished, you had nearly fallen asleep in the tub.
Wanda dried you off with a towel and magic before allowing you to finally scurry away and sleep off today’s events. After cleaning up from your bath, she found your curled up inside of her linen closet.
“Malyshka.” Your slitted eyes blinked open. “You stay here. I have something to do.”
She scratched beneath your chin briefly before she retreated from the cottage. You opted to continue to sleep, closing your eyes and settle back down into your spot.
⚰︎ When Wanda returned, you could smell the strong scent of iron clinging to her skin and clothing. You made your appearance to her, sitting in front of the bathroom door. You yawned and blinked at her.
“Sleep well?” She greeted watching you sniff the air. You mewled, swishing your tail. The smell was filling up the air now, distorting the scent of your master that you loved so much. A human nose wouldn’t be as sensitive to it, but even in your own human form your senses were keen enough to notice it. Her eyebrow ticked upwards.
“Their benefactor is dead.” She informed you, passing by to drop her coat in the bin.
Thank you. You mewled again, waking in a circle from your spot at the bathroom doorway.
Wanda sighed. “I know, I know.” She stepped over you, peeling off her clothing as she went. You hopped up onto the sink and waited patiently as she scrubbed herself clean of the scent of death.
“You were very brave today, Malyshka.” She praised you as she dried her hair, another towel wrapped around her nude body. You sat on the counter watching her apply her facial oils.
She had hoped to coax you back to your human form now if you were feeling up to it. It seemed to be working, she could hear your loud purrs sounding out as you followed her to the bedroom. You hopped onto the bed turning to face her.
“And so smart of you to swap out your delivery.” She gave you a smile. “Even though that is not what they were really after, you still took the time to hide it.”
The tip of your tail dluytered detailing your silent excitement to her praises. While Wanda turned again to discard of her towel, she felt your magic spike as you shifted back to your human form. When she turned back to face the bed, you were still bare of your own clothing, sitting legs cross-crossed on top of the bedding. Wanda knelt onto the bed, carding a hand through your still damp hair. Your eyes fluttered closed feeling her blunt fingernails scrape along your scalp.
“You did such a good job, today.” She smiled.
⚰︎ [𝚗𝚜𝚏𝚠] Wanda cupped a hand at your cheek, pulling your lips to her own. You had to lean forward with the awkward angle from where you sat. Her hand traveled down to your breast, thumbing over your nipple. You withdrew as your breathing stuttered, hovering your lips against her own.
“Every good pet deserves her reward.” She reminded you while her hand traveled lower. Her fingers ghosted over your core, feeling the aching need for her begin to flood your system. You swallowed thickly with a nod.
“Thank you, Mistress.” You breathed as fingers parted your folds. Her fingers dipping to feel your wetness. A warm smile spread onto her face as she pushed you backwards with a small yelp. Your legs uncrossed and laid limp along the mattress.
Kneeling over you, Wanda’s hand slithered back between your thighs. Her fingers started stroking slow circles around your clit, watching as your breathing picked up from the stimulation. Your hands fisted the duvet below you as you moaned softly, hips twitching against the slow ministrations. Her fingers eventually picked up, watching the unsteady movement of your hips respond to her.
When she deemed you ready enough, Wanda grabbed ahold of your leg, slotting it over her own hip. She leaned down to kiss your lips once again, pulling your thigh closer to her. Releasing you from her kiss she pressed her hips forward, both of you moaning as her core slid forward against your wetness. She fell into a steady rhyth, red magic climbing your skin like vines.
“M-Mistress, please I-” you cried out as she adjusted her grip on your thigh, drawing her hips back further to thrust against you. Your pussy drooled as she ground her hips against you, stimulating your already sensitive clit.
“Please may I cum?” You asked her. She looked down at you with a pitied look. Even though you knew this was a reward you were using your manners. Her pet was so polite. “You don’t need me permission tonight.” She informed you as she reached out and pulled at one of your nipples roughly.
You came a loud moan ripping through you, one hand still gripped onto the sheets and the other holding Wanda’s thigh for dear life. She didn’t stop, thrusting her hips against yours clumsily until she came, soaking your own cunt in her release.
You lazily stared up at her as Wanda kissed at your thigh in her grip while sucking lightly at your warmed skin. She allowed you to lay and catch your breath before she was pulling you up effectively swapping places. You sat at her waist, messy cunt soiling her bare skin. “C’mere.” Wanda pulled your hips forward ushering you to crawl up her body. Once your legs were bracketing her head did you truly understand what she was implying.
“Let me give you your reward, Malyshka.”
You nodded, lowering your hips hesitantly, both hands holding the headboard. You felt her own hands rub at your thighs, encouraging you to be more bold. You felt her tongue swipe up your folds, but before you could run from the sensation, you felt the warm sensation of her magic spread through you. It locked you in your place against her, as her tongue explored your holds deeper. Her magic tightened its hold around you and pulled you down against her mouth further.
When her lips sealed around your clit your body lurched forward, a loud keen ripping from your throat. She slurped at your folds, greedily drinking down your essence. One of your hands held the headboard, the tiger threaded through Wanda’s hair; her own hand around your thigh.
Wanda’s fingers of her free hand began to prod at your entrance, magic curling from her fingertips. You felt the warm tingle of it firing off every nerve in its wake, pushing you into your next orgasm.
It surprised you, your entire body lurching forward. Wanda didn’t stop, tongue still working on your clit, suckling it between her lips. You felt her magic pushing her magic deeper, pleasure spiking your system into overdrive. You sobbed against the pillows, breathing in large gulps of your master’s scent.
“I can’t- I can’t.” Your instinct to crawl away from the overstimulation was foiled, her magic still held you tight to her face. You felt your orgasm next building; a deep pressure in your core. You clawed at the bedding.
“I’m. Mmm…” Your words died into a cry of pained pleasure. Wanda nipped at your sensitive bundle of nerves. You looked down at her to meet her intense stare, you were blinking rapidly, eyes beginning to fill with unshed tears.
You may think she was being mean that she wanted you to cry. She knew you inside and out, you would internalize today’s earlier events and try to ignore and work through it’s. She was just forcing the emotional reaction out of you before you buried your feelings away.
She nipped at your clit again, this time harder all while her magic massaged and stimulated your inner walls.
You came with a loud sob, soaking Wanda’s face and neck. Your final release had your vision fading away, coming to against Wanda’s chest. You sobbed against her breast, all the negative emotions of the day finally poured out.
She held you in her arms, whispering lullaby’s and enchantments in a language you didn’t understand until you drifted off to sleep.
the timed post was missing the bottom chunk that wrote forgot to copy over lolz if you missed the face sitting i’m sorry diva
Summary: Between vows and betrayal, lace and ruin, they tear each other apart one last time—desire and grief tangled so tight neither can breathe. Because some goodbyes don't sound like words. They sound like moans. They taste like tears. Then craves for something sweet.
Pairings: Stepsister Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader
Author's note: Commissioned. IF THIS ISN'T YOUR THING, YOU ARE FREE TO SCROLL AWAY. I think this is a timing for kinktober.
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Wanda was only five when her father remarried.
Even then, she felt the weight of change pressing from the moment her mother was rushed to the hospital—never realizing it would be the last time she'd see her alive.
One quiet evening, Wanda peeked around the corner of the living room. Her wide, innocent eyes froze at the sight of her father kissing another woman. A stranger who's got a little huge tummy. Not her mother—her mother who still lay sleeping in the white "pencil case" as Wanda, in her child's mind, had come to call it.
Wanda's confusion deepened even more when one day, the stranger woman leaned down and kissed her forehead gently, just like her real mom used to do. She felt even more bewildered when the woman helped her into a pretty dress and handed her a basket of flower petals. The woman's soft voice broke through Wanda's maze of thoughts as she began talking about her father. "I love your daddy," she said with a sweet smile, "and I'm gonna give you a good life. I'm gonna take care of you." She paused, looking down at her stomach. "Both of you," the woman clarified with a gentle caress on Wanda's cheek, "You won't understand yet, and your real mama may be gone now, but I promise you something—I will love you like she would have."
The only thing Wanda could clearly remember from that day was walking down the aisle, her tiny hands clutching a tiny basket as she threw petal flowers like she was instructed to.
At first, the change was terrifying. But as days turned into weeks, then months, Wanda began to find comfort. Her new mama's tummy grew bigger, and with it, so did Wanda's attachment. There were tea parties in the garden, endless plates of cookies, crocheted dolls and scarves, and warm arms that smelled faintly of lavender.
For Wanda, it was as if nothing really had changed. When her real mother passed away, the love of a mother quickly surrounded her again because that's how quick a new mama came to the rescue.
One day, while playing in the living room, Wanda noticed that her mama's stomach had grown significantly. "Are you sick, mama?" Wanda asked, her small hands gently touching her mama's belly. Her brows furrowed in confusion and worry. "Why is your tummy so big? Does it hurt?" She looked up at your mother with glossy teary eyes that made it sting.
Your mother smiled gently at her daughter's concern and handed her a small box. "Open it, sweetheart," she said softly. Wanda took the box, her tiny hands carefully opening it to reveal a crocheted top inside. "Big Sister" was written in sparkly letters on the front.
Days turned into weeks, and Wanda still didn't fully understand what the shirt said and what her mama said.
"We're gonna have a baby. You're going to have a baby sister. That means you're going to be a big sister."
But even then, Wanda kept caring for her mama and the growing tummy she carried. She trailed after her through the house, making sure mama sat down whenever she looked tired, bringing her water or little snacks without being asked with little flowers she personally handpicked in the garden. If her mama so much as winced, Wanda would hurry over, her face etched with worry, asking softly what was wrong. Her mama would reassure her—it was just the tummy—and Wanda would lean in to place a gentle kiss on it. She even tried to imitate her father, wrapping her small arms around her mama's belly from behind, as if she too could help ease the weight.
But then, all of a sudden, her mama was being rushed to the hospital. This time, Wanda's little heart filled with terror as she watched her mama disappear in the huge white door of the emergency room.
In her mind, everything replayed like a horror movie. She remembered her first mama—her real mom—never coming out the same door. The memories of that day were etched deeply into her little mind, and now she was terrified that it was happening again.
She didn't understand why her first mama never came back, but now she understood that her second mama—the one who loved her and took care of her—was in the hospital and might not come out either.
But much to her surprise, her mama did, she came out from the same door where she was rushed in, with a tiny human wrapped in a thick cloth.
That was the only thing Wanda remembered happening that day.
The day when you came into her life.
Wanda had been the only little one before you came along, and adjusting to another small human was confusing for her—everything was confusing through the eyes of a five year old. The attention that once belonged solely to her was now shared with the tiny being who demanded constant care. But Wanda soon realized something important: with the arrival of this new little one, she was no longer just a "tiny being" herself—she is now a part of the "big ones" like mama and dad. And because she understood that tiny beings needed more attention than huge ones, she did her part. She cared for you, she tried to help—doing whatever her small hands and big heart could manage.
Your first word wasn't "Mama." It was "Wanda."
She had you in her arms, bouncing you like a doll when it slipped out of your mouth. The syllables were clumsy, broken by baby teeth and spit, but unmistakable. "Wan-da."
She refused to let anyone else touch you for the rest of the day. You were hers. Her shadow. Her responsibility. Her baby—even though she was barely past babyhood herself.
From then on, she was always there.
She bathed with you. Fed you off her own plate. Propped you on her hip while watching cartoons. She even learned how to balance a bottle with her chin when her hands got tired.
If you cried, Wanda cried too. If you laughed, she laughed harder.
And when you made mistakes, Wanda carried the blame.
"Who spilled the juice?" Mama asked.
"It was me," Wanda would say, even when the evidence was still dripping down your chin.
And when Wanda made mistakes, you covered for her too…though always with a price.
One afternoon, you found her rifling through mama's purse. She froze, caught red-handed, her reflection wide-eyed in the vanity mirror. Slowly, she turned to you, lips parting in a guilty panic.
"Don't tell Mama," she whispered. Then her voice softened, coaxing, "I'll buy you ice cream."
You didn't really know what it is to tell mama. But ice cream? That was enough to seal the deal. You nodded enthusiastically.
When you turned five, Wanda was ten.
By then, Wanda had learned to notice things. She would watch from the window of your shared room as a mysterious man carried you away every weekend. He was tall and a bit young, Wanda remembered seeing that same man on the day you were born. Sometimes she would eavesdrop, listening in on the brief and straightforward exchanges between her mama and the man as they arranged the details of your pickup.
"When I married your dad, I already had your sister. And…that's her father, Wanda."
Wanda didn't say anything right away, but she studied your face the night you came back, when you were asleep. The resemblance was undeniable. You had his eyes, his mouth, his stubborn chin. Different from hers. Different from Wanda's.
It didn't change how she felt, though. If anything, it made her hold onto you tighter. Maybe you had another father somewhere else, but to Wanda, you were still hers.
When you were thirteen, Wanda was eighteen.
That was the year she began sneaking girls into your shared bedroom at night. You would wake to the sound of the window sliding open, the faint creak of the frame straining against its hinges, followed by the hushed shuffle of footsteps. There was always a quick exchange of giggles, nervous and sharp, swallowed by the dark before mama or dad could catch wind of them.
The ritual became so familiar you could almost time it—the scrape of shoes against the floor, the whisper of fabric being tugged loose, the sudden, electric silence when Wanda realized you were awake.
She'd sit down on the bed beside you, her weight dipping the mattress, her presence warm and heavy in the dark. Then she would pat her thighs—the unspoken signal. By then, you knew what to do. You climbed on, caging her legs with yours, but you never looked her in the eyes. Something about it felt dangerous, like the truth of everything would spill out if your gazes locked too long.
"Don't tell mama and dad," she would whisper, her voice threaded with a soft, deliberate threat but softened by those pleading eyes. It wasn't just a warning—it was a request, almost a confession.
You hesitated, biting your lip. You didn't know whether to nod or protest.
Then she leaned closer, her breath brushing your ear, her tone coaxing now, playful, sweet. "I'll buy you ice cream."
You picked at your nails, staring down at your own legs straddling hers. A lump stuck in your throat. "For a week," you finally bargained, voice cracking in the quiet.
Her smirk bloomed in the dim light, sharp and triumphant. "Deal." She tilted your chin up with practiced ease, pressing a quick kiss to your lips before carefully shifting you aside, removing you from her lap. She tucked you back under the blanket, smoothing the covers as if nothing had happened. Then she kissed your forehead before slipping out the window with the girl she had smuggled in.
And just like that, your silence was bought. Not by fear but by the promise of sweetness—a cone of ice cream, cold and temporary, melting fast on your tongue, making the secret easier to swallow.
But time does what it always does.
Your weekends with your father began to stretch into entire weeks, then whole summers. You were gone more often than you were home. And when you returned, the house felt smaller, your shared room more suffocating than comforting.
As people do, you begin to change. Wanda noticed it first in little ways. You asked mama for your own room—not because you disliked sharing with your sister, but because privacy had started to matter, especially when her nighttime visits grew more frequent, when girls seemed to come and go through your window more than the breeze itself.
You stopped sneaking bites of her food, stopped sipping from her tumbler like you used to. You turned down her casual invitations to shower together, when once you would throw tantrums if she said no. You stopped sprawling on her side of the bed, stopped demanding her attention in the loud, childish ways you once did.
And when Wanda leaned close, trying to kiss you the way she always had—on the lips, the innocent ritual of childhood—you avoided her. At first, you offered your cheek instead, a compromise, an attempt to soften the rejection. But even the cheek-kisses became rare. Eventually, they disappeared altogether.
The bond that once felt unshakable began to loosen thread by thread.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, you drifted away.
And Wanda, though she never admitted it, felt the loss like a phantom limb—something that should still be there, something she reached for in the dark, only to find empty space.
When you turned sixteen, Wanda was twenty-one.
Everything about you had shifted. The baby-soft frame she used to carry everywhere had vanished, replaced by a body that demanded to be noticed—curves that pulled eyes whether you wanted them to or not. Your clothes, skimpy tops and low-cut bras, seemed chosen to test limits, and you carried yourself with a confidence that both unsettled and angered her.
You were no longer the little sister who clung to her every chance you get or cried when she left the room. Instead, you spent your days barricaded in your bedroom, only emerging when hunger forced you to the kitchen or mama called you to join the family. And even then, you came out sharp-edged. Your words cut. You bit back with sarcasm whenever mama gave you gentle reminders, rolled your eyes at your stepdad.
One evening, when your temper spilled over and you snapped at your mom again, Wanda finally stepped in. She could see you were upset about something and she didn't want to judge, she tried to reason with you even though she knows you went overboard with how you acted, "Are you okay, baby?"
But you only glared, the venom in your tone surprising her. "Why do you care?"
Wanda froze, her heart lurching at the bite in your words. Still, she tried. "Because you're my sister. Of course I care."
Your laugh was sharp, hollow. "Why?! You're not really my sister, Wanda—so stop pretending like you are!"
The silence that followed was brutal. For a moment, it felt like the entire house was holding its breath. Wanda stood there, stunned, the sting of your words ringing louder than anything else. In her hand, the ice cream cone she had bought for you earlier sagged, melting into a sticky mess.
The sweet girl who once begged to sleep in her arms, who used to sneak bites from her plate, who kissed her lips without hesitation—was gone. In her place stood someone colder, sharper, a stranger in your skin. And Wanda hated it. Not because she despised who you were becoming but because she missed who you used to be.
Now you slipped further from her with every passing day, and Wanda didn't know how to stop it. All she knew was that losing you—even in this quiet, gradual way—felt unbearable.
When you were nineteen, Wanda was twenty-four.
The holiday season had rolled around again, but this year felt different. You hadn't planned on coming home—your father had been insistent that you spend Christmas with him instead, and you had promised him you would. It stung a little, knowing Mama would spend the holidays without you, but you had told yourself there would always be next year. There would always be more time.
But time is cruel.
A sudden, brutal twist of fate shattered everything you thought was certain.
Your family home became a crime scene. The lights that once glowed warm in the windows were replaced by the cold flicker of police sirens, washing the walls in red and blue. Neighbors huddled on the sidewalks, their whispers thick with shock and pity. Yellow tape stretched across the porch where you had once sat eating ice cream with Wanda on hot summer nights.
Inside, nothing was the same.
Your mama and stepfather—gone in an instant. A robbery, the officers said. A senseless act of violence. Two lives stolen before the season of giving could even begin.
And Wanda, scarred, traumatized.
You? Lost.
After the funeral, the silence was unbearable. The air still reeked of melted candles and smoke, the wilted flowers drooped in their vases, and the mourners had long since disappeared. All that remained was the suffocating weight of absence.
You stood in the corner, arms wrapped around yourself, trying to disappear into the shadows. That was when Wanda moved.
She had been quiet for days—didn't speak to anyone, even to you. But now, she came toward you with no hesitation in her steps, no room for you to retreat.
Before you could form a thought, she was on you. Her hands gripped your arms, making you whine because it hurts. You could feel her breath against your neck, uneven and hot, her chest trembling as if holding back a storm.
"You're coming home with me." She whispered, but it wasn't soft. It wasn't a request. It was a vow, a command, a claim.
Now you're back home for the first time since you had left for the holidays before the incident. There's this heavy weight settled over you, the house was empty but you feel like it was crowded the way your chest constricts. You're not being welcomed by mama's hug anymore or the aroma of her dish. No more dad to ask you if you wanted to go shopping.
You tried not to imagine how it happened—how it ended—but the thought lingered anyway. Stepping inside, Wanda was already walking past the kitchen, unable to face the place where your mother and stepdad had been shot. The sight hollowed you, and your heart ached with a grief too vast to name.
When you went upstairs, you peek into your sister's room, which was your shared room, you find her standing, her back away from you, she was breathing heavily. She was tense, on edge even though you cannot see her face. And when she felt your presence, she turned towards you and spoke firmly, "You'll sleep here tonight, with me." Before you could protest—not like you will, you were inside and she was already closing the door behind her, sealing the two of you in the room together.
Your sister needs you.
And you do too.
Not in the way you used to—not with childhood giggles or demands for attention. No, this was different. This was raw, desperate, clinging to the only person left who understood—who remembered—who saw it all. The house felt cavernous with loss, and without her close? You'd drown in it alone and so will she.
So when she locked that door behind her and told you where you'd sleep tonight? It wasn't a request, it was survival. Two broken souls trying to stitch themselves back together through proximity because what else did either of you have now except each other? And maybe, just maybe, if she could keep one small piece of routine intact—like sharing this bed like always before everything shattered apart, at least something might still make sense again.
Neither of you bothered to change out of your funeral clothes, the weight of the day too heavy, exhaustion sinking deep into your bones. The black fabric wrinkled as you both collapsed onto the bed, Wanda immediately curling her body around yours.
Her arm wrapped tight around your waist, pulling you flush against her chest—like if she held on hard enough, she could keep any more pieces from breaking loose. Then her voice came low over your shoulder in the dark.
"I promised mama…to take care of you."
Simple words loaded with everything unspoken between grief and guilt and duty all tangled together inside her ribs until breathing hurt just as much as gunshot wounds ever could've. And then silence fell except for shared breaths slowing down toward sleep neither wanted but desperately needed after days spent drowning awake.
The pale morning light filtered through the curtains as you woke up still tangled in Wanda's arms. Your faces were inches apart, her breath warm against your skin. Without thinking, your fingertips traced the scar on her cheek—a jagged reminder of what happened that night.
Wanda didn't flinch at your touch. Instead, she gave you a soft smile, she still looks tired, she's pale and had dark circles under her eyes even though she just woke up from a long sleep.
Her hand came up to cover yours where it rested against her scarred face for just a moment. Then suddenly, soft fingertips tilted your chin up before her lips pressed against yours so lightly, just like when you were kids, whenever you asked her for a kiss. It lasts barely seconds but lingers heavy in quiet air between shared breaths.
And you let her. Because why wouldn't you?
You didn't even think you were crossing lines; it's like clawing back at scraps of normalcy buried under the wreckage of what used to be simple. A ritual unearthed from before—before the blood on kitchen tiles, before your parents left a hollowed-out space in this house and in your life.
So when Wanda kisses you again—a peck—before burrowing her face on your chest. You don't question it.
Not when she needs this.
Not when part of you does too.
Wanda broke away slowly, her forehead resting against yours for a moment before she spoke softly, "Shower with me?" She asked casually, just like the old times. "We can go get ice cream after."
You can only remember the feeling of your wet naked bodies pressed together that morning, under the falling water as your sister held you tighter, her fingers digging gently into your sides like she's going to lose you too—and of course, the drive to the ice cream store.
When you were twenty-one, Wanda was twenty-six.
It had been two years since that night changed everything.
"Good morning…" Wanda's voice broke the silence of the kitchen.
Before you could even murmur a reply, her hand was already at your chin, tilting it up. Her lips brushed against yours—brief, almost habitual, as if the motion had been etched into her like muscle memory. It had become a rhythm between you two, quiet and unquestioned. No fumbling, no words. Just a kiss in greeting, as simple as breathing.
"I made breakfast," she whispered, softer this time, her eyes studying your face as though checking for approval. "Pancakes. Your favorite."
You smiled, nodding gently, moving toward the table. But as you reached for a glass of water, your fingers slipped.
The crash of shattering glass against tile ripped through the air.
In an instant, Wanda jumped, her body jerking like she'd been struck. Her breath hitched, panic flashing across her face so raw it froze you in place. The sound of broken glass wasn't just a sound to her anymore—it was danger, loss, violence. It was a memory.
"Can you be careful?!" she snapped, her voice sharp, trembling more from fear than anger. Her hands clenched at her sides as though resisting the urge to snatch you away from the shards.
Your heart thudded as guilt curled inside your chest. "I'm sorry," you whispered, dropping to your knees, gathering the jagged pieces one by one with cautious fingers.
She let out a long, shaky sigh—one that carried more weight than words ever could. Without looking at you, she turned and walked toward the stairs. Her bare feet made the faintest sounds against the wood, but to you, every step felt like a door closing.
You stayed frozen in place, kneeling on the cold tile with your hands still damp from wiping the floor. Your eyes followed her retreating figure, the curve of her back stiff, her head slightly bowed as if she were carrying something too heavy for her age. Your throat tightened. You wanted to call after her, to run up and make sure she was okay, but your body wouldn't move. All you could do was sit there in the silence, worry gnawing at your chest, watching the space she left behind like she might reappear if you just stared long enough.
It is not the first time something like this happened to Wanda. It had started with something small—too small to make sense to anyone else. The sharp slam of a cabinet door, the clatter of a spoon hitting the floor. But for Wanda, it was enough. The sound ripped her wide open, dragging her back to that night, and suddenly she wasn't here anymore.
The first time it happened, you didn't know what to do. Her hands shook violently, frozen in place, her wide eyes glassy and unfocused. She wasn't looking at you, wasn't looking at anything. Just staring—past the walls, past the room—into some place only she could see.
Her chest hitched, her breath stuttered in shallow gasps before the tears came. First silently, then in broken waves that wracked her whole body. She didn't speak, didn't yell, didn't make a single sound beyond the sobs that poured out of her.
"Wanda…hey, it's me. You're safe," you whispered, as softly as you could, approaching her with slow steps. You reached for her hand, but she pulled away without even looking at you, like she wasn't really there.
You tried again, desperate. "I'm here. I've got you."
But nothing, she just turned and fled into her room, shutting her door.
You pressed your forehead to the wood, heart pounding, whispering through the barrier, "Please…don't do this alone." But there was no answer.
Your fear grew heavier the longer the silence stretched, your mind racing with worst-case scenarios. What if she hurt herself? What if she didn't come back out?
So you reached up and turned the knob gently, half afraid it's locked.
It opened.
Inside, Wanda sat on the corner of her room, shoulders shaking, her face buried in her trembling hands. She looked so small, so breakable.
"Wands?" you whispered, careful not to startle her. She didn't respond, but her sobs deepened, her whole body folding in on itself.
You crossed the room slowly, each step deliberate, until you were right in front of her. Your heart raced, but your hands moved gently, instinctively. You reached out, brushing her damp hair away from her face, and cupped her cheek. Her skin was hot with tears, her breath uneven, but she leaned into your touch—fragile, desperate, like she had no strength left to resist. Her glassy eyes flicked up, scanning you with such raw intensity it made your throat tighten. She studied you as though grounding herself, your eyes, your nose, your lips.
Then, she surged forward and kissed you.
It wasn't graceful, it wasn't thought out—it was trembling and messy, a collision of salt and tears, her breath hitching against your mouth. It was as though kissing you was the only thing tethering her to reality.
You froze for a heartbeat, overwhelmed, then softened into it, holding her face carefully, terrified she might shatter if you pressed too hard. Wanda clung to you like she was drowning, her tears streaking down between you both, but still she didn't let go.
Now, you hesitated at her doorway, unlike before, she now always leaves her door open. You watched as Wanda stood with her back to you. Her arms were crossed, her shoulders rising and falling with deep, deliberate breaths—like she was trying to steady herself, to force calm into her trembling body. The silence hung heavy, fragile, as if one wrong word might shatter her all over again.
"Hey…" you said softly, your voice careful, almost a whisper.
Her head tilted, not sharply, but slow. When her eyes found you, you made the kind of face you always did when you were scared—a little pout, your brows furrowed, lips pulled down.
For a second, she just stared at you, unreadable. Then the faintest smile touched her lips. She lifted one hand and beckoned you closer, her fingers curling slowly in invitation.
You didn't hesitate.
Your head was bowed as you walked over, unable to meet her eyes. The guilt sat heavy on your chest, pressing down until your breath trembled. As soon as you reached her, your body moved on its own, you stepped into her space and hugged her tightly, burying your face in the warm crook of her shoulder.
"I'm sorry," you mumbled into her skin, your voice muffled and breaking.
Her arms tightened around you, her chin pressing lightly against your hair. She let out a long, shaky sigh, and then you felt it—a soft kiss placed on the crown of your head.
"It's alright," she murmured, her voice low but steady this time. "It's alright, baby."
You sniffled against her shoulder, your arms holding her just as tightly, like letting go might undo the fragile peace you'd just rebuilt. She stroked your back slowly, grounding you in that small rhythm.
After a long pause, she pulled back just enough to look at you. Her hands framed your face, thumbs brushing your skin.
"Do I still need to drive you to uni?" she asked softly, her tone lighter, testing the weight of the moment.
You still feel that something is off though, but you nodded slowly, lips pouting, eyes still downcast.
Her faint smile returned, and she leaned forward to press another kiss to your temple. "Okay. Then I'll drive you."
University kept you occupied—recitations here and there, case digests piling up on your desk, group reports that stretched late into the night. You got used to the shuffle of student life, to burying yourself in books, to blending into the chatter of classrooms where no one knew the weight you carried at home.
You should've trusted your gut. That gnawing feeling at the back of your mind that whispered something's still not right with Wanda.
That evening, you came home drained from university, your bag heavy with thick reprinted cases. But the moment you stepped inside, your breath hitched. The house was a mess—shattered glass glinting on the floor, books scattered across the living room as if thrown in a fit of rage, the coffee table knocked askew. Your heart plummeted.
"Wanda?" you called out, panic threading through your voice as you dropped your bag and rushed deeper into the living room.
You found her in the dining, standing rigid, her hands splayed apart, gripping the edges of the table, her chest rising and falling too fast. She wasn't crying—not this time. Instead, she looked like she was holding herself together with fraying threads, her lips parted, breath trembling as though she was trying to calm a storm inside.
Your steps softened as you approached her, afraid to startle her further. "Wanda…"
She didn't look at you right away, her eyes fixed on some invisible point, her jaw clenched tight. Only when you were close enough to touch did she finally glance at you, and in that flicker of eye contact you saw it—that same heaviness, that same fragile balance between breaking apart and forcing control.
"Let's go for a drive…we can get ice cream."
The words caught you off guard, almost surreal against the mess of the room—the shattered glass, the overturned books. But it was Wanda, reaching for normalcy the only way she knew how.
You nodded quickly, almost desperately. "Okay," you murmured, as if agreeing too fast would keep her from slipping away again.
She brushed past you, her fingers grazing your arm in passing, and grabbed her keys. You trailed behind her, watching the way her shoulders stayed tense, but her pace was steady.
You slid into the passenger seat then Wanda drove in silence, her knuckles white against the steering wheel. The hum of the car and the occasional flicker of passing streetlights were the only things filling the space between you.
When she finally pulled into the empty parking lot of a half-lit shopping center, confusion curled in your stomach. The grocery store sign flickered, but you knew it was well past closing time. The ice cream shop was blocks away, yet Wanda parked here, in the shadows, where no one lingered.
"Wanda? Why are we here?" you asked softly, but your voice cracked, betraying your unease.
She didn't answer. Instead, she turned to you, eyes gleaming with something you couldn't name—fear? longing? desperation? Before you could press her, she leaned over the console and kissed you hard. The force of it stole your breath, her desperation pouring into you like she needed to consume you, like she was trying to swallow you whole, to absorb your calm into her storm.
The kiss was different, it wasn't the usual peck you do every morning or as kids. She shoves her tongue inside your mouth, and guides your inexperienced lips to move along hers.
Your heart pounded, torn between the instinct to push her back and the ache of pity at the way she trembled.
Shaky but slowly. Her hands tore at your clothes, buttons popping off and fabric ripping. Her hands were everywhere—rough and demanding with need. One moment they were forcing you down, undressing you, the next they were pulling your underwear aside. A choked sound escaped you as she pushed two fingers inside you without warning, pumping harshly.
You clung to her in terror as she took her time with you, feeling things the first time—the pain and pleasure. Tears streamed down your face but she kissed them away. She whispered how perfect you were, how her love for you was beyond comprehension, that she will always protect and love you forever. And the way her eyes looked at you convinced you it was true.
Wanda consumed you, slowly and tenderly.
The drive home was thick with silence. Wanda leans closer, her voice a soft hush against your ear whenever she hears you sob, then, she presses a gentle kiss to your temple. It was intended to soothe you, but that wasn't what you felt—your skin prickled with fear, every touch just reminded you how blurred the lines had become.
You struggled against your hiccupping sobs. But the tears are something you cannot hold back—they kept spilling—just like the ice cream dripping helplessly in your hand.
It lingered, it went through. Whenever Wanda wanted it, you'd give up.
Every hesitant touch, every whispered hush, unsettled you at first—but the need buried beneath your fear grew. Wanda would claim you with quiet certainty, and in that claiming, you found yourself craving it—needing it in ways you couldn't name. The fear that once pricked at your skin blurred into desire, and the routine of her possession became something your body recognized, something your mind silently demanded.
"Wanda...Wanda please..." you whimpered brokenly.
Your fingers dug into her back desperately as her hips jerked forward mercilessly. The strap-on hit a particularly sensitive spot and you cried out, clinging to her like she was your only lifeline, breath coming in shattered gasps against her mouth.
"I love you more than anything."
Each time she spoke it, her voice vibrated through you, lodged itself in the space behind your ribs, and left a heat lingering on your skin long after she had made you come apart. The way she held you—sometimes protective, sometimes demanding—made the words feel like both a comfort and a warning, a tether you couldn't ignore.
You loved her too, undeniably, but the love you felt had begun to twist, to curl into shapes you fear to recognize. It wasn't the simple, pure adoration of a sister anymore. There was an ache that pulsed through your chest, a pull toward her that made your skin tingle and your mind reel. It makes your stomach churn with shame, your thoughts race with guilt. To admit it—to respond with the same words—is wrong, disgusting. Even if you truly and cruelly felt it and wanted to tell her, to reach across the tangled space between need and fear and simply let it out—you couldn't. Not now. Not ever. So you stayed silent, swallowed the words like bitter medicine, and let her love press against you anyway, each claim of hers carving deeper into your heart and to your cunt. Leaving you trembling, wanting, and afraid all at once.
She was your anchor, your mirror—your sister. And yet, in the same breath, she became the forbidden, the dangerous, the need you couldn't understand but couldn't escape.
Sooner or later, this had to stop.
The way your sister claims you, the way her hands lingered where they shouldn't, the way she beckoned you over her bed and did whatever she needed in you—it consumed you, pulled you under, blurred every line you'd ever known. But it has to end. No matter how much you responded, how much you let yourself be drawn in, it had to end. The hold she had over you, the intoxicating feelings of fear, need, and something forbidden, could not last forever.
It has to stop before it destroys you both.
You were now twenty-nine, and Wanda was thirty-four.
It had been eight long years since you'd run away and never looked back. From everything that had once been your world, twisted into a memory both tender and forbidden.
From her.
Now, you live in Japan. Your father had a business here, but he sadly passed two years after you migrated in.
The streets were unfamiliar, the language foreign, but every new corner, every new sound, reminded you that you were building a life that belonged only to you. You had made friends, carved out routines, and for the first time in years, you felt the quiet security of independence.
And more than that, you were engaged. David—your handsome pilot fiancé. He is patient, endlessly considerate and silly in all the right ways.
The wedding is coming up soon. You and David are down to the final details—the guest list, the venue, the catering. Everything!
He kissed your temple gently as you scrolled through the guest list. "Why don't you invite your sister?"
The words made you freeze. Your sister. Just hearing the term made your chest tighten.
You had thought about it, more than once actually—inviting her, seeing her again, maybe even reconciling after all these years. Because it had been eight years. For you, everything was over, neatly buried in the past. You have moved on. Life had moved on. And now, with David, with your engagement, the thought of opening that chapter again stirred something that was better left untouched.
Everything around you became a blur—the terminal lights, the rolling luggage, the strangers moving past—none of it mattered. Eight years without her, and now, suddenly, she was back. Right there, in your line of sight.
You hardly recognized the exact moment she appeared at the gate; it was like your world had slowed down, and yet everything else sped past. Her green eyes—sharp, familiar, impossible to forget—met yours for a fleeting second, and your chest tightened. Her hair is now black but still the same length you remembered, maybe trimmed here and there, framed her face just like it always had. She looked a little older now, more refined, but unmistakably her.
You swallowed hard, the words caught somewhere between your chest and your throat. "Hey…" you finally managed, your voice small, uneven, carrying the weight of guilt, unease, and all the years of distance.
She looked at you for a heartbeat, eyes searching yours, and something unspoken passed between you. Without thinking, almost instinctively, you stepped forward and pulled her into a hug.
Your arms wrapped around her, tentative at first. She stiffened slightly, but then relaxed against you, her body yielding just enough to let you hold her.
Slowly, you pulled back, keeping your hands on her shoulders just a moment longer, letting your eyes meet hers.
"I…this is David," you said softly, but shaky. "My fiancé."
David stepped forward with a warm smile, extending his hand. "It's really great to finally meet you," he said, light and easy, the kind of presence that made the air feel a little lighter.
She hesitated for a second, then smiled back, "It's great to meet you too." As she shook David's hand, you noticed something—just a flicker—in Wanda's eyes. You blinked, and it was gone, replaced by her easy smile.
So much time had really passed you couldn't read her anymore.
The drive home was quiet and Wanda had insisted on staying at a hotel—"I have a budget for it," she said softly, "I don't want to be a trouble."
David glanced at you from the driver's seat with a mischievous grin. "But Y/N already fixed your room."
You blushed shyly and swatted at him, pinching his arm lightly then tickling the back of neck. It made him laugh, it was his weakness.
Wanda watched quietly, a sad smile tugging at her lips, something she couldn't understand. Yet, beneath the twinge of something unplaceable, one thing was certain—you looked really happy. It was the kind of happiness that made her chest tighten, a relief and something else she couldn't put into words, as if seeing you content was both a comfort and a quiet ache all at once.
At home, after settling in, you turned to David, "I'll just show her to the room."
"Alright," he said warmly, stepping close to pressing a soft kiss to your cheek. "Tell me if you need help, okay? I'll start dinner."
You nodded, a little shy, the gesture grounding you before you picked up one of Wanda's bags and led her down the hall.
Upstairs, you led Wanda toward the spare room, the hallway felt unusually long, every creak of the floorboards louder than it should've been. When you finally pushed open the door, the air between you seemed to grow heavier—awkward, uncertain. You set her bag down gently by the bed, glancing at her only to find her eyes already on you, unreadable.
"He seems really sweet," Wanda tried to divert the tension. Her voice is gentle, almost careful.
"He is," you replied quietly. "He really is." You gave her a small smile, the kind that didn't quite reach your eyes. Wanda noticed, though—she always noticed. Her gaze dropped to your hands, catching the way you'd started picking at your fingers, an old nervous habit you never outgrew after all these years.
That was enough for her. She forced her voice gently. "David might be looking for you now and thank you…for the welcome." She said, as if shifting the weight of the air between you to something lighter, something safer for you.
You nodded quickly, grateful for the out. She gave you a small smile, but her eyes betrayed her—she wanted to keep talking, to hold you there in that room for just a little longer. But she let you go. She still has another time for that.
It was four days before the wedding, and the house was buzzing with preparations. Flowers, last-minute fittings, caterer calls—everything seemed to blur together in the countdown.
Wanda has been staying with you for two nights now. Her suitcase sat neatly tucked in the spare room, though she hardly unpacked, she wasn't sure how long she truly belonged there. The second night felt less awkward than the first, the sharp edges of reunion softening into something that almost felt normal—almost.
The next morning, over breakfast, David had been scrolling through his phone, half-listening to your nervous chatter about schedules and checklists. Then, without looking up, he asked casually,
"Why isn't Wanda your maid of honor?"
The question hit you harder than he knew. Your fingers stilled on the pen you were using to tick boxes off the list. You blinked at him, your mouth opening, then closing again, searching for words that wouldn't sound as jumbled as your thoughts.
Across the room, Wanda was quietly flipping through a book she brought with her, but you could feel the weight of her presence even without looking.
You forced a small smile. "It's… complicated, babe. I just contacted her recently. The roles were already set long before that. And you know Monica would tantrum because before you even asked me out for our first date I already promised her that position."
He was supposed to ask why, why you only contacted your sister just recently and did not keep in touch, but your boyfriend with a puppy mind leaned back in his chair, his mind already chasing another funny memory about how your love story started.
While to you, the thought crept in before you could stop it, sharp and bitter, like a whisper you weren't supposed to hear.
Maybe because you don't want your maid of honor to be your sister—your sister whose name was your first word. The one who bathed you, the one who brushed your hair and tied your laces, who sat cross-legged beside you with dripping ice cream cones on humid summer nights. The one who saw you stumble through childhood, who wiped your tears, who laughed until her sides ached when you made silly faces just to cheer her up.
And she was also the one who fucked you first. To make you fall apart with her mouth and fingers…
The first one to touch you in ways that left your body confused, your heart racing, your mind torn between comfort and alarm. She was the first to stir feelings you didn't yet have words for, emotions that blurred the line between love and something far more dangerous. She made you feel wanted, chosen…and at the same time, she made you feel wrong, guilty—dirty.
You gave your head the slightest shake, as if you could rattle those thoughts out of place and bury them where they belonged. Eight years had passed—eight long, deliberate years. That life was gone. You had moved on and David was proof of that, the life you built was proof of that. Everything was finally right, finally in place. You couldn't let old shadows stain what you had built.
David had the whole evening mapped out—pizza on the coffee table, some little alcohol, and a card game he bought called Who Knows Me Better? He grinned as he shuffled through the stack, insisting it would be "fun practice" for married life.
When it was your turn, you pulled a card and read the question aloud.
"How many moles do I have?"
David pretended to think hard that made you laugh that you forgot Wanda was in the same room with you. She froze. Her eyes darted to your arm, then to your neck, then away entirely.
"Easy," your fiance said, grinning with the confidence of a man who believed he knew you best. He pointed at you with a flourish, like he was announcing an answer on a game show. "Four. One on your shoulder, one on your arm, and one…" he leaned in, lowering his voice just slightly, "…right in the middle of your neck."
His words earned more laughter from you, but before you could even tease him for the theatrics, he added, softer this time, "I love kissing your neck." And he proved it right there, brushing his lips over the spot where the tiny mole rested.
The gesture was sweet, familiar—something he's done countless times—but tonight, with the alcohol stirring in your veins and the feel of Wanda's sharp green eyes fixed on the two of you, the kiss felt heavier.
"You have six."
The words made you freeze. Both you and David turned to her. He was tipsy, flushed with drink, while you were a little drunk yourself—the edges of everything fuzzy, but this moment sharp as glass.
"What he first said were all correct but you also got one on your side," Wanda continued, her gaze lingering just a little too long, "just under your left boob."
"Oh yeah." David looked amused, he was nodding as if he was learning. But Wanda's voice faltered then, her tongue hesitating against the next truth.
"And the last one is…" she trailed off, her lips pressing together as if the words were too dangerous to speak. A beat of silence hung between you. Then she forced a faint shrug. "…But yeah. You've got six."
Your stomach twisted, heat crawling up your neck as you stared at her. It was such a simple thing, it's just a game but the way she said it left you undone. Because she wasn't guessing. She knew.
You've got one, on your pubic mound.
David smiled, completely unfazed, and raised his glass in Wanda's direction. "Sister's thing," he chuckled, like it explained everything away. "And those are something I was about to find out after our wedding." He grins, before kissing your shoulder.
And you forced a laugh, hollow in your throat, like it is enough to cover the sharp crackle of tension running through you. Wanda didn't laugh, though—she only gave a small smile, jaw tight, eyes dropping to her drink as if that was safer than seeing how close David was to you.
"Yeah, Wanda's right," you said, forcing your voice into something playful. "Six. Next question?"
The game went on, laughter weaving through the dimly lit room, cards piling up between you. Every so often, the momentum would pause, and David would reach for the remote. An episode of Alice in Borderland would flicker onto the screen. Then, almost as naturally, you'd circle back to the game. Another question. Another round of teasing guesses.
By then, you were completely drunk—your cheeks warm, your head light, your words slipping slower than you intended. You picked up the next card, squinting to make the words stop swimming.
"Do…I want kids?"
The room stilled for a moment. David's smile curved, soft but shadowed, almost like he was bracing himself for something he didn't want to admit out loud. He answered before you could even think.
"You don't," he said gently, almost matter-of-fact.
It wasn't sharp, but it lingered heavily in the air. You remembered the night you told him why—that him being a pilot meant too many absences, too many takeoffs and landings that would leave you alone with a child and you fear that. He also didn't want that, to put that weight on you. He said he didn't want to start a family that he couldn't always be there for.
And even now, tipsy as he was, his words carried the same sadness, the same quiet conviction.
Before the silence could settle too long, Wanda's voice cut through, soft but steady.
"You do."
Your head turned slowly toward her, lids heavy, eyes squinting as if she were a blur you needed to sharpen. You searched her face, then searched your own memory, chasing back to the moment you must've told her that.
"I think I said that when I was a kid, right?" you asked, pointing the question toward her.
But Wanda didn't answer. Her gaze lingered on her glass instead.
You sighed lightly, filling the silence yourself. "Because, admit it or not—there's always one point we planned on having our own kids."
She examined you, a look in her eyes, like she remembered exactly when and how you said it but you were so drunk to even notice it.
"I feel dizzy," you admitted, words slightly slurred.
David was on you in an instant, his arm looping around your shoulders as he steadied you against him. "We should call it a night," he said gently, his voice warm and laced with amusement. He laughed softly, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face.
Before he could move further, Wanda's voice cut in, calm but certain. "I got her."
Her words lingered in the air, carrying a quiet insistence.
"Thank you," he said sincerely, shifting his hold so Wanda could take you. "I'll just clean this up and fix things here. You two go on ahead." He pressed a quick kiss to the top of your head before letting go, "And Wanda, maybe you can go with her tomorrow in her final fitting?"
"Yeah, sure." She nods at him before her hand settles at your waist, steadying you. Her touch was firm, supportive, but it lingered in a way that made your skin prickle with heat. "Come on," she murmured, her voice low, almost gentle. She guided you toward the stairs, her grip tightening just enough whenever you wobbled. It looked like care—like a sister making sure you didn't stumble, like how she guided you in your first steps.
Wanda eased you onto the bed you shared with David, careful not to jostle you too much. The sheets were cool against your skin, the faint scent of your sister's same cologne after eight years lingering in your senses. Your eyes were closed now, but you weren't asleep—your chest rose and fell too sharply.
"When did I say I wanted kids?" you slurred, eyes half-opened, lips forming a pout like you were genuinely curious.
Wanda froze by the bedside. She hesitated before lowering herself down to the bed. "It was…eight years ago. You went to a club and you were wasted like this with your friends." Wanda murmured, her face so close you could feel the warmth of her breath. "I was so angry and you feel so sorry you said you'd do anything." Her thumb brushed against your cheek, tender in a way that made your chest ache. "And when I was deep inside you…"
Your breath hitches. Something inside you throbbed—an ache you couldn't name, threading through your chest and sinking lower to your clit. Her voice was soft, deliberate, something that you hated and you missed.
"You said you want to know how it feels like if I cum inside you," she whispered, voice low and heavy, the memory hanging between you like smoke. "Even if it was impossible for me to get you pregnant, you wanted it because it was me. You said we can be a happy family."
A sound escaped you—soft, broken somewhere between a sob and a moan. Wanda looked tempted, her gaze heavy, her thumb brushing along your parted lips like you were beckoning her in and fuck, she wanted to slip it inside. Her control was fraying, and she felt the faintest shift of your hips against the sheets, a silent pull that nearly made her growl.
But instead, she drew in a sharp breath, forced herself back and left a kiss to your forehead.
"Good night, Y/N," she whispered, the words trembling with everything she couldn't do.
The morning after was a blur. Your head was heavy, your thoughts tangled, but none of it seemed to matter. Whatever haze lingered from the night before, you were certain—confident—that nothing had happened.
Today was your final fitting. The gown, the veil, the heels—everything had to be perfect, because tomorrow you were getting married.
Tomorrow.
Everything needed to be perfect, every detail tucked into place. No room for doubts, no space for strange blurs in memory. Only the certainty of the life you were about to walk into.
But fuck, did something happen last night?
So you pushed it down, smoothed it over with smiles and lists and plans. This was your day. Your future. And nothing—certainly nothing you couldn't remember—was going to get in the way.
You padded down the stairs, hair damp from the shower. Wanda was already dressed, sitting quietly at the couch, her green eyes following every step you took.
David was by the door, adjusting his watch, that familiar smile tugging at his lips when he saw you. He walked towards you and reached your hand, pulling you into his arms, warm and easy. For a second, the world felt right in his embrace.
From the corner of your eye, you caught Wanda watching, her expression unreadable.
"Wanda will help you for the final fitting," David said, brushing his thumb over your cheek before stepping back. "And Monica and the girls will pick you up tonight, aight?"
The front door shut behind him, and the quiet that followed felt heavier than it should have. His cologne still lingered in the air, warm and familiar, but his absence left a strange hollow in the room. You stood there for a moment, staring at the space he had just occupied, before forcing a small laugh to break the silence.
"I, uh… let's go?" you said, grabbing your bag a little too quickly. You turned to Wanda with a smile, the kind meant to lighten the air between you. "I'll drive."
For a second, her eyes lingered on you—sharp, searching—but then she smiled. "Alright. If you're ready."
The drive passed in a haze of half-played songs on the radio. By the time you pulled into the boutique's parking lot, the sun was hanging lower, streaking the glass windows in soft amber light.
You exhaled slowly, hands tightening on the steering wheel before letting go. The weight of the moment settled in—it wasn't just another fitting. It was the final one. Tomorrow, you'd be walking down the aisle wearing it.
Wanda noticed your pause. She wanted to reach over, her fingers twitching but chose not to. "Ready?"
You forced a smile, nodding.
The assistant greeted you with a, ushering you toward the private fitting room before she left again. When she returned she brought along a long, elegant box—sleek white with gilded edges and the designer's name embossed across the lid. It looked more like a treasure chest than packaging.
With careful hands, she set it down on the velvet stool and unfastened the gold clasp. The lid lifted, and inside lay your gown, folded delicately in layers of tissue paper, every pleat and curve protected as though it were too fragile for the world outside.
"Well, you can try it on now, ma'am. If you need any help, there's a small bell here, just ring it, and I'll come right away."
You nodded, thanking her, before she left you alone with your sister.
The room suddenly felt quieter, the air heavier. The gown sat in the box like it was waiting for you to make the first move.
You glanced at Wanda, who hadn't spoken since the assistant left. Her eyes were fixed on the box, but when she noticed you looking, she lifted her gaze, giving you a small, almost reassuring smile.
"Go on," she said softly, her voice carrying both encouragement and something harder to read.
You nodded meekly, fingers brushing the edge of the box as if it might crumble under your touch. Wanda caught the hesitation in your movements, her voice breaking the quiet.
"If you need anything… just call me," she said, gentle but steady, her green eyes holding yours for a beat longer than necessary.
You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry, and gave a faint smile in response. "Okay."
You went to another room, carefully lifting the gown from its box. Taking a steadying breath, you stripped your clothes and slipped it from your feet, fingers trembling as you tugged the gown upward.
It wasn't extravagant—nothing with glittering beads or heavy lace. Instead, it was a simple satin dress, smooth and plain, its elegance lying in the way it flowed with every movement.
Your heart raced, not because of the fabric brushing your skin, but because of the sudden worry. What if it doesn't fit? What if you gained weight? What if it clings wrong, or worse, won't close at all? Because it had been a month since your last fitting—just enough time for doubt to creep in. You glanced at the mirror with wide eyes, shoulders stiff as if bracing for disappointment.
For a long moment, you couldn't tell if it was right. You smoothed the gown nervously, your palms damp against the delicate fabric, lips caught between your teeth as you waited for the reflection to tell you something reassuring. Finally, with one last deep breath, you pushed the dressing room door open and stepped out. The soft sound of the gown brushing the floor followed you, the faint sparkle of its details catching in the boutique's warm light.
Wanda's eyes lifted immediately. For a moment, she said nothing—her lips parted slightly, her breath caught. She looked at you like she was seeing something fragile and untouchable, something she couldn't quite believe stood in front of her.
Her gaze traveled slowly, reverently, from the neckline down to the hem, then back up again, locking on your face.
You shifted slightly in front of the mirror, smoothing the satin down your sides again, and caught it—the small gap at the back where the zipper still hung open. You sighed under your breath. Of course you couldn't reach it yourself.
In the reflection, you saw her rise from her seat. Wanda didn't speak; she only moved closer behind you.
Her breath ghosted hot across your bare shoulder as the zipper crept upward, each slow inch making your skin prickle. She didn't have to steady you, but her hands did anyway—sliding down, fingers tightening around your hips in a way that made the satin strain faintly under her grip.
"You've grown so much." She whispered, sending chills down your spine. "You look so beautiful."
Your eyes snapped to her reflection in the mirror. "Wanda…"
She opens her mouth but closes it, her grip loosening instantly. A shameful look on her face as she stepped back, putting space between you again.
"I'm…I'm sorry."
You blinked, her words echoing longer than they should. The air felt heavier, thicker enough to choke, and you couldn't bring yourself to look at her again. Without another word, you turned back toward the fitting room. Inside, you braced against the door, chest rising and falling. Your breath came sharp, uneven, like you'd been holding back more than just tears. For a moment, you wanted to cry, to let it spill out—but you didn't. You couldn't.
By the time you'd changed and stepped back out—the silence between you, your gown—both had folded neatly into place, as if nothing had happened.
Soon enough, you were back in the car. Hands firm on the wheel, eyes fixed on the road ahead, the world outside the windows blurred by. Wanda sat quietly beside you, and though nothing was said, the air still carried the weight of everything left unsaid.
You ignored Wanda the rest of the day intentionally. But every glance you caught of her made your chest tighten. You busied yourself—fixing things that didn't need fixing, the flowers that had been confirmed, the seating chart finalized, the catering checked and double-checked. Still, you hovered over the lists, crossing and re-crossing things, moving items around on the table like the weight of the paper could keep your hands from trembling.
The air was uneasy, stretched thin. Every time Wanda tried to catch your eyes, you turned away. Every time she shifted, as if about to speak, you found a reason to move, to leave the room, to shut her out.
It was awkward. Stifling. Wrong.
And she knew. She knew she had crossed a line.
The words she had let slip earlier—the ones that had felt natural as they left her mouth—echoed in her mind now, raw and shameful. She had tried so hard to hold them back, to keep herself in check, to be just the sister that she was. But something had slipped. Something irreversible.
When the night came, you didn't ask Wanda if she wanted to come along when your friend, Monica picked you up. You purposely didn't. You couldn't—not right now. The thought of her presence, the way she made everything feel heavier, made you pause. Maybe part of it was anger, maybe part of it was confusion, but mostly you needed space—a little breathing room without her ghosting every corner of your night.
Then, the day came. Your wedding day.
Sunlight spilled through the windows, soft and golden, catching on the lace of your veil and the satin of your gown. Everything felt surreal, as if you were walking through someone else's dream.
The wedding was small and private, just the closest people—David's parents, a few friends, and people who truly mattered. Counting everyone, including you and David, there were only twenty-five.
Your friends hovered around, giving your final touches—adjusting the veil, smoothing the gown, fixing stray strands of hair. Each of them planted a quick, warm kiss on your cheek, whispering little words of encouragement.
"Looking perfect," Monica said.
"You're glowing," Carol added.
Maria gave your hand a gentle squeeze, smiling.
One by one, they left the room, leaving you alone for a moment of quiet.
You turned slowly toward the mirror, your eyes tracing every curve and line reflected back at you. You closed your eyes, letting the quiet fill the room. You thought of your mother, your father, and your stepfather. You took a deep breath, closing your eyes for a moment, and let your thoughts drift to them. You spoke silently, especially to your mother and stepfather, telling them how much you wished you could've visited their graves before this day. You apologized for not doing so.
Then suddenly, during your peace alone with your parents. Someone knocks in your room, "Y/N? Your sister!" A voice called behind the door.
You squint your eyes before standing to walk towards the door. You found Maria behind who was was practically fumbling over herself, panic written all over her face. "Your sister… I-I don't even know what happened! Carol accidentally knocked over the vase, the one David gifted you! Gosh, I'm so sorry!" She flailed, words tumbling out in a frantic mess. "And then she started freaking out—I don't even know, girl! I just…" her voice cracked, hands flying as she tried to explain, making the chaos in the room almost tangible.
Without thinking, you grabbed the hem of your gown, dragging it along the floor as you rushed toward the source of the panic.
There, you found Wanda, kneeling on the floor, hands pressed tightly over her ears, her body trembling. Your two friends hovered around her, hesitant, unsure of how to help.
You calmly walked towards her, calling her name. Dropping to your knees in front of her, you reached out gently. "Wanda."
Her head lifted slowly, eyes locking with yours, swollen and filled with tears. You gave her a nod and whispered, "I've got you," before guiding her back toward the room. Once inside, you looked at your friends with a knowing look that says you got it. You also gave them the green light to formally start the event.
Wanda sank into the chair, still trembling, her hands shaking as tears streamed down her face. You knelt in front of her, taking her hands gently in yours, trying to anchor her.
Part of you wanted to be angry—fuck, you did. It was your day, your wedding, and here she was, falling apart. But beneath that frustration, something dangerously deep surfaced.
It was wrong bringing Wanda here. It was wrong and you knew that before you brought her here.
Wanda's sobs slowed into shaky gasps, her gaze locking with yours. Before you could think, her lips pressed against yours, urgent, desperate, searching. You felt the heat of her need, the tremble in her hands as they clutched at your veil.
For a moment, the world narrowed to that kiss—the chaos, the guilt, the wedding day all fading into a blur. And, almost against reason, you let her.
She pulled back just slightly, breath ragged, tears streaking her face. "You left me…you left me…" she sobbed, pressing her forehead against yours. Her lips found yours again, desperate, trembling, smearing your lipstick across hers, mingling her salty tears with the taste of you. Every kiss was an ache, a claim, a memory she refused to let go. "And you're gonna leave me again…"
You could only shake your head, lips quivering as you whispered, "I'm-I'm sorry…I'm so sorry…" over and over. Tears streamed freely down both your faces, mixing and blurring, as you clung to each other.
"Why? Why'd you leave me?" Her voice was eerily calm now, but the words cut sharper than any scream. Tears carved trails down her soft skin as she repeated, voice trembling, "Why did you?"
"You knew why…you know, Wanda," you stammered, voice barely above a whisper, trying to tame the storm in front of you. "We…" you shake your head, your breath hitching, heart pounding. "We can't," you sobbed, the weight of it pressing down on both of you, heavy and unavoidable. What would your parents say if their souls are here, watching you right now?
You can only shake your head, your face now a mess from all the tears that never stopped carving its path down until they fall on your gown.
"Why did you?" She pressed even further, firmly dangerous. Like a warning. She needed answers, after all these years, she needed that. She needed to know why she didn't find you beside her the morning after when the night before you promised you'd never leave each other. She needed to know why you never called, never reached out. Because it made her crazy. It ruined her.
It's only you that she has, and you disappeared. And now, she is losing you forever.
"Why?"
"I was falling in love with you! And fuck, we can't, Wanda. You're my..." you whimpered, disgusted by the next words, but you said it anyway. "You're my sister, we-we can't..."
You said it yourself. We can't.
The words that only lived in your head in the past, now echoed out loud.
You said it a hundred times in your head. The first time the night she first took you, when your body trembled with nothing but fear. The morning after, when the sheets still smelled of her and your thighs still ached from the way she held you down. The days that followed, when it happened again and again—her fingers inside you, her strap pushing deeper until you forgot your own name and who she was with her mouth hot and relentless on your skin like she meant to claim every inch.
You said it when you started seeking it out too. Loving it. Needing it.
And now, out loud. You kept saying it.
We can't.
"Don't marry him," Wanda begs, her voice raw, forehead pressed hard to yours like she could fuse you together by sheer will. "Don't walk out there. Don't let him take you away from me."
We can't.
You crush your mouth to hers, greedy, gasping, breathing her in like oxygen—like if you let go, you'll die. Maybe you already did.
"I can't. I have to," you whisper, but the lie breaks in your throat.
We can't.
But you were already shoving your panties aside, already arching into her hand. And she's already pushing her fingers inside you, desperate and trembling. Her thumb circles your clit, rough, insistent, desperate to pull you over the edge. She muffles your sobs with her mouth, swallowing every sound, refusing to let anyone hear but her.
Both of you cannot stop crying.
Not when her fingers work you open and you choke on her name.
Not when release shatters you, body convulsing around her fingers.
Not even when your chosen wedding song started playing and your name is called, the world waiting for you to walk down the aisle.
Because the world is waiting for a bride. But all you are, at this moment, is hers.
"Let's go for a drive." Wanda whispered against your mouth, "We'll get ice cream."
꩜ ۫ . SUMMARY :: wanda uses a soft calming spell to help you fall asleep on her lap after a stressful day.
꩜ ۫ . PAIRING :: wanda maximoff x female!reader
꩜ ۫ . WARNINGS :: reader being exhausted with school work, caring wanda.
꩜ ۫ . WORDS COUNT :: 2.0k
You didn’t even remember how you got your shoes off when you stumbled into te apartment. All you knew was that your backpack weighed twice as much as it had that morning, your head was pounding from lectures, and your laptop had mocked you all day with unfinished assignments.
The second you shut the door behind you, you let out a groan so dramatic it could’ve been mistaken for a death rattle.
“Y/N?” Wanda’s voice floated from the kitchen. “Is that you?”
You didn’t answer at first, just trudged down the hall like a zombie. She appeared in the doorway before you could reach your bedroom, dish towel still in her hands. Her green eyes softened immediately when they landed on you.
“Oh, my poor darling.” Wanda stepped closer, brushing hair back from your face. “You look ready to collapse.”
“That’s because I am,” you mumbled. “I have three papers due, a group project where no one’s doing their part, and—” You cut yourself off with another groan. “I’m not even making sense, am I?”
Wanda smiled gently. “Not really, but that’s okay.” She took your bag off your shoulder before you could protest, setting it aside. “Come. Sit with me.”
You tried to shake your head. “No, I need to finish—”
Her eyebrow arched in that very Wanda way that said don’t even try arguing with me. She guided you to the couch anyway, pressing lightly on your shoulders until you sank down.
“I’ll just… rest for five minutes,” you said, though you knew you were already half defeated.
Wanda sat beside you, tugging you until your head found her lap.
The second her fingers brushed against your scalp, a deep sigh escaped your lips. “You’re evil,” you muttered, eyes fluttering shut.
“Mm, if I’m evil, why do you sound like you’re about to purr?” Wanda teased, nails grazing gently through your hair.
You cracked an eye open. “Because… this feels too good.”
Her expression softened further. “Then let me help you more.”
Before you could ask what she meant, her hand hovered just above your temple. A faint, familiar glow of scarlet surrounded her fingers. The magic hummed softly, and you instantly felt warmth spread through your body. It was like the weight of the day dissolved under a blanket of peace. Every knot in your shoulders loosened, every anxious thought dulled into quiet.
You blinked sluggishly. “Wanda… what are you…?”
“Shh.” She pressed a finger lightly to your lips, smiling. “Just a calming spell. Nothing more.”
Your protest melted away, your body sinking heavier into her lap. Wanda kept weaving her fingers through your hair, the magic syncing with her touch.
She began humming — soft, lilting notes that reminded you of something ancient and safe. Sokovian lullabies, you realized, though you didn’t have the words.
Your breathing slowed. Your last coherent thought was how good she smelled — cinnamon and something floral, maybe her tea.
Then sleep claimed you.
. . .
When you stirred again, the apartment was darker.
A blanket was tucked snugly around you, and the soft thrum of Wanda’s heartbeat was still beneath your ear.
She hadn’t moved, still sitting there, scrolling quietly on her phone with one hand while the other rested protectively on your back.
“Hi,” you whispered, voice hoarse.
Her phone disappeared instantly, both hands returning to you. She kissed your temple. “Hi, sleepyhead. How do you feel?”
“Like I could sleep for another week,” you admitted. “But also… lighter. Thank you.”
Wanda smiled, brushing her thumb across your cheek. “Next time, don’t wait until you break, dorogaya. Let me carry some of it with you.”
You blinked at her, warmth blooming in your chest. “You already do. More than you know.”
Wanda didn’t answer right away, just kissed your forehead again, letting the silence wrap around you both.
The world — your papers, your projects, your endless to-do list — could wait. Right now, there was only Wanda, her magic, and the gentlest kind of love.
And for the first time all week, you let yourself believe you’d be okay.
Summary: Natasha Romanoff has always been trained to notice the smallest details—the ones that reveal what people want, what they fear, what they hide. But when it comes to you, there’s one detail she can’t seem to uncover.
Warnings: fluff
Words: 5338
You stab a piece of food with your fork and gesture casually toward the cafeteria line with your chin.
“What about Jenn from HR? She seems nice. Always says hi whenever she sees you.”
Beside you, Natasha doesn’t even glance up. She spears a bite neatly from her tray and answers flatly.
“She’s already seeing someone.”
You pause mid-chew, blinking at her in disbelief.
“Seriously? Who?”
Natasha lifts her fork, tilting it just enough to indicate across the room without drawing attention.
“Carmen. From the front desk. They’ve been dating since last month.”
You follow the direction of her gesture, eyebrows rising when you notice Carmen sitting in the corner. Tablet in hand, sure, but her eyes keep flicking upward—straight toward Jenn in the line. When their gazes meet, there’s a secret smile, a tiny wave, something almost invisible unless you were looking for it.
“…Huh,” you murmur, reluctantly impressed.
Natasha only nods, as if it’s obvious. She resumes eating, believing that the subject of this particular conversation is over after her words.
You notice a tiny smear of sauce clinging near her lip, and without thinking, you lean in and dab it away with a napkin.
“You got a little something,” you say softly.
Natasha doesn’t even react in surprise at your touch. She just takes the napkin from you with a distracted “Thanks,” eyes still on her plate.
You lean back, resting your chin on your hand, studying her with something between admiration and exasperation.
“So how’d you figure that out?”
She shrugs like it’s nothing, slicing into her food with precise care.
“Jenn’s lunch routine changed. She used to eat in her office, now she shows up whenever Carmen’s here. Plus, Jenn’s been wearing that silver bracelet Carmen wore every day until about three weeks ago. And whenever Carmen’s shift ends early, Jenn conveniently leaves a couple minutes later—even though she usually stays late.”
You blink, almost dropping your fork at the overload of detail.
“And you just happen to notice all of that?”
“It’s part of being a spy,” Natasha says, looking up with a faint smirk. “People tell you things without realizing it. All you have to do is watch.”
Before you can retort, a new group enters the cafeteria. You nudge her arm, pointing at someone in the middle.
“Okay, what about—”
“Crushing on Jeremy from IT,” she interrupts smoothly, not even bothering to turn her head.
Your jaw drops. “You didn’t even look.”
“I don’t need to,” she replies coolly, taking a sip of her drink. “She rearranged her gym schedule to match his. Switched brands to that chalky protein powder he drinks. And she nearly concussed herself last week trying to follow him around a corner.”
You gape, then narrow your eyes at her.
“You say you’re not into romance,” you accuse, jabbing your fork toward her, “but you’re basically tuned into everyone’s relationship at SHIELD.”
Her smirk deepens just enough to be infuriating.
“I don’t have to be into it to recognize it. Tells are tells. That’s all it is—patterns, shifts, little details.”
You hum, a grin tugging at your lips as something mischievous sparks in your chest. You lean forward, voice lowering with challenge.
“Alright then. Since you’re so confident…do me.”
Her brows rise. “Excuse me?”
You rest your chin in your palm, grinning excitedly.
“Figure out my crush.”
For the first time, Natasha falters. Just a flicker—but you catch it. Surprise. Maybe confusion. Definitely something unsettled before she schools her features back into cool indifference.
“You have someone you like?”
You shrug, your smile turning smug.
“Mmhmm. Guess you’re not as sharp with the little details as you thought.”
Her eyes narrow on you, and you don’t miss the way her grip tightens subtly on her fork.
“Give me until the end of the week,” she says finally, standing to gather her tray.
You smirk at her teasingly.
“You need that long?”
Her look turns flat.
“We leave on mission tomorrow. With actual gunfire and people trying to kill us. You want me to prioritize your love life over keeping us alive?”
You tip your head in mock consideration.
“Multitask, Romanoff.”
Her huff is half amusement, half irritation as she adjusts her tray and tablet before attempting to grab her bag.
“Fine,” she grunts, conceding the challenge.
You sweep the bag from her overloaded hands before she can manage it.
“End of the week,” you call as you stroll away, flashing her a playful grin. “Let’s see how good the Black Widow really is…at noticing the little details.”
Natasha watches you go, eyes narrowing just slightly.
You don’t spare a single glance toward anyone else in the room. No tells. No obvious trails. For someone she spends so much time with, she realizes she never noticed there was someone you liked.
That thought alone bothers her more than anything.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
Natasha’s boots click quietly against the floor as she moves down the long row of lockers, her mind already sorting through mission details. She slows when she spots you in the next row, bent over the middle bench, lacing your boots.
She stops short, retreating a step back around the corner when she realizes you’re not alone. A weapons support tech she recognizes stands beside you, chatting animatedly while you respond with the same bright energy.
Natasha’s eyes narrow when the other woman’s hand lands briefly on your shoulder before she departs with a smile. The touch is friendly, fleeting even, and yet irritating all the same.
“You know she’s still tangled up in that on-again, off-again thing with Tess from legal,” Natasha blurts as she finally approaches.
You turn, one brow raised, clearly amused.
“Even I know that tidbit,” you tease, tugging your boots tight and rising to your feet. Hands settle on your hips as you tilt your head at her. “What are you suggesting, that she’s my crush?”
Natasha considers, tilting her head. For a split second, she weighs the possibility before dismissing it, shaking her head as she strides to her locker.
“No. She’s not your type.”
You chuckle, leaning your shoulder against the lockers beside hers, arms folded loosely across your chest.
“And what exactly do you think my type is?”
Her hand freezes halfway into her locker. The question digs in deeper than she expected. For all her observation skills, she realizes she has no answer. You flirt often, but always lightly, never with any real heat. Not once could she recall you showing actual romantic interest in anyone.
Irritation stirs in her chest at the gap in her knowledge. Her lips press thin before she finally mutters, “Just…not her.”
You hum thoughtfully at her clipped tone, pushing off the locker.
“Well, you’re right again, Romanoff. She was just dropping something off for me.”
Natasha answers with a noncommittal noise, keeping her face buried in the depths of her locker as she gathers her gear. The sound of rummaging nearly masks your footsteps when, suddenly, a tug at her arm pulls her around.
“What—” she starts, but the words catch in her throat when you step into her space, close enough that she freezes.
For one breathless second, her pulse spikes as you lean in.
But at the last instant, you angle past her face, fingers working deftly at her waist. Natasha’s breath stills as she feels the brush of your hand close the clasp of her utility belt.
Then you lean back, patting the red hourglass buckle at her front.
“Got them to finish the repairs just in time,” you announce proudly, turning away toward your own locker.
Natasha releases the air she’d been holding in a slow rush, her hands curling at her sides as she fights to steady the pounding of her heart. The warmth on her cheek feels out of place and unexpected. She brushes at it with the back of her hand, annoyed with herself. Why did her body react like that?
Her gaze drifts back to you.
You hum absently while you pack your duffel, tossing items in without care. Same as always. Nothing new, nothing different.
Nothing to explain her reaction.
Something slips from your locker with the next careless toss.
Natasha stoops and picks it up—a photo, edges worn. It’s the group shot at the shawarma shop after the battle in New York. She remembers the moment, remembers the exhaustion in her bones as she sits between Steve and Clint.
But what catches her eye now is you. You aren’t looking at the camera. Your gaze is angled toward the three of them instead.
“Have you heard from any of them recently?” you ask casually, drawing her attention.
Natasha blinks, processing your question for a beat before handing the photo back.
“Uh, no. Clint’s on vacation. And last I heard Stark’s still rebuilding.”
You hum softly, sliding the picture back onto the inside of your locker door.
“What about Rogers?”
Her brows draw together. She glances at the photo again, as if she could trace the direction of your gaze, pinpoint whether it lingered on the Captain. Her tone cools.
“What about him?”
“I don’t know,” you shrug, zipping up your duffel. “It must be tough, adjusting to the modern world all alone.”
The spark of irritation comes so suddenly that it makes her jaw clench. Natasha slams her locker closed harder than she means to.
“He’ll manage,” she says curtly before adding. “We should focus on our own jobs.”
You only laugh, throwing your duffel strap over one shoulder and—before she could react—snatching hers as well.
“Whatever you say, Romanoff,” you say, walking towards the hangar bay.
Natasha lingers for a moment longer, her gaze sliding back to your locker. The group photo sits just inside. She exhales through her nose, trying to banish the nagging thoughts.
Steve Rogers probably isn’t your type either.
So why does just the possibility of it leave such a bitter taste in her mouth?
With a sigh, she follows after you, irritation simmering low in her chest and growing harder to explain.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
Natasha lounges on the lush couch in the grand hotel lobby, ankle crossed neatly over her knee, a glossy magazine balanced in her lap.
To the casual eye, she’s absorbed in the pages, but in reality, her gaze darts over the rim of the paper—tracking staff as they carry trays of glassware into the ballroom, noting security placement, measuring the rhythm of movement in and out of the gilded doors.
The comm device crackles faintly in her ear, and your voice filters through, light and curious.
“Do you see our target yet?”
Natasha exhales a soft breath, flipping the page like she’s genuinely invested in the article.
“Still no,” she murmurs. “Nothing has changed since you asked me five minutes ago.”
Your sigh hums over the line, a note of boredom. Then your voice drops lower, the ghost of a teasing smile audible across the frequency.
“Maybe I just wanted to hear your voice.”
Her hand stalls mid-turn, the page hanging half-folded in her fingers. Natasha blinks once, forcing herself to return to her sharp and focused composure, but her chest betrays her with the faintest hitch.
Usually, she has no trouble brushing off your teasing, filing it under friendly banter and harmless distraction.
But lately…lately the simple sound of your voice makes her pulse skip for some reason.
She clears her throat quietly, forcing her attention outward.
Across the marble floor, movement catches her eye. A cluster of security streams through the doors, and in the center, exactly as expected, is the target.
“I see him,” she says, her voice cracking slightly, which she quickly covers with a soft cough.
On the comms, you shift, the rustle of fabric telling her you’re straightening in your seat.
“And the package?”
Her eyes flick between the security bodies and spot a slim metal case in the target’s hand. One of the guards moves to the front desk, and the target’s grip on the case shifts into perfect view.
Natasha palms her phone and pretends to scroll before tilting it just enough to capture an image. She sends it over with a practiced ease.
“Nice work,” you say, approval warm in your tone. “It looks like that model requires a fingerprint scan to open.”
Natasha lifts her phone to her ear, feigning a call as she considers the problem.
Her gaze drifts toward the ballroom doors, where the staff are still bustling about.
At the threshold stands the event planner—clipboard hugged close, lips moving as she ticks off notes. When she glances up and her eyes catch sight of Natasha, her composure stumbles. She ducks her head, her cheeks flushing faintly as she pretends to fuss with her clipboard.
“So we lift the prints at the party,” Natasha says calmly, already slotting pieces of a plan into place.
Your soft laugh filters through with a hint of skepticism.
“And how exactly do you suppose we get inside?”
Natasha’s eyes flick back to the planner, who sneaks another look at her before quickly tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
Natasha feels the corner of her mouth curve. She tips her head, gifting the woman a small, disarming smile and a subtle wave. The shy grin she earns in return confirms it—an opening.
Natasha lowers her magazine just enough to murmur, “I’m working on it.”
Before you can reply, she rises smoothly from the couch and crosses the lobby, her stride confident but unhurried. She stops just beside the planner, her posture easy and her smile warm.
“You’ve done a beautiful job with the room,” Natasha says, voice low and sincere.
The compliment lands instantly. The woman beams, shoulders straightening.
“Oh! Thank you—it’s been exhausting, but I think it’s finally coming together. Are you…a guest?”
Natasha shakes her head lightly.
“Helping a friend who is. Their luggage got lost during the flight, so I came to make sure they had what they needed.” She lets the pause linger a beat, then adds smoothly, “Though I may be pressing my luck asking if there’s any chance of being a plus-one.”
The planner’s brows lift, interest sparking exactly where Natasha expects it.
“We might have last-minute passes,” she says quickly, flipping through her clipboard. “I could add a note to add you if you’d still like to come.”
“That sounds lovely,” Natasha replies, resting a hand lightly on the woman’s arm, her smile just this side of intimate. “I hope that means I’ll see you there too.”
The woman chuckles, biting back a grin, before one of the staff calls her name. She starts to go, but glances back.
“What’s your name? For the list.”
Natasha gives the alias assigned to her mission. The woman scribbles it onto her notes, then flashes her a quick wave.
“It was nice meeting you.”
“You too,” Natasha answers smoothly, watching as she disappears into the organized chaos of final preparations.
Once she’s gone, Natasha raises her phone again, pretending to resume her call.
“And now we have a way in,” she says softly, satisfaction threading her tone.
Silence answers. The accomplished warmth in her chest cools into tight concern.
“Hello? Is everything okay?” she asks, turning toward the exit, ready to head back to you if needed.
Finally, your voice filters back through the comm.
“All good. Just some connection problems. I’m back now.”
Natasha frowns faintly. Something in your tone is off. It’s no longer playful, but clipped. Before she can press, you clear your throat, steering the moment away.
“Can you figure out what room he’s staying in? I’ll sneak in and take the case while you lift his prints at the party.”
The frown deepens. She doesn’t like the sharp pivot or the stiffness in your voice.
“Are you sure you’re—”
“Natasha.”
The curt way you say her name stills her instantly.
“Focus on our own jobs, remember?” you add with a teasing lilt, though the note rings hollow compared to earlier.
Natasha swallows, turning back into the lobby, her expression once again carefully neutral.
“…Yeah. Sure,” she mutters, though the word sits heavy in her chest.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
Natasha sits cross-legged on the narrow bed, eyes tracking you as you pace the length of the safehouse. The single room feels even smaller with your restless movement, your gaze fixed on the tablet in your hands as you scroll through hotel blueprints.
You mutter to yourself occasionally, weighing entry points and fallback routes, but when she tries to interject, all she gets are clipped one-word answers or noncommittal hums.
She narrows her eyes. Something is off—it has been off since the hotel lobby. She just can’t put her finger on what.
A sharp knock breaks the tense quiet. Both of you freeze for half a beat, instincts snapping in. You exchange a look, then move in a practiced tandem.
Natasha slips from the bed, gun in hand from beneath the nightstand, while you draw one hidden by the doorframe.
“Oi! Open up already! I haven’t got all day!”
Natasha exhales sharply at the familiar voice. You relax too, though your weapon stays in your hand until you swing the door open.
Mason leans casually against the frame, suitcase in hand. His brow arches at the sight of your guns.
“Always a warm welcome with the two of you,” he deadpans, brushing past you into the room.
Natasha huffs, tucking her weapon away.
“What are you doing here?”
“I called him,” you say, shutting the door and turning to Mason expectantly. “Did you get it?”
He presents the case with mock ceremony.
“Here you are. Now we’re square, yeah?”
You take the case and tilt your head in consideration.
“Is one favor really enough after what you put me through at that last safehouse?”
“Hey,” Mason protests with a hand raised, grinning, “I was trapped there with you, too.”
Natasha frowns, her gaze darting between you and him. There’s an ease in your banter with Mason—inside jokes, stories she isn’t part of. The space between you two is minimal also, too casual for her liking. She tells herself it’s nothing, but irritation prickles anyway.
The irritation grows as she realizes you’ve spoken more words to Mason in these few minutes than you have to her in the past hours. Before she can think better of it, she’s already stepping forward, pressing Mason back toward the door with a polite but firm hand.
“Alright, we need to prep for tonight,” she says briskly, ushering him over the threshold. “Thanks for the delivery. Until next time.”
His brows lift, but before he can argue, the door clicks shut and locks.
She turns to find you perched on the bed with the case, already working the clasps.
“That was a little rude,” you comment, a grin tugging at your lips when you glance at her. The teasing tone doesn’t match the way you immediately look back down, shutting her out again.
Natasha’s patience snaps.
“Alright, what’s up with you?” she demands, folding her arms as she steps closer.
You stop fiddling with the lock, lift your eyes, and fix her with a steady look.
“That woman at the hotel,” you say flatly.
Natasha blinks in confusion.
“What about her?”
“How did you know she was interested in you?” Your shrug is casual, but the words are sharp. “That’s why you went over, right? Because you already knew she’d say yes.”
The question hangs heavier than it should. Natasha hesitates, suddenly cautious. She could give you a dozen technical answers, but instinct tells her the wrong one might make things worse. She taps her fingers against her arm, searching.
“I just…noticed,” she admits finally. “The little details. How someone looks, shifts, reacts. I can always tell when they like something—or someone.”
Your expression doesn’t soften. If anything, the slight clench of your jaw tells her she’s only made it worse. You hum, noncommittal, and turn back to the case.
Frustration knots in Natasha’s chest. She can feel you slipping back into silence, shutting her out again.
The locks pop open.
She leans forward instinctively, expecting some weapon or device.
Instead, you pull out a long red dress. Without a word, you rise and step in front of her, holding it up against her body.
“I knew it would look good on you,” you murmur, appraising her with softened eyes for a brief second. Then you drape the dress onto the bed and brush past her, back to your tablet. “Now you can notice all the people interested in you later at the party.”
This time, the edge in your voice is unmistakable.
Natasha’s mouth opens to respond, but she falters. She doesn’t actually know what the issue is, only that she’s missing something, and the fact that she can’t see it bothers her more than she wants to admit.
You curl up on the sofa, tablet balanced on your knee, already scanning blueprints as if she’s no longer in the room.
Natasha sighs, staring at the red dress lying stark against the drab blanket, before dragging a hand down her face. Confusion and annoyance churn together, and for once she has no read. No clear tells.
Just the unsettling certainty that she’s failed to notice some detail that matters most.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
Natasha smooths her palms down the dress, the fabric gliding beneath her fingers. You were right—it fits perfectly. Too perfectly. She wonders, fleetingly, if Mason guessed her measurements or if you had given them.
When she finally exits the bathroom, she finds you already geared up in your black tactical suit, adjusting the straps across your shoulders, with your focus tight on your equipment.
“Can you help me with this?” Natasha asks quietly, turning her back to you and gathering her hair into one hand to bare the zipper.
“Sure,” you reply. The nonchalance of your tone makes her want to sigh, but she keeps still, bowing her head slightly so you have easier access.
Your palm steadies her lower back as your other hand finds the zipper and tugs it slowly upward. The soft scrape of metal teeth closing echoes in her ears. At the top, your breath ghost against the nape of her neck.
“You look beautiful, Natasha,” you whisper faintly, almost as if you didn’t mean to say it aloud. Then, just as quickly, your touch and presence vanish as you step away.
Natasha stays rooted to the spot. She releases her hair, letting it fall around her shoulders, and lifts her gaze to the mirror across the room. Her eyes widen at the sight of her reflection.
A flush blooms across her cheeks, one she can’t write off as heat or adrenaline. She knows this expression. The flicker of awareness, the telltale glow in the eyes, the way her pulse jumps—details she’s read a hundred times in others, but never noticed in herself.
Her head snaps over her shoulder.
You’re focused on your gear again, oblivious to the rush of thoughts in her mind as the memory of your whisper hums in her ears.
Unconsciously, her heart beats faster, and the urge to step back into your space nearly overwhelms her. Her hand flexes at her side, restless.
But then she remembers.
You already told her you like someone. The reminder settles like a stone in her chest. Natasha breathes deeply, pressing her feelings down beneath years of training.
As if sensing her stare, you glance up and offer her a small, reassuring smile.
“Ready, Romanoff?”
Her throat tightens, and she forces herself to nod.
“Yeah. Let’s go.”
The party is bright and loud, chandeliers scattering light across polished floors and velvet drapes.
Natasha slips through with ease, greeted warmly by the planner who ushers her inside. A few pleasantries exchanged, and the woman is called away, leaving Natasha free to focus on the mission.
The target is easy to find, seated with his cluster of guards.
Natasha approaches, glass of wine in hand.
One guard steps in her path, his palm pressing firmly against her shoulder. Natasha knocks his hand away, cold irritation flashing in her eyes, until the target waves him aside.
His leer is obvious, his gaze shameless.
Natasha fights the urge to roll her eyes, pasting on a coy smile instead as she takes the offered seat beside him. She crosses her legs slowly, the slit of the dress shifting to bare a line of skin. Predictably, his attention locks there.
A few flirtatious remarks and practiced laughs later, he’s pliant in her hands. She passes him her glass under the guise of sharing. When she takes it back, her “slip” sends the last drops spilling onto him. Her apologies tumble out sweet and flustered, and he waves her off with a smile, completely unaware that his fingerprints are now captured on her scanner after she leaves his side.
“I got the prints,” she murmurs into the comm, moving swiftly toward the exit.
Static crackles before your voice cuts through, strained and layered with the sounds of impact and shattering glass.
“That’s… great.” A grunt follows, then the crash of something breaking.
Natasha freezes, then picks up her pace.
“What’s happening?”
More noise filters in—grunts, a muffled curse, the slam of bodies colliding. Your voice returns, breathless but firm.
“I’ve got the case too. Just…finishing up here.”
Natasha presses the elevator button repeatedly, muttering under her breath.
“You could just admit you need help.”
Your laugh comes, dramatic and almost mocking, despite the strain.
“What? Everything’s fine.” Another grunt follows, less convincing this time.
When the elevator doors slide open, she bolts down the hall toward the sound of chaos. One door hangs ajar.
Natasha bursts in, gun raised—only to see you drop the last guard with a final, clean strike.
You straighten, sweat-damp hair sticking to your forehead, chest rising and falling. Spotting her, you flash a crooked grin.
“See? All good.”
You stoop to pick up the case and head past her, but Natasha steps into your path, hand pressing firmly to your shoulder. She tilts your chin with practiced precision, inspecting your face.
The moment her fingers brush your temple, you flinch. Her hand comes away slick with red. Natasha’s jaw tightens. She grips your chin again, forcing your eyes to hers.
“Next time, just ask for help.” Her tone is sharp and low.
You only stare back, wide-eyed, lips parting without words.
That’s when Natasha realizes just how close she is, her body angled into yours, her grip still holding you there.
Heat climbs her cheeks before she notices something else.
Your gaze flickers—downward, just for a breath, to her mouth—before darting away, and the color deepening on your face clearly isn’t just from exertion.
Her heart stutters. She recognizes this detail, too.
You pull back abruptly, her hand falling from your jaw.
“Let’s get moving before reinforcements show,” you mutter, brushing past without meeting her eyes.
Natasha turns and watches you go, pulse still racing, and suspicion coiling in her chest. Of all people, she knows these kinds of tells the best, and she knows exactly what they mean.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
Natasha drops the last strip of gauze into the first-aid box and snaps the lid shut, but she doesn’t move away from you. She stays planted in front of the bed, her knees brushing yours as you sit at the edge, head still tilted slightly from where she bandaged you.
You squirm under her gaze, eyes fixed anywhere but her face—the window, the wall, the worn carpet. She notices every flick of your eyes, every shift of your shoulders. It’s not discomfort. It’s just nerves.
You sigh finally, rubbing at your palms.
“Alright, I’ll call for back-up next time,” you mutter. “Just…stop whatever intimidation tactic this is.”
Natasha huffs, a low, amused sound.
“This isn’t intimidation.”
Before you can retreat further, she lifts her hand and cups your jaw, thumb brushing lightly against your cheek. She tilts your face up toward hers, and the moment your eyes meet, she catches it—the sudden flush rising under your skin, the slight hitch of your breath.
Her own lips curve, triumphant and almost disbelieving.
“I knew it,” she whispers, more to herself than to you.
Your brows furrow. “Knew what?”
Her smile deepens. She kneels onto the bed, closing the distance, until she’s almost straddling your thighs.
You lean back instinctively, bracing yourself on your elbows as she hovers above you.
“The person you like,” Natasha murmurs, voice low, teasing yet fragile at the edges. “Is it me?”
You blink in surprise, startled, your words stuttering in your throat.
“How…?”
Natasha’s grin softens into something warmer. Her fingers slide up from your jaw to cradle your face fully, thumbs resting at the corners of your mouth. She leans in until your noses brush, her breath fanning over your lips.
“I notice things. Always have,” she murmurs. “But somehow I missed the one right in front of me.”
Before you can answer, she tilts your chin up and presses her mouth to yours in a soft, tentative kiss—testing, tasting, a question asked with her lips.
For a heartbeat, you’re frozen, caught between disbelief and the flood of warmth crashing through you. Then instinct takes over. Your hands rise almost on their own, sliding over the curve of her waist until your palms spread firmly against her hips, grounding both of you in the moment.
You kiss her back, slow at first, savoring the softness of her lips against yours. The tentative edge fades as you angle your head slightly, deepening the kiss, letting her feel in the press of your mouth what words never managed to say.
Natasha exhales against you, a shiver running through her that you feel in the flex of her body beneath your touch. The hand cradling your face tightens just a fraction, as though she’s afraid you’ll pull away.
Instead, you slip one hand up from her hip to her lower back, drawing her closer until there’s no space left between you.
When she finally breaks the kiss, it’s only because she needs to breathe. She stays close, resting her forehead against yours, her lips brushing yours with every shallow inhale.
You can feel the rapid beat of her heart in the way her chest rises against yours.
Her eyes open, and this time, you don’t look away. You keep her close, thumbs brushing soft circles over her waist, silently telling her the answer she already suspects.
“Sorry it took me so long to notice that little detail,” she breathes, her voice breaking faintly on the words.
A laugh escapes you, shaky but relieved.
“What I feel for you is nothing little, Natasha Romanoff,” you murmur, brushing your lips against hers again.
This time, she doesn’t hesitate. The next kiss is deeper, hungrier—no longer testing but answering.
Natasha shifts forward, pressing you back against the mattress, her hands sliding to your shoulders, anchoring herself as she kisses you harder.
Your fingers tighten on her waist, tracing the outline of her dress, feeling her shiver under your touch.
She parts her lips under yours, a soft sound escaping her throat, equal parts relief and want.
The safehouse fades—the hum of the heater, the smell of antiseptic, the muffled city sounds outside—until there’s only the warmth of her body and the weight of the moment, long overdue.
Natasha breaks the kiss just enough to breathe, her forehead still against yours, her lips grazing your mouth with each word.
“Tell me if this is too much.”
You shake your head slightly, eyes locked with hers.
“Not even close.”
She smiles, a real, unguarded smile, before capturing your lips again—this time slower, deeper, her hands sliding behind your neck as yours explore the curve of her back, both of you surrendering to this little detail that the two of you share.
To Tame a Wild Thing | Queen!WandaMaximoff x Reader
Summary: Captured and stripped of title, allies, and purpose, you're left with nothing but Wanda’s claim on you. She feeds you, bathes you, soothes you as though you're cherished thing. Yet every tender touch cuts deeper, comfort twisting into control. In her hands, affection is a weapon, and slowly you begin to wonder if surrender is easier than standing alone.
Word count: 9k
WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI, dark, power imbalance, manipulation, humiliation, emotional coercion, sexual tension, isolation, dubious consent, grief, mention of trauma and loss, tenderness used as a weapon, spitting, slapping, hunger strike
A/N: I've been struggling with writing lately, so I offer you this slightly darker story that's been rotting in my drafts for some time now.
The guards' hands are iron clamps around your upper arms, fingers biting into your skin. They don't guide you, they drag you, half-lifting you so your boots barely scrape the floor. Every nerve in your body is taut, every instinct screams for you to fight, to run, to resist. You try to plant your weight, to dig your heels and defy, but your soles only skid, toes catching uselessly. The stone squeals under your resistance, but no one cares. They haul you anyway, leaving you dangling like a carcass brought in for show.
The smell of smoke still clings to you. Ash from your family's banners. Ash from your mother's pyre. You think there might be blood in your hair, a copper tang that's seeped into your scalp. Your father's blood. You wonder if she'll notice. You wonder if she'll like it.
The throne room yawns around you. Cavernous and suffocating in its grandeur, built to make all who enter feel small. Columns carved from pale stone rise like soldiers frozen at attention. Incense burns from tall brass bowls, choking the air with sweetness meant to mask rot.
And they're all here to watch.
Nobles in delicate lace and heavy silks. Courtiers glittering with jewels. Their eyes track you like hawks tracking prey. Some smirk behind embellished fans, some murmur, and some bare their teeth openly. The shame of it scalds your skin hotter than fire, their whispers catching and spreading like sparks.
"I cannot fathom why she would spare her."
"They say she knew nothing of her father’s schemes until it was too late."
A scoff. "And who’s to believe that? Apples don’t fall far from the tree after all."
Your posture is stiff, mouth turned into an unbecoming sneer. You stare straight ahead, ignoring their scorn. You want to tell them how wrong they are, but who would believe you? The truth isn't something that matters now. All they care about is victory and loss.
Your eyes catch hers and you force yourself to withstand the urge to lower your head. Her eyes are greener than the wine is red, calm where you are all fire.
The Scarlet Queen. The Conqueror.
She sits draped across the throne as if it was built for her spine alone. Crown sharp as daggers, lips painted the same red as the banners that bleed down the walls. Her presence isn't loud, but it presses down on the hall like the weight of a storm, a power so natural it makes everyone else look like children playing dress-up. She leans back against her seat, legs crossed, chin resting lazily against her fingers as her gaze locks on you the way a wolf fixes on a rabbit: certain of the outcome.
She studies your torn dress: once proud in your family's colours it is now nothing but a ruin, ripped from where a soldier grabbed you, smeared with mud, dust, and the memory of blood. The hems are frayed, your bare knees scuffed from when they shoved you to the ground after the fighting ended. Stray strands of your hair cling to your damp cheeks, matted with sweat and ash. You haven't had water in hours; your tongue feels thick, your throat raw from shouting at the execution, from screaming your father's name until your voice broke.
Your knees smash against the marble when the guards force you down. They hit the stone with a thud that rattles your teeth. Pain shoots up your thighs, but you don't cry out. You won't.
Your keep your chin high. You refuse to lower your eyes. Even with the stink of blood in your hair and the weight of the entire court's laughter pressing in on you, you won't bend.
Not yet. Not ever.
Her eyes take in your scratched skin, your stubborn defiance, and then, she smiles, slow and knowing, sharp as the edge of a knife.
"So," she sighs like you're nothing more than another spoil of war, another broken thing to add to her collection. "These are the last remnants of a fallen house."
The words land like a blade slipped between your ribs.
You taste iron. Bite your cheek until copper spreads across your tongue. You think of your father's head bowing to the block, of how you screamed when the axe fell, of how they held you still and made you watch.
Your throat strains. Your chest aches. Your body trembles with fury, with grief, with something dangerously close to collapse.
But you bare your teeth instead, curling them into something sharp, something that might pass for a smile. "Enjoy your prize while it lasts, Your Majesty."
A low roar echoes through the room as the different voices of distraught nobles combine. Even they can hear it, the threat, the knowledge that you will not bend easily to her will.
Her lips twitch, not with anger, but with mirth. She leans forward slightly, crown catching the light. Scarlet flickers in her eyes, hot and alive.
"My prize," she repeats, soft as a caress and hard as a shackle.
She huffs, a laugh hidden somewhere beneath it. The corners of her eyes crinkle in delight like you've just told a grand joke.
You realise begrudgingly that your bite didn't serve the purpose you intended. You wanted her to falter, to hesitate, but she didn’t. A queen like Wanda wouldn’t be intimidated by the empty threats of a fallen heir.
She flicks her finger casually, imperiously. "Bring the pet to heel."
The hall titters with muffled laughter and scandalised whispers. Wincing, you press your lips together and tighten your shoulders. For the fraction of a second, something flickers inside you: alright, if that's how she sees me…
You lean forward, snapping your teeth right at her. A sharp, feral click of teeth in the air, like an animal lunging at a hand that dares to touch its cage. A low hiss escapes your throat. The hush that follows rings like struck class.
The guards' hands tighten until you think they'll bruise bone.
Someone in the crowd mumbles behind their hand, saying it loud enough for others to hear. "Does the pet have rabies?"
Gasps and startled chatter ripples through the hall again, giggles spread, sharper now, digging into you. Heat rushes to your face, humiliation biting at the corners of your pride. You want to claw at them. To scream.
Wanda doesn't flinch, doesn't laugh.
She only tilts her head, a faint smirk tugging at her lips as if you've confirmed something she already knew. Her green eyes rest on you with quiet fascination.
"You may growl all you like," she says, voice cruel in its calmness, "but that does not make you any freer."
The words coil around your throat. You force your glare to stay fixed just past her shoulder, refusing to give her your eyes. You flare your nostrils, chest heaving, heart racing. Defiance and fear clash in every muscle. The humiliation, the audacity of her calmness, makes your claws dig deeper into your pride. You bare your teeth again, low and trembling, the only weapon you have left.
The hall soon comes alive again after your display, people drunk on the spectacle. The court has gotten a taste of blood, and victory is their wine. Musicians strike their strings, trumpets blare, and drums pound a rhythm that shakes your ribs. Gold threads catch in torchlight as nobles whirl and sing, their jewels flashing like falling stars. Platters spill with roasted meats, sugared fruits, steaming breads; so much abundance it almost sickens you.
Your fingers curl against your knees until the nails dig crescent moons into your skin. You imagine standing up, tearing the glasses from their ornamented hands, smashing their feast across the floor. You imagine blood in their wine, screams instead of music.
But you are made to kneel at Wanda's side instead. The marble cutting into your knees, your dress crumpled around you in filthy folds of your family's colours. The contrast is deliberate, cruel in it's precision: their shining, your ruin.
At some point, you think you hear your father’s voice. Your head snaps up, eyes scanning the sparkling crowd, only to find nothing. He isn’t there. Of course he isn’t. Your heart stutters painfully, tightening in on itself until it aches. You know you’ll never see them again. You’re aware of it. But the realisation takes time to settle. Somewhere deep inside, beneath your ribs and past your lungs, a stubborn, childish hope still blooms, the belief that this is all just a terribly mean dream.
Goblets clink, voices swell, skirts swish across the floor. You smell cinnamon, roasted apples, and hot wine, the kind your mother used to make in winter, thick with spice. Honey drips from torn bread, the same your father would eat with his bare hands after hunts, laughing as you reached for the first piece. A tang of charred meat lingers in the air, yanking you back to the morning fires when soldiers burned the stables and smoke poured into your lungs. You taste ashes. You swallow hard against it, chest tight.
Hunger bites at your stomach like a chained dog, but your press you lips thin, force your jaw to lock. You will not show them hunger, even when you're already turning dizzy with it.
A hand lowers into your vision, pale fingers tipped with rings, steady and sure. Wanda. She holds a cup of deep red wine just before your lips. The ruby liquid trembles with the faintest ripple.
"Drink," she murmurs, almost idly, as though you were no more than a hound offered water.
Your throat burns. Your lips ache to part. But instead, you turn your face away, the motion quick and forceful, strands of hair flashing in your vision. You run your tongue over the dry ridges of your lips, hissing when your saliva catches open cuts. Still, you pout stubbornly, pushing your bottom lip forward in silent rejection.
Their cackles ring, booming and gilded with cruelty. They wrap around you until it's hard to breathe, hard to think. Their voices blur together. Someone whispers something about a spoiled child. Another wagers how long you'll last before you crawl.
Wanda doesn't withdraw the cup immediately. Instead, she watches you. Your hands tremble softly, your shoulders flinch every time they threaten to falter, yet your face remains an unbreakable mask of aloofness. She lets out a quiet, amused hum, so faint only you can hear it. She sips from the drink herself, lips pressing against the rim where she meant yours to touch.
The music crescendos, flutes squeaking, tambourines clattering, and the dancers spin in waves of tulle and celebrations, but you feel like a stone in the river, unmoving, refusing to be swept along. Every sound feels louder, brighter, meant to smother you.
And all the while, you stay kneeling, thirst gnawing, jaw clenched, fighting to keep your spine straight as your body begs for relief.
Wanda leans back on her throne, wine still in hand, her attention fixed not on her revelry, but on you. She doesn't look away. Not once. Not while the nobles preen and toast her glory. Not while dancers twirl for her pleasure. Not while generals cheer about conquests yet to come.
Her gaze pins you, unblinking, as though you're the only part of the feast that matters. You don't know if it's mockery or something worse.
Heat blooms in your face, crawling down your neck, not just from rage this time. Shame coils in your stomach, sour and poisonous. You wonder if she can see it; the way your throat works against the thirst, the way your hands tremble just slightly where they're pressed to stone.
You clench harder. Hide it. You imagine your father's voice: Don't give them the satisfaction.
You keep your eyes away from hers, trained straight ahead towards the dancers and the banners dripping red. Anything but her. Because if you look too long, you fear you'll break in way the whole court will see.
The festivities bleed on until your head aches with it. The endless music, the clatter of cutlery and glasses, the drunken glee of men and women who only days ago would have bowed before your father.
Wanda dismisses her court with a single glance, and the room empties quickly, like smoke pulled from a flame. The guards finally haul you back to your feet, your knees throbbing, and follow their queen's silent lead. Soon it's just you, the guards and the echo of her footsteps.
The hallways of the castle are dimly lit and winding, and if it weren’t for the paintings on the walls, they’d all look exactly alike. No matter how hard you try to remember where she goes left and where she goes up, you know that without help, you’ll never find your way out again.
Wanda pushes large, arching doors open. The knobs are gilded and the wood is painted with intricate, golden flowers. The guards push you inside, not caring that you were more than willing to simply walk by yourself.
The doors close behind you, and the men let go of you.
You take it all in, curiosity getting the better of you. Leaning forward on your tiptoes, you look deeper into the room. There’s a loveseat with a million soft pillows, a mirror in the corner that’s large enough to show all of you and then some more, wide open double doors that lead to another bedroom.
Your heart sinks.
The room is lived in and by the red dress dangling from the hanger, you don’t even have to guess whose room it is.
Your chambers are adjoined to Wanda’s, though you realise very quickly they are no chambers at all, just a gilded cage dressed in pretty velvet. High ceilings, tapestries in crimson and gold, a bed so large it looks like an altar. There's no warmth here, only grandeur meant to impress, to suffocate. At the centre stands a seamstress' pedestal, the kind your mother made you stand on while she chose fabrics for feasts. The sight of it here, waiting for you, makes your guts shrink.
"Up," Wanda says with the expectation of a command that will be obeyed.
You hesitate. One of the guards' hands twitches toward you, eager to shove you again, but you clamber onto the pedestal yourself, your pride refusing to give them the joy. The wood sighs once under your weight.
"You may leave."
The guards bow their heads and retreat. Their absence makes the air heavier. The silence sharpens now that you are alone with her.
She circles you slowly. A predator orbiting her prey. Her gown whispers with each step, scarlet fabric brushing the floor like spilled blood. Her eyes sweep over you, noting the shade of green you wear, the dirt, the cuts. It feels like she's peeling away skin rather than fabric.
"These colours reek of failure," she says, a curl of disgust slips from her lips as she plucks at your sleeve with two fingers, as though the very dye offends her skin. "Tomorrow, at dawn, you'll be fitted properly in my colours."
You almost choke on the laugh that tears from your chest. It's bitter and ugly, leaving your torso aching.
"You'll never wash my blood out of me," you rasp, the words sandpaper in your mouth.
Her head tilts, not in anger, not even in surprise, but something that resembles recognition. It's gone as quickly as it came. She steps back, unpinning her crown and letting her hair fall loose in a curtain of red, catching in the firelight like liquid flames. Without the crown, she looks younger, softer. Almost human.
Your lungs swell. You hate it. Hate that your breath catches, that you traitorous body notices. That the sight of your captor, bare-headed and beautiful, makes you ache in ways you don't want to admit.
She meets your gaze. Her lips curve, not quite a smile.
"What is it?" she says, tauntingly. "You've never seen a queen take off her crown."
You grit your teeth. You don't answer. You can't.
She doesn't press. She only brushes her hair with her fingers, as if daring you to keep watching. The flush of humiliation stings hot. Your breath hitches with it, and the words tear free before you can think.
"I could kill you in your sleep."
Her smile deepens, but it isn't cruel. It's darker than that as though your rebellion is a story she's heard a hundred times, and each time it ended the same way.
Scarlet flickers to life at her fingertips. The air around you hums, thrums. The pedestal trembles under your feet, threads of red energy curling up your ankles, your wrists, feather-light but unshakable.
Her eyes glow faintly as she steps closer, her voice a murmur that coils into your ears.
"Pet, if I closed my eyes right now, the very walls of this castle would keep me safe. The air would choke you. The fire would eat you alive before your dagger ever touched my skin."
The words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating. You can feel the pulse of power pressing into your chest, tightening the room. Your knees want to buckle, your stomach twists, and every part of you screams to flee, but where could you run? Every step you might take is already measured, already trapped by her presence.
She leans slightly closer, letting the hum of her magic thrum along your skin, letting her gaze pierce you. Her hand rises, fingers trailing up your arm possessively. They curl around your jaw, tilting your chin up until you have no choice but to meet her burning gaze. The heat of her skin against yours makes your stomach drop.
"This isn't about what you want,” she whispers, her thumb pressing lightly against your cheek. “So let me make something very clear. You'll sleep in the bed I've generously provided. You'll wear the clothes I pick. Eat the food I request. You are mine now. And nothing, absolutely nothing, will change that."
The words crash over you like cold water. The heat of her magic fades, but the weight of her declaration hangs, pressing into you. Her grip lingers just long enough to make your heart stutter before the scarlet begins to fizzle away.
You glance at the door to her chambers, less than ten steps away, and realise just how close she is, how far you are from freedom.
Then she turns away, slipping out of the room, leaving you trembling with rage, with grief, with a name that no one but yourself will remember.
The sun isn’t even awake when they drag you from your seat on the window sill. You hadn’t slept. You couldn’t. Every time your eyes closed, the firelight behind your lids became your father’s crown tumbling to the ground, his body crumpling after it, the echo of screams that would never fade. Sometimes you even saw your mother’s hands, bound in rope, flames devouring her skirts. The smell never left. So you kept your vigil instead, chin on your knees, staring out into the dark sky as though you could wish yourself away into it. The stone bruised your thighs. Your limbs ached. It didn’t matter. Better the ache of exhaustion than the weight of nightmares.
You refused the food, too. The bread had gone hard, the grapes wrinkled. The milk filmed over, untouched. That was your choice. Your rebellion. If you couldn’t stop Wanda from taking everything else, you could deny her this one thing; your hunger. Even if it hollowed you out until you were brittle, it was yours. Yours in a world where nothing else was anymore.
Now, the seamstress' hands crawl over you like busy spiders, measuring, pinning, chalking faint lines against your undergarments. Her touch is brisk but not cruel, and that makes it worse. You don’t want her gentleness; you want her hand to slip, for the pins to bite, for something to hurt more than you already do. She works as quickly as she dares, fumbling pins and scribbling numbers. Her apprentices hover, arms full of crimson and maroon fabrics, whispering suggestions Wanda cuts down with a single hum.
You stand rigid on the small pedestal, back straight, arms tight against your sides. You won’t give them the pleasure of seeing you slouch or stumble. You will not fall. You’ve fallen enough.
Wanda doesn’t sit, she drifts. A queen at ease in her power, gliding from one side of the room to the other, trailing her fingers over books, the window ledge, the folded tapestry at the end of the bed. Her shadow falls across your skin no matter which way you turn, and every time one of the women hesitates, her voice slides in, directing them like she's moving chess pieces across a board.
"Raise her arm higher. Yes, mark the sleeve just there. The waistline should sit lower."
You try not to look at her, but your eyes betray you. They keep finding her. Maybe it’s the way the sun catches on the rubies of her crown, or the shimmer of gold threads at her sleeve, but your attention rebounds to her again and again. To the tender curve of her neck. The fullness of her lips. The shape of her slender hands. You loathe yourself for noticing. For admiring.
Her fingers brush along the carved wood of the vanity, lingering over the abandoned breakfast tray. "Not a bite. Not even a grape."
"I'm not hungry," you mutter, a heavy rasp in your voice.
"Mhm." Her tone lilts, soft with humour as her eyes sweep the untouched sheets on the bed. "Not sleeping either. At this rate, your stubbornness will eat you faster than any hunger. "
Your stomach clenches, not with her prophesied hunger, but with rage. You want to spit at her. Scream until your throat splits and the sound reaches the place where your family rots. But instead, you keep your eyes pinned to the far wall, your nails biting crescents into your palms.
When she circles back, her eyes catch on your face. The seamstress is trying to measure your shoulders, but your chin is tucked low, jaw locked, as if you can shut everything out by staring at stone.
"Lift your chin," Wanda says.
You don’t move.
The seamstress falters, tape dangling helplessly. One apprentice fumbles with fabric. Another looks like she’s holding her breath.
Wanda sighs, neither annoyed nor angry. Merely bored. Her steps are unhurried as she closes the distance, each one causing your pulse to spike up a notch. Her hand is cool when it hooks beneath your jaw, fingers purposeful, touching you before you can flinch back. She pushes your chin up with ease, forcing your gaze to the ceiling
"There," she says flatly, her eyes cutting to the seamstress. "Measure properly. I want the collar to sit just here." Her thumb presses against the hollow of your throat, right where the velvet will cling.
Your pulse hammers against her touch traitorously.
Suddenly it’s not her thumb but a noose, or a blade, or Wanda's magic that wraps around you slowly. You feel the phantom heat up your neck, smell the char in your nose. Your body locks as if bracing for fire.
The seamstress nods quickly, eyes fixed on the chalk in her hands, desperate not to meet either of your gazes. You wonder if she sees you as the victim or the villain. Whether she pities you, or if she whispers with the others that you deserved it all.
Wanda doesn’t release you immediately. Her thumb strokes once, absentmindedly, against the thin skin of your throat, a gesture that feels both careless and unbearably intimate. You hate the warmth it leaves behind when she finally lets go.
"You're wasting fabric. I'll never wear your colours."
The seamstress hesitates again. The apprentices stand rigid, waiting for the strike that never comes. Wanda doesn't scold, doesn't threaten. She toys with a hairpin from the vanity instead, her silence louder than any slap.
"You'll wear them," she says simply. "You'll even beg for them."
You snarl, teeth bared in something vicious. "Maybe I'll rip them apart in front of your court."
Her lips curve, her eyes find yours. She steps close again, brushing a stray lock of hair from your cheek and tucking it neatly behind your ear as if she has every right to touch you.
"If you do," she says, head tilted. "I'll have another made. And another. And another. Until all that anger is spent and all that's left is you, draped in my colours."
Anger flashes through you, so blinding you snap your teeth suddenly at the nearest apprentice who attempts to test fabric against your skin. The girl squeaks, stumbling back, bolts of crimson spilling from her arms. It’s petty and small. A victory that vanishes the moment it lands.
"So dramatic. Perhaps I should have a muzzle made." Her thumb strokes once along your cheek, a parody of tenderness. "Then at least your little rebellions wouldn't waste my seamstress' time."
Her words crawl under your skin, barbs you can’t pull free. You force your eyes to the wall, but the heat rising underneath your skin betrays you.
"Don't fret," she says lightly. "Even the wildest creatures can be tamed with a little bit of patience."
It takes another eternity before the seamstress gathers her notes, apprentices bundling fabric tight to their chests. "Your Majesty," she murmurs, bowing low. "We have everything we need."
Wanda flicks her hand in dismissal. They scurry out, the door clicking shut. Even through thick wood, you hear their collective exhale, as though they had all been drowning.
For a moment, Wanda doesn't speak. She crosses to the loveseat near the fire and nestles herself into it with unhurried grace, one leg crossing over the other. She leans back, the picture of ease, her arm draped lazily along the curve of the seat.
"Well, that was tiresome," Wanda says at last, vaguely gesturing toward the pedestal. "You may step down."
Your muscles ache as you lower yourself. Every joint screams from standing still so long, from being measured like livestock. You imagine the seamstress scribbling down numbers on a parchment and you wonder bitterly if Wanda plans to carve those digits into your skin so you’ll never forget the scale of your humiliation.
She watches the stiffness in your limbs, the way you grit your teeth against it, and her lips twitch into something close to satisfaction.
"You look dreadful," she observes, eyes sweeping from head to toe. "My seamstress had to measure a ghost this morning. A body of shadows and sharp edges."
A ghost. The word pricks something raw. For a breath you see your governess' back as she's being dragged away. Your mother’s face as she's standing on the pyre. Shadows and sharp edges, indeed. Maybe that’s all you are now; scraps of bone, grief dressed in rags.
You glare at her, but she couldn't care less about it. She merely lifts a little bell from the table and rings it once. A maid appears almost instantly, eyes downcast, hands cradled at the front.
"Have a bath drawn," she commands, voice calm as ever. "Hot with rose oil. Have it waiting within the hour."
The maid curtsies and disappears without a sound.
You swallow against the lump in your throat. "I won't take it."
The words taste childish even as they leave your mouth, and you loathe yourself for it. You sound like a sulking toddler, not the last surviving daughter of a house that once dreamed of crowns.
"Of course you won't." She reclines deeper into the seat, fingers idly drumming on the back. "You'll sulk in the corner, clutching your little rebellions like they serve any purpose."
"Better than being dressed up like a doll," you snap. "If you want me polished, you'll have to drag me into the water yourself."
You don’t mean to think it, but the thought rips through you anyway: would she? Would she strip you herself? Would she touch your bare skin? Heat spikes through your cheeks, and you grind your teeth until your jaw aches.
"Oh, pet," she scoffs, the word wrapping around your ribs and squeezing tightly, "you think my humiliation lies in your dirt. That when my court sees you undone and defiant, it will be me they laugh at."
Her words hang between you, and for a moment the room feels too large, too quiet. You hear the fire crackle in the hearth, the faint shift of her gown against the seat as she leans forward just slightly, savouring your silence.
Your throat works, but no words come. You want to spit something back, anything, but the truth of her calmness steals the air from your lungs.
"But they will not laugh at me. They will laugh at you. And I…" She shrugs one elegant shoulder, gaze sliding away as though the outcome hardly matters. "…I will let them."
You want to believe she’s wrong. You cling to the fantasy that your filth will stain her velvet, that your hunger will chip her crown.
She rises then, adjusting her sleeve as though the conversation is already over. At the door, she pauses, glancing back at you with that maddening calm.
"Bathe or don’t. Eat or starve. When the time comes, you will walk at my side all the same."
The door closes, the latch clicking softly as the door shuts behind her and the sound carries far too loud in her absence.
Grabbing a pillow from the bed, you drag yourself to the window, drawing your knees up to your chest, staring out at the thin morning light.
The pillow is softer than a cloud in your hands as you rest it on your thighs. You consider screaming into it, letting the goose feather muffle all your anger and pain, but before you can reconsider, you slam the side of your closed fist onto it. Once. Twice. Until the force vibrates through to your bones.
The relief you seek doesn't come. Instead you hear faint laughter in the back of your mind. Wanda's? The court's? Your father's when he was foolish enough to believe he could win?
With a growl that would put a wolf to shame, you toss the pillow across the room, staring after it while your chest heaves.
The faint scent of roses curls in from the adjoining chamber where the bath is being poured, but you ignore it, burying your face in your arms.
This is your victory, you tell yourself fiercely. Your body, your hunger, your filth, yours alone. If Wanda wants to parade you like this, then let her be the one mocked.
You cling to the thought like a lifeline. Never once imagining that when the court laughs, it will only be because she lets them.
The closet is a handcrafted old thing, dark wood carved with twisting vines and tiny golden fleur-de-lis. It yawns open like a mouth, too full of teeth.
Rows upon rows of dresses, tailored from your stolen measurements, wait in patient silence, a small army of finery ready for the moment Wanda decides you’ll wear them.
You hover at the threshold, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, bare feet curling against the carpet. Your stomach twists in relentless knots. It's been days since you last ate and the refusal is finally starting to catch up with you. Each shallow breath causes your ribs to press painfully against the tight muscles of your abdomen. Your head pounds, a constant, insistent drum, while exhaustion drags your eyelids like lead. The air smells faintly of lavender and starch, faintly of Wanda's control. Once, you had stood before rows like these with a maid behind you, choosing which gown to wear for supper, which gloves for a stroll through the gardens. You had been a lady, and courtiers had bowed.
Now, you are a shadow of that.
The mirror across the chambers confirms it: hollowed cheeks, sunken eyes shadowed from sleepless nights, hair limp and dull. The faint bruises from Wanda's guards litter your arms, your neck, your thighs. Your hands shake slightly as you lift them to your chest. Memories you cannot erase. You picture your old governess, tongue clicking at your posture, your hands, your lips. A lady is never seen like this.
Your lips part as if you might speak, to the the mirror, to yourself, but no words come. You almost laugh. What use is dignity when it has already been stripped?
You think of the last time you stood in these halls with your head high. You had been younger then, though old enough to understand the way your father's jaw tightened when Wanda's name was spoken. Old enough to watch how he drank too deeply after their final argument, after voices thundered through these very halls.
"Traitor," they had called him. The word is branded into your bones.
He had sworn to you that Wanda would never touch you, that your bloodline would never bend to hers. He had sworn many things. Promises that fell, one by one, like embers dying in ash.
And now here you are: the child of his secrets. the victim of his gamble, caught in the wreckage of his pride.
Your eyes burn, but no tears fall. You will not let them, even alone. Even unseen.
Instead, you let your eyes drift back to a particular gown. Deep scarlet, lace trim, golden vines along the sleeves. It's elegant, commanding, something fit for a queen's consort, not a girl dragged here against her will. Your fingers twitch. For one dangerous heartbeat, you imagine sliding it over your arms, feeling silk against skin, the sensation of control, of beauty.
Then shame slams into you.
You snatch your hand back as though the fabric burns, fingers digging into your thighs. No. You will not be her ornament. You will not let yourself want.
The mirror captures another vision then: Wanda. Not Wanda the queen, but the girl she once was, walking the halls of this very castle years ago. Radiant and untouchable, eyes bright and sharp, smile effortless. You remember the heat that rose in your chest, a feeling you never confessed, not even to yourself.
And now that memory twists to bile.
You grip the carved doorframe until the wood bites into your fingers.
You let your gaze roam over them again, imagining her imagining you: which neckline would frame your neck best, which sleeves would show your wrists when she took your hand before the court. A small, bitter thrill crawls along your spine.
Never, you whisper to the gown, to your reflection, to the ghost of that younger self who once admired Wanda.
The dresses do not answer. They wait in silence patiently, like the woman who ordered them.
Yet, for the first time, your mind drifts to other exits, other ways. A small, clandestine spark ignites: the windows, the corridors, the servant passages you once glimpsed, maps memorised in childhood curiosity. You could slip through the castle, past guards, into the night. Maybe. Perhaps.
You shift on your feet, imagining the tiny sounds your escape might make. The hiss of floorboards, the clink of a latch, the whisper of your breath. The very idea makes your muscles ache with tension, coiled and ready to spring, and your lungs burn with uneven breaths.
But the thought of escape is fleeting, delicate as a whisper in the wind. Your chances are limited with Wanda right beside you and her powers so unpredictable, a well-kept secret that only she knows the full expanse of.
For now, you slam the closet door shut, rattling the hangers and handles. The gowns fall silent once more, waiting. And you are left alone with the echo of your heartbeat, the emptiness of your belly, the weight of your exhaustion, and the knowledge that even your defiance is now a game she has already begun to master.
The sun blazes mercilessly, baking the gravel paths and the green walls of the garden alike. Birds trill overhead, but their song is lost beneath the quiet shuffle of courtiers trailing after Wanda as she strolls with unhurried, regal ease.
And there you are, behind her. Two paces back, as always. Barely a whisper of a shadow against her presence.
Your stomach twists violently. Each breath is hot and ragged. Your throat is raw and tight as if swallowing itself. Every step sends a jolt of pain through your feet, the torn dress chafing at your shoulders, hair clinging wet to your scalp. Your vision blurs at the edges and each step becomes a conscious act of will. Hunger, thirst, exhaustion, neglected grief; all of it sits heavy in your chest, pressing against your ribs as if the world itself conspires to crush you.
You keep your chin high anyway, spine rigid, teeth clenched, refusing to let anyone see how thoroughly your body has begun to betray you. Don’t show them. Don’t.
"Such a pretty little prize," Agatha Harkness purrs from Wanda’s left. Her dark eyes gleam like a wolf’s before it strikes. "Though one wonders… is that stench the remnants of her father’s gallows, or simply the scent of a spoiled child unbathed?"
Laughter flutters around you like predatory birds.
Shame bursts hot in your chest, and before thinking, you whirl. Skirts twisting with the motion, arm snapping up, hand poised to strike her painted cheek.
Before your hand comes down, Wanda’s fingers clamp around your wrist, steady and unyielding. Your blow freezes in midair.
"Careful," she says, voice cold. "Or will you make an even greater fool of yourself?"
Your chest lifts quickly, breaths coming in ragged puffs. The simple act of moving your arm stole more energy than you accounted for. Fury blazes under your skin, and yet Wanda only watches through narrowed eyes.
"A pet does not bare its claws at my court," she murmurs, only for you to hear. "Not unless I give leave."
You wrench your hand free, fists curling at your sides. Your wrist still burns, tingling from her touch. She turns, gliding away like water, skirts brushing against gravel. You stumble to keep up, a tethered shadow once more.
The hedges loom high on either side of the path, their green walls pressing in. When she notices your faltering step, she slows slightly, stepping beside you. Her voice is deceptively soft.
"What did you think would happen?"
"I will not–" you gasp, voice cracking, "–be humiliated!"
Her eyes flick to you, gleaming with something equal parts amusement and censure.
"Kitten, you are humiliating yourself," she counters, fingers brushing your shoulder lightly. "You haven't slept. You haven't eaten. And yet you think you can claw at wolves. Do you really wonder why they laugh?"
"She deserved it." Your tongue is heavy, causing your words to slur.
"She deserved nothing from you," Wanda corrects evenly, stepping closer, her shadow swallowing yours. "Your place is not to bare your teeth at my court. You are here because I allow it. You breathe because I permit it. You will learn restraint, or I will teach it to you."
The sun scorches your neck. Hunger twists in your gut. You think of water, of the soft bed, of feathers and curtains. You think of the flowers outside the window, yellow and white and alive. You want them in your mouth. You want to scream. Your head spins. Shame and fury are each clawing for release.
"Maybe I don’t care what you permit," you say, breathlessly.
Her hand lifts, brushing a sweaty strand of hair from your cheek. Her thumb hovers just beneath the dark circle under your eye.
"You’re unraveling," she murmurs. "And yet you’re still so adamant on fighting me."
You slap her hand away, nose curled. "Don’t touch me."
Wanda’s eyes flash then, not with rage, but something colder, a quiet dominance that does not need to raise its voice. Shrugging stiffly, she turns and walks past, skirts swishing against your leg, voice smooth: "Then you better keep up."
You try. Gods, you try.
But your body fails you. The sun presses down, the corset digs at your ribs. Your knees quiver, barely holding you upright. Every muscle is screaming. Your head spins, vision swimming. You stumble, forcing yourself not to falter, forcing yourself to hold onto that last shred of defiance.
The hedges narrow, the courtiers’ chatter fading into muted whispers, the gravel crunching underneath you is the only sound. Your lungs puff. Each heartbeat thuds like a drum in your skull, each movement comes at an impossible price.
Your legs give in. Gravel bites your palms as you stumble forward, bracing yourself against the path. The heat, the hunger, the sleeplessness claim you in a single wave. Your mind splinters, fragments rise: your father’s jaw tightening, knights pushing you into your room, the smell of wax and roses. You see fire. Or is it a dress? You can't tell.
Wanda’s voice cuts through the haze, sharp and commanding, calling your name. Then the world folds, narrows, and blacks out.
At least you're free now.
You blink into the dim light of your chambers. The heavy curtains are drawn, a fire snapping low in the hearth. A part of you is disappointed that she didn't just leave you out in the gardens. A bigger part is disappointed that you didn’t die.
Wanda sits at the edge of the bed, posture surprisingly relaxed. She holds a plate of fruit and bread with a wedge of cheese. Your mouth waters, every fibre of your body craving sustenance, yet you still force your eyes away from it.
"You're finally awake," she says, fingers flexing at her side with hesitation, like she was going to reach out to you before thinking better of it.
You push yourself up on weak arms, head pounding, vision bleary. "Why am I here?"
"Because you fainted like a wilting flower in my gardens." She lifts a slice of pear. "And because I believe you've starved yourself long enough in your pathetic attempt to prove a point. Enough games. You're going to eat."
Your stomach clenches at the thought of how sweet the pear must taste. I’ll never give her that, you think.
You scowl, shaking your head. "I told you. I won't."
"Stubbornness must run in your blood. Your father thought he could defy me too."
"I’m not him," you snap, hands trembling at your side.
She tilts her head, a bemused glint in her eyes. "No? Then why do I see him every time you glare at me?"
You search her face because even though you loved your father dearly, you hope you’re nothing like him. You hope that you’re reasonable enough to not fight queens with half the army. You hope that you’re considered enough to inform your closed ones of their impending doom.
"In that case you must know that I will not bend that easily."
Wanda's jaw tightens, but she smiles patiently, almost indulgent. "Then I'll feed you myself."
Your chin rises. "Do as you please."
She lifts the pear to your lips, the smell so close is almost unbearable now. You hold out for a breath, and then, you part your lips, letting her slip the fruit past your teeth. The sweetness bursts on your tongue and you clamp down before you can change your mind. You chew once, twice. It takes every bit of self-control not to swallow. Instead, you force your jaw to snap open with the last bit of rebellion and spit the food onto the rug.
The silence that follows is endless.
You lean back up, your eyes meeting Wanda's. Pride blooms, sending warmth all the way to your fingertips. You lift your hand to your mouth, middle finger swiping over the corner of your lips to clean a drop of juice and saliva. A slow, mocking smile spreads on your face, and you wish that feeling would last forever.
But of course Wanda can't let you have that tiny moment of victory. She rips it from your hands as quickly as it came, tilting your world upside down for the second time today.
The crack that echoes through the room catches you by surprise, and for a second, you don't even understand what happened; you just feel the sting of it.
The shape of her palm throbs on your cheek in one unhesitating motion. Not brutal enough to bruise, but sharp enough to knock the air from your chest.
You freeze, heart pounding, lips still parted. No one has ever dared to touch you so. Not your father, not your tutors, not anyone. And now Wanda, calm as a breeze, has done it like it meant nothing.
Wanda's face is close now, close enough to smell the faint spice of wine on her breath. The firelight catches her eyes just right. There might as well be flames burning in her irises.
"Listen carefully," she says as you cradle your cheek with a shaky hand. "It is for me to decide when and how your life will end. Not you. Not your hunger. Not your grief. Me."
Tears prickle behind your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall. Nostrils flaring, you clench your jaw so tight that the pain in your muscles becomes greater than the one on your skin. You force yourself not to cower, to stop trembling, though your body reels at the newness of being handled like that.
Exhaling, Wanda leans back, smoothing her skirt as though the strike had been no more than adjusting a hem. She takes another piece of fruit, this time an apple slice, and lifts it again.
Her voice softens, quieter now, like she's coaxing a child, or a pet. "Now, open."
When evening comes, the summons arrives not from Wanda but from the mouth of a maid.
"Her Grace requests your presence," she says, eyes never quite meeting yours.
You rise. Your body is rested, your stomach no longer empty, but your mind has not quieted. The rest Wanda forced upon you only left you with thoughts that looped endlessly. The memory of her hand on your cheek. The taste of the pear. The silence afterward. Now each step through the hush of the corridors feels like you are walking into something you can't escape from.
The maid leads you to a door you’ve not seen opened before. Steam curls out as it swings wide, carrying the scent of rose oil and cedar.
The chamber glows with candlelight, shadows dancing across stone walls veined with moisture. At the centre, a marble bath brims with water so hot it mists the air, the surface rippling with every subtle movement of the woman inside it.
Wanda sits waist-deep in the water, her hair slicked back and dark. In her hand she cradles a cup with wine. She swirls it slowly, eyes trained on the liquid, and then without looking up, her voice drifts across the water.
"I'm curious," she says lightly, almost conversational, "what exactly is your plan after you've pushed me far enough?"
Your mouth goes dry. You have no answer.
Wanda chuckles, a short sound that doesn't reach her eyes. "No family. No army. No coin. No allies. Tell me, what are you counting on?"
When her gaze lifts, it sweeps over you, measuring every inch of your hesitation. The moist heat of the room does nothing to dispel the chill crawling up your spine.
"Come here."
You hesitate. Her command is simple, but your heart hammers. Your eyes betray you, darting to where her body disappears beneath the water. You hate your lack of self-control. Her brow lifts just slightly, the faintest shadow of a smirk tugging at her lips. She gestures toward the edge of the tub.
"Clothes off."
Your mouth works soundlessly, then shuts again.
"You said it yourself," she reminds you, teeth sinking into her bottom lip to hide her grin. "The only way I'll see you bathe is if I drag you there myself."
Your cheeks burn hotter. Still, you glare, trying to keep your pride intact. "Do you really think I'll be embarrassed by that? Like I haven't been naked in front of people before?"
Wanda's smile deepens as if she's been waiting for this exact moment. She leans back, letting the water lap her shoulders, fingers trailing through the surface, stirring it with casual elegance.
"Oh, I believe you," she purrs. "I imagine you've been dressed, undressed, displayed like a little doll in your father's halls more time than you can count. But that isn't what embarrasses you, is it?"
The words sting. They shouldn’t. But they do.
Her voice drops, coaxing, tender as a hand stroking hair. "Come here. You are no longer a noble's daughter. No court. No titles. You are mine, and I think you know the difference."
Your fingers tremble as you peel away the layers of your clothing, your skin prickling in the steam. Yes, you've been naked for people before, but this feels very different. More bare. More vulnerable.
Wanda’s eyes follow every motion. You try not to think of the shape of your breasts, the line of curls between your legs, the outline of your now protruding ribs. You're not one to become shy about your looks, but right in this moment you wish the ground would open and swallow you. She shifts slightly in the water, hand outstretched.
"Closer," she says, carrying that impossible authority that makes your knees ache before you even move.
She draws you down into the water, guiding you to sit between her legs. Your back meets the warm curve of her chest; the water sears and soothes at once, leaving you trapped, exposed, powerless.
The sponge is gentle in her hand. She starts at your hands, washing with the something close to reverence. She lifts each finger, removing the dirt, ash, and dried blood from your nails.
"You're softer than you think," she says, letting the sponge glide up your arms. "Too soft to carry all that rage alone."
"I'd rather be soft than cruel," you hiss, though your voice shakes.
Her laugh brushes against your ear, below the water her legs brush yours.
"Cruel," she echoes, savouring the word before leaning closer, lips grazing your ear. "Do you want know what your knight told me just before I had her beheaded?"
Your whole body goes rigid in her hold. "What?"
"She told me everything." The sponge drags slowly over your collarbone to the valley of your breast. "How you blushed when she caught your wrist in the training yard. How you opened your door for her at night. How you let her touch you. Where. How. What made you beg for more."
A memory slams into you. The rasp of Natasha’s voice when she told you to hold your stance, the press of her calloused hand steadying your grip, the stolen brush of her lips when no one could see.
"Stop." Your voice cracks.
Natasha escaped. She wasn't at the execution. She escaped, and she will come to safe you.
"She told me how sweet you tasted. How a kiss at your throat undid you. She gave me every secret, every sound, every weakness." She smiles against your skin. "And then she gave me her head."
You twist, panic surging through your veins, but her arms lock you in place. The sponge slips from her hands, plopping into the water, but her hands don't follow it. They press instead against your hips, holding your tight, holding you still.
"You're lying–"
"I never lie, pet." Her breath fans your cheek. "Natasha betrayed you for a taste of my mercy. And when her usefulness ended, so die she. That is the loyalty you inspire."
Your vision blurs hot with tears you don't want her to see, your throat raw from the effort of swallowing them back. Every memory of Natasha, her laugh, her warmth, her stolen promises, shatters in an instant under Wanda's words.
Wanda's grips eases then, one hand rising to curl at your throat, not squeezing, just holding.
"Do you see it now? Everything you cling to will wither. Everyone you love will rot. Until there is nothing left but me."
Her voice dips into something almost coaxing, almost kind. "So tell me, where did you think your fighting would lead? You're all alone. You see that now, don't you?"
Her hand move from your hips to your stomach, encircling your and pressing you tighter against her. It's meant to be comforting, but every movement reminds you of your utter dependency.
"You could end up in the gutters," she whispers, voice equal parts sweet and venomous, "selling yourself for a piece of bread, clawing for scraps. But instead you are here."
You swallow. The words should ignite your anger. Instead, something twists, sick and small. A part of you wants to believe her, because if she is all that’s left, then at least you are not alone.
"Doesn't this feel nicer than fighting all the time?" she asks. "Warm. Fed. Clean."
Her hand loosens around your neck, slipping lower. Fingertips trace over the tender skin of your throat, skimming the edge of your pulse as if testing how fast it races. Then she drags them down in a languid line, the weight of her touch both intimate and threatening, until her palm comes to just above your heart.
"It's not so bad, is it? To rest. To let someone else be in control. To be cared for again."
Your lip trembles. You hate that she feels it, that she sees the fight draining from you. But the water is warm, her hands steady, and her voice threads through your fear until the quiet ache of loneliness outweighs your pride.
"You're mine," she whispers, wrapping her arms fully around you and resting her chin on your shoulder. "And you will remember it. Every moment. Every breath. Every touch. Until you cannot imagine your life otherwise."
After Y/n is caught cheating on Wanda with Carol, Y/n would do just about anything to get Wanda back into her life. But was it even Y/n’s fault that she cheated? Or was it the new enemy set on revenge?
Amnesia (Hiatus)
After Wanda and Y/n get into a huge argument over Wanda’s late husband, Vision, the two take a couple of hours to cool off. They fall asleep still mad at each other. However, after Wanda wakes up ready to apologize, she wakes up not to Y/n’s face but Visions. How is Vision still alive? What happened to Y/n? What will happen to Wanda as she walks through a reality where Vision is still alive? What will she do when she realizes that isn’t due to her magic? What will happen to her and Y/n?
Prom Series (Mini-Series Completed)
Prom season is coming around for Avalon High and Y/n could not be any more annoyed. Not only is she trying her best to work up the courage to ask her best friend, Wanda Maximoff, out, she also has to compete against everyone else that seems to want her as well. Will Y/n build enough courage to finally ask Wanda out? Will Wanda get a date before Y/n does ask? Will Y/n go to prom alone? Read to find out.
Her Secret (Mini-Series Completed)
It’s never easy being Wanda’s secret, but Y/n could care less, or at least that’s what she tells herself. But senior year is ending. Y/n is tired of hiding. Wanda is tired of Y/n asking. Will the two actually become a couple before graduation? Or will there be goodbyes as they part for college?
My Rival (Mini-Series Ongoing)
“I hate Wanda Maximoff. I hate her face and the way she hides her freckles. I hate her smile and how perfect she laughs. I hate how smart she is and how she knows everything. I hate her.” Y/n complained.
But how could she hate the girl that always took #1 in everything? How could she hate the girl that captivated her mind 24/7? How could she hate the girl she would willingly be #2 for?
Or the time where Y/n Y/l/n and Wanda Maximoff were academic rivals that fell for each other.
“If you could love me again, I could let go of everything.” (Hiatus)
“They were the right person but wrong time,” Natasha said as she spoke about Y/n and Wanda. But as the two spent time apart and the Avengers were needing new leaders, Natasha could only hope that this was finally the right time for her two favorite people.
Favorite Crime (Hiatus)
Y/n L/n, daughter of the villainous group, “The Gisbourne”. They’re known to do the cruelest things around the world in order to get what they want. In order to stray away from her family, Y/n is the founder and sole member of the vigilante group, “The Robins”. She does what she can in order to assist those in need of help in New York City.
However, what happens when the Avengers are tasked with finally defeating the Gisbournes? What happens when they use their newest member, Wanda Maximoff, to get to the black sheep of the family? What happens if they both fall in love? But what if it was all a mission to Wanda?
Insecurities (One Shot)
College AU! Wanda and Y/n have a fight outside of a frat house all because of him.
Now You Know (One Shot)
It’s Wanda’s wedding day, so where are you?
Lost in the Universe (Part One) | (Part Two)
Y/n is transported to a different universe and by chance, meets the Wanda that inhabits it.
The Actress & The Geek (One Shot)
A late night practice causes Y/n and Wanda to confess their feelings.
Give Me Another Chance (One Shot)
The five times Y/n asks Wanda to give her another chance and the one time Wanda says yes.
Blood Drive (One Shot)
While completing her mandated volunteer hours, Y/n stumbles upon Wanda Maximoff at the local blood drive. Unable to get Wanda out of her mind, Y/n goes through a lengthy process just to ask Wanda out.
The Chosen One (One Shot)
How do you love the daughter of the evilest family in the galaxy? Just ask Wanda Maximoff.
Friends with benefits is never a good idea when you’re in love with Wanda Maximoff.
To Be Loved Is To Be Considered (One Shot)
The moments that Wanda considered Y/n aka the moments her loved showed.
Getaway Driver (Rewritten) (One Shot)
Based off my incorrect quote, Y/n is the getaway driver for Wanda’s mission.
Never Enough (One Shot)
The aftermath of Wanda cheating on Y/n.
Incorrect Quotes
One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven | Twelve | Thirteen | Fourteen | Fifteen | Sixteen | Seventeen | Eighteen | Nineteen | Twenty | Twenty One | Twenty Two | Twenty Three | Twenty Four | Twenty Five | Twenty Six | Twenty Seven | Twenty Eight | Twenty Nine | Thirty | Thirty One | Thirty Two | Thirty Three | Thirty Four | Thirty Five | Thirty Six | Thirty Seven | Thirty Eight | Thirty Nine | Forty | Forty One | Forty Two | Forty Three | Forty Four | Forty Five | Forty Six | Forty Seven | Forty Eight | Forty Nine | Fifty | Fifty One | Fifty Two | Fifty Three | Fifty Four |
Natasha Romanoff x Female Reader
Her Secret (One Shot)
Falling out of love is sometimes inevitable, but is the breakup ever really “mutual”?
Incorrect Quotes
One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven | Twelve | Thirteen | Fourteen | Fifteen | Sixteen | Seventeen | Eighteen | Nineteen | Twenty | Twenty One | Twenty Two |
WandaNat x Female Reader
Oblivious Reader Incorrect Quotes
One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven | Twelve | Thirteen | Fourteen | Fifteen | Sixteen |
Other Incorrect Quotes
One |
Hermione Granger x Female Reader
The Talk (One Shot)
Hermione and Y/n have a small talk before Y/n leaves for America. A lot of words remain unsaid, but maybe something more can happen in the future.
Playing with Fire (One Shot)
When things don’t go quite as planned, a bitter duo is led to fight for their lives while resolving locked away feelings. (Collaboration w/ @a-simple-imagine)
Dancing with Fantasies (One Shot)
During Bill and Fleur’s, Y/n and Hermione have a small moment together in the midst of all the chaos surrounding them.
Tell Her (One Shot)
Telling people how you feel about them is never easy. Especially when it comes to Y/n with Hermione.
Death of the Foolish (One Shot)
This was the life of Y/n after she was forced to break up with Hermione for reasons out of her control. But there really was no life after it.
Do I owe her the truth? (One Shot)
Should Y/n tell the truth to Hermione no matter the consequences?
After Y/n is caught cheating on Wanda with Carol, Y/n would do just about anything to get Wanda back into her life. But was it even Y/n’s fault that she cheated? Or was it the new enemy set on revenge?
Amnesia (Hiatus)
After Wanda and Y/n get into a huge argument over Wanda’s late husband, Vision, the two take a couple of hours to cool off. They fall asleep still mad at each other. However, after Wanda wakes up ready to apologize, she wakes up not to Y/n’s face but Visions. How is Vision still alive? What happened to Y/n? What will happen to Wanda as she walks through a reality where Vision is still alive? What will she do when she realizes that isn’t due to her magic? What will happen to her and Y/n?
Prom Series (Mini-Series Completed)
Prom season is coming around for Avalon High and Y/n could not be any more annoyed. Not only is she trying her best to work up the courage to ask her best friend, Wanda Maximoff, out, she also has to compete against everyone else that seems to want her as well. Will Y/n build enough courage to finally ask Wanda out? Will Wanda get a date before Y/n does ask? Will Y/n go to prom alone? Read to find out.
Her Secret (Mini-Series Completed)
It’s never easy being Wanda’s secret, but Y/n could care less, or at least that’s what she tells herself. But senior year is ending. Y/n is tired of hiding. Wanda is tired of Y/n asking. Will the two actually become a couple before graduation? Or will there be goodbyes as they part for college?
My Rival (Mini-Series Ongoing)
“I hate Wanda Maximoff. I hate her face and the way she hides her freckles. I hate her smile and how perfect she laughs. I hate how smart she is and how she knows everything. I hate her.” Y/n complained.
But how could she hate the girl that always took #1 in everything? How could she hate the girl that captivated her mind 24/7? How could she hate the girl she would willingly be #2 for?
Or the time where Y/n Y/l/n and Wanda Maximoff were academic rivals that fell for each other.
“If you could love me again, I could let go of everything.” (Hiatus)
“They were the right person but wrong time,” Natasha said as she spoke about Y/n and Wanda. But as the two spent time apart and the Avengers were needing new leaders, Natasha could only hope that this was finally the right time for her two favorite people.
Favorite Crime (Hiatus)
Y/n L/n, daughter of the villainous group, “The Gisbourne”. They’re known to do the cruelest things around the world in order to get what they want. In order to stray away from her family, Y/n is the founder and sole member of the vigilante group, “The Robins”. She does what she can in order to assist those in need of help in New York City.
However, what happens when the Avengers are tasked with finally defeating the Gisbournes? What happens when they use their newest member, Wanda Maximoff, to get to the black sheep of the family? What happens if they both fall in love? But what if it was all a mission to Wanda?
Insecurities (One Shot)
College AU! Wanda and Y/n have a fight outside of a frat house all because of him.
Now You Know (One Shot)
It’s Wanda’s wedding day, so where are you?
Lost in the Universe (Part One) | (Part Two)
Y/n is transported to a different universe and by chance, meets the Wanda that inhabits it.
The Actress & The Geek (One Shot)
A late night practice causes Y/n and Wanda to confess their feelings.
Give Me Another Chance (One Shot)
The five times Y/n asks Wanda to give her another chance and the one time Wanda says yes.
Blood Drive (One Shot)
While completing her mandated volunteer hours, Y/n stumbles upon Wanda Maximoff at the local blood drive. Unable to get Wanda out of her mind, Y/n goes through a lengthy process just to ask Wanda out.
The Chosen One (One Shot)
How do you love the daughter of the evilest family in the galaxy? Just ask Wanda Maximoff.
Friends with benefits is never a good idea when you’re in love with Wanda Maximoff.
To Be Loved Is To Be Considered (One Shot)
The moments that Wanda considered Y/n aka the moments her loved showed.
Getaway Driver (Rewritten) (One Shot)
Based off my incorrect quote, Y/n is the getaway driver for Wanda’s mission.
Never Enough (One Shot)
The aftermath of Wanda cheating on Y/n.
Incorrect Quotes
One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven | Twelve | Thirteen | Fourteen | Fifteen | Sixteen | Seventeen | Eighteen | Nineteen | Twenty | Twenty One | Twenty Two | Twenty Three | Twenty Four | Twenty Five | Twenty Six | Twenty Seven | Twenty Eight | Twenty Nine | Thirty | Thirty One | Thirty Two | Thirty Three | Thirty Four | Thirty Five | Thirty Six | Thirty Seven | Thirty Eight | Thirty Nine | Forty | Forty One | Forty Two | Forty Three | Forty Four | Forty Five | Forty Six | Forty Seven | Forty Eight | Forty Nine | Fifty | Fifty One | Fifty Two | Fifty Three | Fifty Four |
Natasha Romanoff x Female Reader
Her Secret (One Shot)
Falling out of love is sometimes inevitable, but is the breakup ever really “mutual”?
Incorrect Quotes
One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven | Twelve | Thirteen | Fourteen | Fifteen | Sixteen | Seventeen | Eighteen | Nineteen | Twenty | Twenty One | Twenty Two |
WandaNat x Female Reader
Oblivious Reader Incorrect Quotes
One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven | Twelve | Thirteen | Fourteen | Fifteen | Sixteen |
Other Incorrect Quotes
One |
Hermione Granger x Female Reader
The Talk (One Shot)
Hermione and Y/n have a small talk before Y/n leaves for America. A lot of words remain unsaid, but maybe something more can happen in the future.
Playing with Fire (One Shot)
When things don’t go quite as planned, a bitter duo is led to fight for their lives while resolving locked away feelings. (Collaboration w/ @a-simple-imagine)
Dancing with Fantasies (One Shot)
During Bill and Fleur’s, Y/n and Hermione have a small moment together in the midst of all the chaos surrounding them.
Tell Her (One Shot)
Telling people how you feel about them is never easy. Especially when it comes to Y/n with Hermione.
Death of the Foolish (One Shot)
This was the life of Y/n after she was forced to break up with Hermione for reasons out of her control. But there really was no life after it.
Do I owe her the truth? (One Shot)
Should Y/n tell the truth to Hermione no matter the consequences?
Summary: Marrying your best friend sounded like a dream. You love him, he loves you, what could go wrong? Maybe the fact that none of you were straight or the fact that you were in love with his mother. And falling in love with a married woman, never sounded so… tempting.
Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x fem! reader
Warnings(+18): smut (crappy but it’s there, leave me alone!), fluffy relationship, dom-ish Wanda Maximoff, age gap, angst, hurt/comfort, shenanigans with the Maximoff twins, mommy kink, each chapter has its own warnings, your author cries when she writes and makes jokes
you don’t have permission to translate/repost my work anywhere. Please be respectful. Likes, reblogs and comments are welcome and appreciated. MDNI — Regina.
A/N: I think it was time for a masterlist since it was getting crowded with the seventh part coming hehe. Once again, thank you all for the support! You keep me inspired and a forever Wanda simp. I support mother!
Summary: Wanda receive a call from the hospital, and all she can think is the day she received the notice that Vision died.
Word Counter: 12k+
Warnings: angst, fluff, grief.
Main Masterlist
---
Wanda's POV
I fell for Y/N in college.
I don’t think she ever knew—not really. She thought she was the one chasing, always teasing me, always waiting, always saying “I’ll be here if you change your mind.” But the truth was, I already wanted her.
It was her laugh, her persistence, the way she looked at me like I was the only person in the room. And when things got hard—when life chipped away at me—it was always Y/N who stayed.
But I was a coward.
Because wanting her meant risking her. If we tried and it didn’t work, if she left… I wouldn’t survive it. So I chose Vision. He was safe. He was steady. He was kind. And yes, I loved him. Maybe not in the same wild, consuming way I loved Y/N—but I loved him. Enough to build a life with him.
When he died, everything I’d built collapsed. My parents were gone, my brother was gone, my grandmother gone—faces in photographs that I could no longer call to the table. The house felt like a mausoleum. I could still hear my brother’s laugh in the hallway, still see my mother’s hands folding laundry in my mind, still feel my grandmother’s soft scold about staying up too late. Then Vision—Vision who had been a promise of ordinary tomorrows—was taken, and the ordinary was gone forever.
Grief didn’t arrive like a wave and leave. It settled like dust into everything. It sat on the silverware, on the frames holding laughing faces, on the side of the bed where someone used to read until two in the morning. It turned songs into eulogies and sunlight into interrogation. Some nights I would wake from a dream so vivid I could swear I’d heard my brother’s voice call my name, and for a breathless second I believed the world could be stitched back together. Then the silence would gouge a new scar.
The worst part was the arithmetic of loss. Names, memories, roles—gone. I kept asking myself what had been taken because I had been foolish, or because fate had been hungry, or because I had never been entitled to stability in the first place. Guilt wrapped itself around my ribs: for loving, for choosing wrong, for surviving. And all the while the small, stubborn part of me that had always belonged to Y/N watched and waited. She was the single bright thing left—someone who had seen me before the cracks and decided to stay despite them.
With her, I survived. With her, I breathed again.
She became my anchor in ways I hadn’t known I needed. Her hand on my back when my knees buckled. The soft way she smoothed my hair away from my face when I flinched at a memory. The ridiculous, mundane jokes she told at three in the morning to make me laugh until I couldn’t remember why I’d been crying. She learned the architecture of my grief—where it ached, where it lay thin—and she did not recoil. She held space for my sorrow without trying to fix it, and that steadiness was its own kind of love.
And slowly, we became more. A kiss in the dark. Her hand brushing mine and not letting go. My head on her chest, listening to the heartbeat that had always been there for me. She told me she loved me, over and over, until it became a rhythm in my life as steady as breathing.
I never said it back. Not because I didn’t feel it. God, I did. I’d felt it for years. But because the fear was still there. The thought that if I admitted it—if I gave it voice—I might lose her for real.
Two years together, and she never pressed me for the words. She just… loved me anyway.
The first time we made love felt like the first honest thing I’d done in years. We were tentative at first—fingers learning the map of a body that was not a memory-ghost of another life. I remember the light through the curtains, the way dust motes floated in it like tiny stars, and how every small sound of the apartment—the kettle ticking down, the radiator’s little sigh—suddenly meant something safe. She smelled like laundry detergent and the lemon cleaner she used obsessively, and when she pressed her mouth to mine I felt the taut thread inside me loosen.
It wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t performance. It was discovery and permission in the same breath. She looked at me as if she could see all the broken things inside and loved them anyway. Her hands told me she wanted me—not as a replacement, not as consolation, but because she chose me. When she whispered my name, it was not the name of the woman who had been afraid; it was the name of the woman who was willing to be seen.
I had never known tenderness could be so fierce. It was like being unmoored and then being held steady by something stronger than gravity. I let myself fall into it—the warmth, the shuddering quiet that followed, the utter, surprising peace. For the first time since everything went dark, there was pleasure that did not taste of guilt. There was only being with her, entirely and without apology. Afterwards, lying with my cheek against her shoulder, I felt as if some internal wound had finally been bandaged. I had never felt anything like it: not euphoric, not merely physical, but holy in its smallness.
When we walked into the bar that night, I felt light. Nervous, yes—these were my old friends, people who knew me before I lost everything—but Y/N’s hand was warm in mine. And for the first time in a long time, I smiled without forcing it.
Natasha slid in beside me, her presence comforting. She asked how I was, how things were with Y/N, and for once, I didn’t dodge. I let myself smile, let myself talk. And Nat made me laugh.
That’s when I saw it.
Y/N, coming back from the bathroom, stopped by some woman. She leaned too close, touched too much, smiled like she had a right.
I saw Y/N pull back, uncomfortable. I saw her shake her head. I saw her say no. But still, rage burned in my chest, twisting tight with fear. Because if it was that easy for someone else to want her, how easy would it be for her to realize she didn’t need me anymore?
By the time Y/N escaped and came back, my smile was gone. I kept my face neutral, but she knew me too well. She saw it in my eyes—the anger, the jealousy, the fear.
On the way home, I stayed silent. If I opened my mouth, the truth would pour out, raw and ugly. That I loved her. That I had always loved her. That I was terrified of losing her.
But she kept trying, gently at first, then more firmly. She explained about the woman, told me she hadn’t wanted it, that she only wanted me. And still the fear ate me alive. The words that came out were wrong, jagged, poisoned by panic.
“That’s why I’ve never told you I love you,” I snapped. “Because I don’t know when you’ll leave me. Because you’re only here because I’m broken.”
The look on her face made my stomach drop. But I couldn’t stop. I was spiraling, desperate, lashing out before she could hurt me.
And then she asked, her voice cracking, “Am I not enough?”
I should’ve said yes. I should’ve told her she was everything. That she’d always been enough. That I’d loved her for years, long before I admitted it to myself.
But my fear twisted into anger, and anger found the worst words it could.
“You’re just a replacement for Vision. You’re nothing.”
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Her face—God, her face. Shattered. Devastated. And when she whispered, “I know,” in that weak, broken voice, it felt like something inside me tore in two.
She left.
And I stood frozen, breathing hard, my chest burning, my eyes stinging. Too afraid to run after her, too full of regret to move, too cowardly to undo the damage.
Because this was the moment I’d always feared—the moment I pushed her away so far, I might never get her back.
---
The door clicked shut.
That soft, final sound rang louder than any slammed one could have. Louder than her voice when she shouted, louder than the words she’d thrown like knives.
And suddenly, the house was unbearably quiet.
I stood there, frozen, chest heaving, waiting. Waiting for the sound of her footsteps returning, the rattle of the knob, her voice saying my name. She always came back. She always stayed.
But the silence stretched.
And stretched.
And with each second, the truth sank deeper. She wasn’t coming back. Not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not ever.
My knees gave out, and I sank onto the couch, my hands trembling as I pressed them over my mouth. The words I’d said replayed in my head, one after another, each one sharper, crueler, until I could barely breathe.
Replacement.
Nothing.
God, what had I done?
Because none of it was true. Y/N was never nothing. She was everything. She’d always been everything. The one person who had stayed through all of it—my grief, my fear, my cowardice. The one person who had held me up when I couldn’t hold myself. The one person who looked at me like I was worth loving, even when I didn’t believe it myself.
And I’d told her she was nothing.
Tears blurred my vision, hot and relentless, dripping off my chin as I curled forward, burying my face in my hands. I wanted to run after her, scream her name into the night, beg her to come back. To tell her the truth I’d been too afraid to say all these years:
That I loved her.
That I had loved her since college.
That the only reason I’d ever gone back to Vision was because I couldn’t bear the thought of losing Y/N completely. That choosing him had been easier than risking her. That when he died, I grieved him, yes—but even then, through all of it, my heart still belonged to her.
Always to her.
But now… now I’d driven her away with my own hands.
My sobs broke through the silence, raw and desperate. I clutched the pillow she’d leaned against earlier that night, pressing my face into the lingering warmth, pretending it was her. Pretending I hadn’t just shattered the one good thing I had left.
“Please come back,” I whispered into the empty room, my voice wrecked and broken. “Please don’t leave me.”
But there was no one to hear it.
Just me, my tears, and the echo of a door that might never open again.
---
I don’t know how long I stayed staring at the door, until the silence became unbearable. My hands shook as I picked up my phone from the coffee table.
Her name glowed on the screen. Y/N.
I pressed call.
It rang. Once. Twice. Then the flat tone of voicemail filled my ear.
“Y/N… it’s me,” I whispered, voice already breaking. “Please, I—I didn’t mean it. Just come home, okay? Please.”
I hung up, my thumb trembling over her contact again. Waited a minute, maybe less, I couldn’t tell. My chest hurt with every beat of my heart. Then I pressed call again.
Voicemail.
This time I didn’t even speak. Just listened to the tone until it cut off, then dropped my phone into my lap, covering my face with both hands as another sob tore through me.
I tried again. And again.
Voicemail. Always voicemail.
By the time I looked up, the clock on the wall read 3:07 am. My throat was raw, my cheeks sticky with tears, my body trembling from the hours of crying.
And then my phone buzzed.
Not her name. An unknown number.
For a moment, my heart lifted—maybe she borrowed someone’s phone, maybe—
“Hello?” My voice was wrecked, almost unrecognizable.
“Is this Wanda Maximoff?”
The air in my lungs froze. “Yes—yes, this is she. Who’s calling?”
“This is Memorial General Hospital. Are you a relation to Y/N L/N?”
And just like that, I was back there—years ago—standing in my kitchen with the phone pressed to my ear, listening as a police officer told me Vision was gone. The numbness, the disbelief, the way the floor seemed to vanish beneath me.
But this time… this time it was worse.
Because Y/N wasn’t just my girlfriend. Y/N was everything. The one I had always loved. The one I had already lost a thousand times in my fear, and had just pushed away again with my own hands.
I gripped the phone so tightly my knuckles ached. “Yes, I’m—yes, I am. Why? What happened?!”
The voice on the other end was calm, professional, detached. That made it unbearable. “Ms. L/N was brought in earlier tonight following a robbery at a corner shop. She sustained multiple gunshot wounds. She’s in surgery now.”
The room tilted violently. My vision blurred. My breath stuttered out of me in a sound that was half sob, half scream.
Gunshot wounds. Surgery.
She’s dying.
“Oh my God…” The words scraped out of me, broken, raw.
“Ma’am, she’s in critical condition, but the surgeons are doing everything they can. We’ll need you to come in as soon as possible.”
“Yes—yes, I’ll—I’ll be there.” My voice was unrecognizable, a jagged rasp through my tears.
I hung up. The phone slipped from my trembling fingers, clattering against the hardwood.
For a moment, I just stood there, the silence pressing in, my body shaking so hard I thought my legs would give out. Then, with a sob tearing from my throat, I grabbed my car keys from the bowl by the door, barely managing to shove my shoes on as I stumbled outside.
The cold night air hit my wet cheeks, but I didn’t feel it. My body was on autopilot, running on pure panic, pure desperation.
I’d thought losing Vision had been the worst pain I could endure. But this—this was a thousand times worse. Because I loved Y/N more than I’d ever let myself admit. Because I’d told her she was nothing, and now she might die believing it.
I fumbled with the keys, my hands shaking so violently I dropped them twice before finally forcing them into the ignition. My chest was heaving, sobs breaking free even as I slammed my foot on the accelerator.
“Please, Y/N,” I whispered hoarsely, my voice swallowed by the roar of the engine. “Please hold on. Please don’t leave me. I’ll tell you everything, I swear—I’ll tell you I love you. Just… don’t leave me. Not like this.”
The headlights blurred through my tears as I sped toward the hospital, my heart pounding so violently I thought it might shatter.
Because if I lost her, there wouldn’t be anything left of me.
---
The hospital lights were too bright, too harsh. They glared down on me as if mocking the darkness I felt swallowing me whole.
I nearly crashed into the front desk, breathless, hair sticking to my tear-streaked face. “Y/N L/N—gunshot wounds—they called me—where is she?”
The nurse looked up, startled, then softened when she saw me trembling, barely holding myself together. “She’s in surgery. Please, sit—we’ll update you as soon as we know more.”
I nodded frantically, though the words didn’t register. Surgery. That meant she was still alive. That had to mean something.
My legs carried me to the nearest row of plastic chairs, and then I collapsed into one, my whole body shaking so violently my teeth rattled.
The hallway smelled of antiseptic, clean and cold, but it did nothing to soothe me. My palms pressed together, wringing, clenching, anything to stop them from shaking.
Every sound made me flinch. A gurney rolling by. A phone ringing at the desk. A doctor’s shoes tapping against the tile. None of them brought me the words I needed.
So I prayed—something I hadn’t done in years. Not since I buried my parents, not since I lost Pietro, not since Vision’s car went off the road.
“Please,” I whispered into my trembling hands. “Please let her live. Please let me take it back. I’ll tell her. I’ll tell her every day if you just give me another chance.”
I remembered the way she’d looked at me before leaving. Broken. Shattered. That weak “I know” that had gutted me.
What if that was the last thing she ever said to me?
Hot tears slid down my face again, dripping off my chin. I didn’t even bother wiping them away anymore. My whole body hurt from crying, but I couldn’t stop.
The minutes stretched into hours, each one clawing at me. I couldn’t sit still—pacing, then sitting, then standing again. My fingers curled into my hair, pulling, desperate to wake from this nightmare.
Every time the OR doors swung open, my heart leapt, only to crash when it wasn’t for me.
I thought of all the things I hadn’t said. The way I’d held back the words she’d given me so freely. I love you. She had whispered them into my skin, my hair, my hands a thousand times, and I had stayed silent. Cowardly. Afraid.
Now I’d give anything—anything—to go back and say them once.
“Please, Y/N,” I begged again, my voice raw, barely audible. “Please come back to me. Please don’t make me live without you. I can’t. Not you.”
The clock on the wall ticked on, merciless and slow, while behind those doors the love of my life fought for hers.
And all I could do was wait.
---
After a long time of waiting, the doors finally swung open, and I shot up from the chair so fast it scraped across the floor with a loud screech.
A surgeon stepped out, mask pulled down, eyes weary. My heart lodged in my throat. “Y/N L/N,” I gasped, almost stumbling toward him. “Please—how is she?”
He looked at me with that practiced calm that only made me want to shake him until he gave me the truth. “Ms. L/N sustained three gunshot wounds. Two of them were relatively clean—we were able to remove the bullets and repair the tissue with minimal complications.”
My knees nearly buckled in relief, but then his tone shifted. “The third one was more difficult. It struck a dangerous area. She lost a significant amount of blood before we got her stabilized.”
I felt the air leave my chest, the edges of my vision blurring. “But—you fixed it?”
“We managed to stop the bleeding and close her up,” he said firmly. “But she’s very weak. We had to do a blood transfusion, and her body is still under a lot of stress. The next twenty-four hours will be critical.”
My hands clamped over my mouth as a sob broke through me. My eyes burned, my chest ached with every frantic beat of my heart. She was alive. Barely—but alive.
“She made it through the surgery,” he added, softer now. “That’s a good sign. She’s a fighter.”
My tears came harder at that. Of course she was a fighter. Y/N had always been stronger than me. Strong enough to carry her love for me through years of rejection, strong enough to stay at my side when I broke. Strong enough to survive even this.
“Can I—can I see her?” My voice cracked like a child’s, desperate.
He hesitated, then nodded. “She’ll be in recovery for a while. Only for a few minutes, and you’ll need to keep your distance—she needs absolute rest. But yes.”
I nodded rapidly, swallowing back sobs. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
As he walked me toward the recovery ward, my legs trembled beneath me, each step heavy with both dread and hope.
Because soon, I would see her again.
Soon, I would have a chance to whisper the truth I should have told her long ago.
That she wasn’t nothing. She was everything.
And if she woke up, if she stayed—God, if she stayed—I would never let her doubt it again.
---
The walk down the corridor felt endless. Each fluorescent light overhead hummed, flickering faintly, and with every step my stomach twisted tighter. My palms were damp, clutching one another so hard my knuckles were white.
When the nurse finally stopped outside a room and pushed the door open, my breath hitched.
Y/N lay in the bed, impossibly still. Her skin was pale, almost gray against the sterile white sheets. Tubes and wires snaked from her arms, machines beeping softly in rhythm with the fragile rise and fall of her chest.
I pressed a trembling hand against the doorframe, needing the support to keep myself upright.
God, she looked so breakable. So unlike the steady, laughing, unshakable Y/N I knew.
I moved closer, each step slow, reverent, as if I were approaching something sacred. My eyes blurred with tears, and I blinked furiously, not wanting to miss a second of seeing her alive.
When I reached the bedside, I froze again. My hand hovered over hers, afraid to touch her, terrified that even my presence might hurt her. But the need was too much, overwhelming. I lowered myself into the chair and finally let my fingers graze hers, lightly, gently, as though she were glass.
Her hand was cold.
That broke me all over again.
“Y/N,” I whispered, my throat raw, the sound more like a prayer than a word. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it—I didn’t mean any of it.”
My tears fell freely, dropping onto her hand, rolling down my cheeks unchecked. “You’re not nothing. You’re not a replacement. You’re my everything. You always have been.”
Her chest rose and fell, weak but steady. The machines kept beeping, steady, mercilessly calm while my heart thrashed in my chest.
I leaned closer, my forehead almost touching the back of her hand. “Please fight, baby. Please don’t leave me like this. I love you. I love you so much.”
The words tumbled out, over and over, as if saying them now might weave a tether strong enough to keep her here.
“I should’ve told you years ago. I should’ve told you every single day. But I was scared. I thought if I said it out loud, I’d lose you. And now—now I can’t lose you, Y/N. Not like this. Not ever.”
The monitor beeped steadily, indifferent to my desperation.
I pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles, my tears wetting her skin. “So please, just wake up. Let me make it right. Let me love you the way I should have all along.”
Her fingers didn’t move, her eyelids didn’t flutter. But she was breathing. And right now, that was enough.
I sat there, holding her hand as though I could will my strength into her, whispering the words I should have never withheld.
I love you.
Again and again, until my voice broke.
---
I don’t know how long I sat there, my hand wrapped around hers like it was the only thing keeping me from falling apart completely. Minutes, hours—time stopped meaning anything.
But then, a soft voice broke the fragile bubble I’d wrapped myself in.
“Ms. Maximoff?”
I looked up, blinking through the blur of tears to see the nurse standing at the door. Her expression was kind, gentle, but it didn’t soften the blow of what she was about to say.
“She needs rest now. The doctors want to keep the room quiet and clear while she stabilizes.”
I shook my head instantly. “No. Please. I can stay quiet. I won’t move, I promise.” My voice cracked, desperate. “She shouldn’t be alone.”
The nurse’s gaze softened further, but her tone didn’t waver. “She’s in critical condition. We need to minimize any stimulation. You can come back in the morning. I promise we’ll call if there’s any change.”
Her words hit me like a physical strike. Morning? Leave her? After everything?
I turned back to Y/N, clutching her hand tighter, like the nurse might try to take it away. “She—she’ll wake up and I won’t be here.” My voice was trembling, broken. “What if she thinks I left?”
A pause. Then the nurse stepped closer, placing a hand gently on my shoulder. “She’ll know you were here. Sometimes they feel it even when they can’t respond. And she’ll still be here in the morning.”
I bowed my head, tears slipping hot and relentless down my cheeks. My heart screamed at me to stay, to fight, to refuse. But my rational mind—the part of me that knew Y/N needed this chance to heal—forced my hand.
I lowered my lips to her hand, pressing the softest kiss against her knuckles. “I’ll be back, detka,” I whispered, my voice breaking on the word. “Don’t you dare leave me. Not now. Not ever.”
With the hardest effort of my life, I set her hand back on the sheets, my fingers lingering as if memorizing the feel of her skin. Then I stood, shaky, my legs like lead, and forced myself to walk to the door.
At the threshold, I turned one last time, drinking in the sight of her—still, fragile, fighting. My chest cracked open, my body screaming to run back to her.
Instead, I whispered into the dim room, hoping somehow she could still hear me.
“I love you.”
Then I let the nurse guide me away, each step feeling like betrayal, each breath like punishment.
---
I didn’t leave. I couldn’t.
When the nurse walked me out of the room, I didn’t go home. I sank into one of the stiff plastic chairs in the waiting area, clutching my coat around me like it might hold me together. The fluorescent lights hummed above me, cold and merciless. The antiseptic smell burned my nose. And every second that ticked by without news gnawed a deeper hole in my chest.
I replayed it all, over and over.
The ride home from the bar, my silence, the way her voice cracked when she tried to explain about that woman. My sharp words, my venom—“that’s why I never told you I love you.”
The way her face crumbled when I spat the ugliest truth I could find. You’re just a replacement. You’re nothing.
My own voice echoed inside me, jagged, cruel. I had said it to hurt her, to push her back before she could see how terrified I was of losing her. And I had succeeded.
Her face—the brokenness in her eyes—was the last thing I had of her before she walked out.
And then the phone call.
I buried my face in my hands, choking back a sob that ripped from deep inside me. If she dies… if she leaves me now, those will be the last words she ever heard from me. Not I love you, not thank you for saving me again and again, not you’re my everything. Just poison. Just fear disguised as cruelty.
I couldn’t sit still. I paced the corridor, my boots scuffing against the sterile floor. My palms were raw from wringing them together. Every time the doors swung open, my heart leapt, only to crash back down when it wasn’t news for me.
Hours bled together. Nurses came and went, doctors strode past, but all I heard was the echo of her voice, weak and broken in our living room: Am I not enough?
I had told her no. I had told her she was nothing.
Another sob wracked me, and I clutched the edge of a chair so tightly my knuckles turned white. “Please,” I whispered to no one, to everything. “Please don’t take her from me. Not her. Not Y/N.”
The night stretched on, endless. My body screamed for rest, but my mind wouldn’t stop. Every flicker of memory cut deeper—the way she looked at me in college, all hope and devotion. The way she held me when my grandmother died. The way she smiled at me like I was the only person in the world.
And now she was fighting for her life, and all she had left of me was a wound I’d carved myself.
So I stayed. I didn’t care if they told me to leave again. I’d sleep in this chair, in the hallway, on the floor. I wouldn’t abandon her. Not ever again.
I pressed my forehead against the cold wall, whispering a vow into the empty corridor.
“You can’t leave me. I won’t let you. I’ll make it right… just—just please wake up.”
---
The first night after Y/N’s surgery, I didn’t leave the hospital. The fluorescent lights hummed too loudly, the antiseptic smell burned my nose, and every footstep made my chest tighten as if the sound could shatter me completely. I sat in the stiff chair beside her bed, watching her chest rise and fall, memorizing every shallow breath, clinging to the steady beep of the monitor like it was a lifeline.
When visiting hours ended, I still couldn’t leave. The hallways were empty and cold, echoing my panic and guilt. My car was parked outside, engine off, as I gripped the steering wheel, tears streaming unchecked. Driving home was impossible—I couldn’t face the silence of our apartment, the empty rooms that usually smelled like her, but now smelled like nothing.
But eventually, hunger or exhaustion forced me inside. The apartment was quiet, oppressive. Her coffee mug still sat in the sink from the morning we had returned from the bar. A jacket lay draped over the couch where she had kicked it off in the living room. I sank into it as if wrapping myself in her scent could hold me together.
I kept reliving every second of that fight.
Her face when I yelled. Her trembling voice. That small, broken whisper: “I know.”
And I had let her leave. I had let her go out into the night, alone.
The memory twisted in my chest, a knife with every heartbeat.
On the second day, Nat came by. She didn’t need an explanation to know something was wrong. Her sharp eyes caught the dark circles, the tremor in my hands, the way I couldn’t stop wringing them together.
“Wanda… what happened?” she asked softly, guiding me to the small waiting area.
I couldn’t hold it in. The words spilled, raw and jagged: “We fought. I—” I swallowed hard, tears welling again. “I told her… things I didn’t mean. Things I was too scared to say, and now she—she was shot. She’s in surgery, Nat. I—I can’t even…” My voice broke.
Nat leaned back, taking a moment before she spoke. Her voice was calm, firm, but there was an edge of frustration. “Wanda… why? Why did it come to that? You love her. You’ve told me for years. Why—”
I buried my face in my hands. “I… I was afraid. Afraid if I told her, she’d leave me. Afraid if I admitted it, I’d lose her completely. And I… I lashed out. I said she was nothing, Nat. Nothing!”
Nat’s hand found mine, gripping gently. “Wanda… you’ve always loved her. I told you—break up with Vision and choose her back at college. You were scared, yes, but you never should have pushed her away like that.”
I shook my head, trembling. “You don’t understand. When Vision died… when I grieved him, I had Y/N. She was the only reason I got through it. She’s always been there for me. She’s always been… everything. And now she’s lying in that hospital bed, and I can’t live without her, Nat. I… I need her to be alive. I can’t live without her.”
Nat’s eyes softened, filled with understanding. “Then she’ll fight, Wanda. She’s strong. You know she’s strong. She knows you love her. And when she wakes… she’ll see you’ve been here every single day, holding on.”
I nodded, though it didn’t ease the ache in my chest. The apartment felt empty, and when I returned after brief hours of sleep, the absence of Y/N pressed on me like a physical weight. Every room was a reminder of the fight I shouldn’t have started, the words I shouldn’t have said, the hands I had failed to hold at the exact moment she needed me most.
The next days were a blur. I sat beside her, reading aloud from the books she loved in college, my voice cracking over every word. I held her hand when the nurse allowed it, brushing her hair back with trembling fingers, whispering prayers I hadn’t spoken in years: Please, don’t leave me. Please fight. I’ll tell you everything. I’ll make it right.
Even when I returned home to grab something to eat, the apartment felt like a tomb. I couldn’t stay long. I couldn’t leave her side. The bed we shared felt impossibly empty, the quiet so heavy it pressed against my chest. I replayed the fight over and over, each memory sharpening the guilt.
On the third day, Nat came again. I hadn’t moved from the chair all morning. She brought coffee and a bagel I couldn’t touch, sat silently beside me, giving me space while not letting me completely unravel. She reminded me gently, “She’s still fighting, Wanda. She’s a fighter. You know that. You know she’s strong.”
By the fourth day, there were small signs. A twitch of a finger. A flutter of an eyelid. Each movement sent my heart soaring and breaking all at once. I pressed my lips to her hand, whispering, “Just a little more, detka. Please. I’m here. I’ll never leave again.”
Then, that morning, it happened.
It started as a tiny flicker under my gaze—her lashes trembling. My breath caught in my throat, and I leaned closer, almost afraid to believe it. “Y/N?” My voice cracked, high and desperate, almost a plea.
Her eyelids fluttered again, slower this time, trembling like leaves in a storm. I could feel my chest tighten so sharply it hurt, a mix of hope, fear, and overwhelming relief. “Come on, detka. Just a little more,” I whispered, tears spilling freely down my face, dripping onto her hand as I clutched it like it was the only thing keeping me upright.
Her lashes lifted fractionally, just enough to catch a glimmer of light. My pulse thundered in my ears. “Y/N, please… wake up,” I begged, my lips brushing the back of her hand, my forehead pressing against her wrist. I was shaking, sobbing, completely unhinged with the mixture of terror and joy.
Slowly, agonizingly slow, her eyes began to part. A pale blue blinked at me, drowsy, uncertain, as though she were surfacing from a dreamless abyss. My tears blurred my vision, but I didn’t care. I pressed closer, speaking in broken whispers. “I’m here… don’t you dare leave me. Please, just stay with me.”
Her gaze focused—just barely—on my face. I could see the flicker of recognition, faint but real, in her eyes. The first tiny, uneven breaths escaped her lips. My hands shook so violently I could barely hold hers.
“Y/N… it’s me. I’m here. You’re safe. You’re alive,” I sobbed, my voice breaking over every word. My forehead pressed to hers, tears soaking her hair. “Please… please don’t close your eyes again. I need you, detka. I can’t live without you.”
Her lips moved, barely forming sounds I could barely catch: “W… Wanda…”
That single, fragile word tore through me, and I lost what was left of my composure. My hands cupped her face gently, shaking as I kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her temples, all the while crying, whispering, praying.
“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. You hear me? You’re awake, detka, and I’m not letting go. I love you. I’ve always loved you. Please… stay with me.”
Her eyes fluttered, drowsy and weak, but they stayed open just long enough for me to see her, truly see her. And in that moment, every second of fear, guilt, and despair melted into one overwhelming, shattering relief.
She was awake. She was alive. And I would never, ever let her doubt how much she meant to me again.
Her lips parted again, dry and trembling, like every sound cost her everything. I leaned closer, desperate to catch whatever came.
“W… wha…” She coughed weakly, her throat rasping from the tube that had been down it. Panic shot through me and I reached for the little cup of water by the bedside, fumbling with shaking hands until I managed to wet the sponge and brush it gently over her lips.
“There, detka… slowly,” I murmured, brushing my knuckles down her cheek. “Don’t push yourself. You don’t have to say anything. Just breathe for me.”
Her eyes, half-lidded and hazy, fought to focus on me. The faintest crease pulled at her brow, like she was trying to piece together the world around her.
I pressed a kiss to her knuckles again, unable to stop my tears. “You scared me so much,” I choked, my voice breaking on every syllable. “Don’t you ever do that to me again. You hear me? I thought—” My throat closed, the words clawing out of me. “I thought I lost you.”
Her gaze softened—weak, tired, but still hers. Her lips moved again, barely audible. “So… rry.”
That single, broken apology shattered me. “No. No, don’t you dare apologize,” I cried, my hand moving to cradle her face. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m the one… I pushed you away, I made you think—” My sobs stole the words from me, but I forced them out. “I should’ve chosen you long ago. I should’ve never made you doubt. I love you, Y/N. I’ve always loved you.”
Her lashes fluttered, struggling to stay open, but she managed the tiniest ghost of a smile. “Love… you… too.”
The words hit me like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. My heart clenched so hard it hurt, and I collapsed forward, laying my forehead gently against hers, my tears sliding onto her skin. “Don’t say another word. Just stay with me. Please… just stay.”
Her eyes closed again, but this time not in that terrifying stillness—this time it was with the faintest squeeze of her hand around mine, the smallest reassurance that she wasn’t leaving.
I kissed her softly, reverently, her hair, her temple, whispering over and over, “I love you, detka. I’m not leaving your side. Not ever again.”
And for the first time in five endless, suffocating days, I let myself breathe.
---
The first few hours after Y/N woke were a blur of monitors beeping, nurses checking vitals, and me refusing to let go of her hand even when they asked. I only loosened my grip enough for them to adjust the IV or change her bandages, then tightened it again as though that alone could keep her tethered to me.
When the room finally quieted, I perched on the edge of her bed. She was half-asleep, drifting, her breathing shallow but steady. Every rise and fall of her chest felt like a miracle. I stroked my thumb along her hand, afraid that if I stopped, she’d slip away again.
Hours later, she stirred, her eyes blinking open slowly.
“Hey, detka,” I whispered, brushing the hair from her forehead. “How do you feel?”
Her voice was raw, cracked, but she managed a whisper: “Like… I lost a fight.”
A broken laugh escaped me, quickly smothered by tears. “You didn’t lose. You’re here. You won.”
She tried to smile, but it twisted into a wince of pain. I instantly leaned forward, fussing over her. “Don’t move too much. You need to heal. Let me get you water—”
Her weak fingers tugged at mine, stopping me. “Stay.”
I froze, my throat tightening as I sank back down beside her. “Always,” I breathed.
The next day, the doctors allowed her a few sips of water. I held the cup carefully, guiding the straw to her lips. She took the smallest sip and coughed, and I nearly panicked, rubbing her back in tiny circles until she calmed. “Easy, love. No rush. I’ll take care of everything. You just focus on resting.”
Her eyes lingered on me, glazed with exhaustion but shining with something deeper. “You… haven’t left?”
I shook my head fiercely. “Not once. I couldn’t. The house was empty without you. I can’t—” My voice broke, and I pressed my forehead to our joined hands. “I can’t be without you, Y/N. Not ever.”
Her lips curved, but not the way they used to when she teased me, or when she found something genuinely funny. It was small, weary, almost… resigned.
The sight of it made my chest seize.
“Why are you smiling like that?” I asked softly, searching her face.
Y/N blinked slowly, her gaze sliding to the ceiling for a moment before settling back on me. “Because… I think I finally understand.”
My pulse stuttered. “Understand what?”
“That you’re not saying all this because you love me.” Her voice was faint, barely stronger than a breath, but each word hit like glass shattering. “You’re saying it because I’m all that’s left. I know you think I’m the only one left. So you are scared I’m gonna leave you. But I’m…” She paused, swallowing with visible effort. “I’m just the replacement you said I was.”
Her words landed like a blow I hadn’t been ready to take. “I know I’m just a replacement for Vision.” — the sentence barely left her mouth before I felt something inside me break cleanly in two.
“No.” The word tore out of me before I could think. I leaned forward so suddenly the headboard creaked, and the room seemed to narrow until it was only the two of us—her pale face, the slow rise of the sheet, my own ragged breath. “No, Y/N. You are not a replacement. You could never be.”
I cupped her face with both hands, fingers careful on the cool skin, and felt how fragile she was. “Listen to me,” I whispered, so fierce it surprised me. “Listen—because I need you to hear it and remember it. I loved you in college. I fell for you—before Vision, before any of it. You were always the one who stayed. You were always the person who held me when everything else collapsed. I chose safety once because I was terrified of losing you—terrified I’d lose you if I risked everything. That was cowardice. It was wrong. But it does not change the fact that my heart… my heart has always been yours.”
My thumbs smudged wet tracks across her cheeks without thinking. “When he died, I grieved him. I loved him. I still do, in a way that is part of my past. But that love doesn’t erase what I feel for you. You are not his shadow. You are not the space he left. You are light. You are the only person I have ever wanted to build a life with. I want you because of you—because of how you laugh, because of how you steadied me through things I couldn’t face, because of how you made me brave enough to be myself.”
My voice broke on the last words and I pressed my forehead to hers, letting my sobs be the thing that filled the silence. “I hurt you,” I said, the shame in that single sentence enough to choke me. “I said monstrous things. I said them because fear turned into poison in my mouth. I am sorry. I am so, so sorry. I will spend every day making you see the truth of me. I will show you, not just say it. If you wake up and ever doubt me, I will make it right. I swear it on everything I am.”
For a long, trembling moment she closed her eyes. When they opened again there was that fragile, wary look people get when they are testing the ground after a fall. She whispered, voice raw, “How do I know you mean it? How do I know you won’t… back away when I’m not the broken thing you can hold together?”
I let out a laugh that was half-cry. “Because I already tried being safe and I lost you anyway. Because I can’t bear the idea of ever choosing the easy thing over you again.” I touched the hollow of her throat, then the soft place behind her ear, cataloguing her like a pilgrim catalogues holy relics. “Watch me. Let me prove it. Let me be the person who stays when it is not convenient. Let me be the one who believes in us when we’re both scared to. Let me love you without limits.”
Her fingers found mine and squeezed, faint but real. Tears pooled in the corner of her eyes. “Okay,” she breathed. “Okay… try me.” The humor in that nearly killed me with gratitude.
---
Even after Y/N squeezed my hand and whispered “Okay… try me,” I could see it—the faint hesitation in her eyes, the shadow of doubt that lingered. She didn’t fully believe me yet, and that thought burned in my chest every moment I stayed by her side at the hospital.
I barely left the room. I slept in the stiff chair beside her bed, skipped meals, ignored texts, ignored the world outside the hospital walls. I needed to be there. Every rise and fall of her chest was a victory, every twitch of her fingers a reminder that she was still here—and that I had been given a second chance.
Then the day came when the doctors finally smiled at us and said she could be discharged. Relief slammed into me in waves, but I also panicked. The hospital was one thing. Home… our home… had been untouched for weeks. Clothes scattered, dishes in the sink, the air stale with absence. I had to fix it before she returned.
I rushed back, keys jingling in my hand, heart pounding as I unlocked the door. The apartment smelled faintly of dust and old air. I set my bag down, rolled up my sleeves, and started tidying. Dishes washed, counters wiped, clothes folded, everything dusted and organized. The apartment felt… alive again, slowly, as though preparing itself for her presence.
When the surfaces were clean and the living room looked welcoming, I finally made my way to the bedroom closet. I pulled out a few of her clothes, thinking about what would be comfortable for her first day back home—soft sweaters, sweatpants, anything that would let her feel safe.
And then my hand froze.
Tucked behind her neatly folded shirts, in Y/N’s side of the closet, was a small black ring box. My heart slammed against my ribs, a jolt of something I couldn’t name rushing through me. I picked it up with trembling hands, turning it over again and again, the weight of the metal and velvet heavier than anything I’d ever held.
It hit me slowly, painfully—Y/N had been planning to propose. She… she was going to ask me to spend the rest of my life with her. My throat constricted, tears spilling down my face uncontrollably. How could I have been so cruel, so stupid, so blind? How could I have said she was just a replacement for Vision, when she had been my person all along?
I sank to the floor, clutching the box to my chest, sobbing like I hadn’t in years. “I—oh, detka,” I whispered, voice breaking, “you were always mine. You’ve always been mine.”
The guilt, the shame, the raw, unbearable love—all collided in one painful knot in my chest. I had hurt her when she had done nothing but love me, waited for me, stayed by me. And now, faced with this quiet, beautiful proof of her devotion, I felt both the agony of my past mistakes and the overwhelming desire to make it right.
I pressed my forehead to the box, whispering through my tears, “I’m so sorry. I don’t deserve you. You’re not a replacement. You’re *my person*, and I’ve been too blind to see it.”
The thought of her coming home, of her smiling even a little, gave me a fragile thread of hope. I tucked the box carefully back into her side of the closet, my fingers lingering on it, vowing silently that I would spend the rest of my life proving to her how much she meant to me—and that I would never, ever doubt her love again.
---
The moment the hospital released her, I felt like the air had been lifted from my lungs and replaced with something unbearably precious. I sat in the car, hands gripping the wheel so tightly I could feel the skin blanch, staring at the passenger seat where she lay bundled in a blanket, fragile and pale but alive.
“Almost home, detka,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “Almost home.”
Her eyes flickered open briefly, trying to focus on me. She gave the faintest ghost of a smile. “Home… sounds… good.”
I couldn’t help the tears that threatened to spill again. “You’re going to be safe. I’ll make sure of it. Every second,” I said, squeezing her hand gently.
When we arrived, I helped her out of the car, supporting her weight as she took unsteady steps through the doorway. The apartment smelled faintly of the cleaning I’d done, the familiar scent of home laced with lavender from the small diffuser I’d turned on.
I guided her to the bedroom first, helping her sit on the edge of the bed. “Rest here for a minute, detka. I’ll bring you some water and snacks.”
But even as she sank into the pillows, I knew she wasn’t strong enough to do anything herself. Bathing, changing clothes, even sitting up—everything needed me. I undressed her gently, speaking softly all the while.
“Just relax. I’ve got you,” I whispered, brushing damp hair from her forehead. I drew the bath slowly, checking the temperature with care, then helped her in, supporting her back, her shoulders, her head. Every sigh she let out felt like it cut straight through me.
“You don’t have to do this,” she whispered faintly, voice rough.
I shook my head, pressing my lips briefly to her temple. “I want to. Every little thing. I’m here, detka. You’re not alone.”
For the first time, she let herself sink into the warm water, leaning against me as I washed her hair with careful, deliberate movements, whispering encouragements and soft reassurances. “It’s okay… you’re okay… just breathe… you’re safe.”
After the bath, I wrapped her in a towel and helped her into fresh clothes, the ones I had packed from her side of the closet. Every movement was careful, deliberate—I couldn’t bear to see her uncomfortable or in pain.
We spent the rest of the evening slowly moving through the small routines: water, medicine, helping her sit in the living room, brushing her hair back. I barely left her side, not for a moment. I whispered every time I touched her, every time I tucked a blanket around her, every time I brushed a stray hair from her face: “I’m here. I won’t leave. You’re safe. You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.”
And though she didn’t say the words, her hand in mine, her weak but steady gaze, told me she was beginning—slowly—to believe it.
---
The apartment was quiet, the kind of quiet that felt almost sacred after the chaos of the hospital. I helped Y/N settle into the bedroom, propping pillows behind her so she could sit comfortably. Her body was still weak, trembling with fatigue, but the relief in her eyes when she looked around—the smell of lavender, the tidy counters, the familiar softness of the blankets—made my chest ache.
I stayed close, brushing her hair back, helping her sip water, whispering reminders for the medicine. Every touch, every movement, I made sure it was gentle, deliberate. “I’m right here, detka. I’m not leaving you,” I murmured again, as I had countless times over the past days.
When it was finally time for her to rest, I helped her lie down fully, tucking the blanket around her shoulders. She shifted slightly, giving me that faint, weary smile that still carried doubt, still carried the weight of the things I’d said before.
“You’re… sure you don’t need to leave?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
“Never,” I replied, my forehead resting against hers for a long, quiet moment. “I’ll stay right here. Always.”
As Wanda just lay beside Y/N and brush her hair, Y/N lift her hand and cup Wanda’s cheek.
I froze for a moment, heart clenching at the faint pressure of her hand against my cheek. Her touch was gentle, tentative, but filled with a sincerity that made my chest tighten so painfully I thought I might cry again.
“Thank you for helping me,” she whispered, voice soft and fragile, carrying that faint vulnerability she rarely let anyone see.
I pressed my lips lightly to her palm, tears threatening to spill despite my efforts to stay composed. “You don’t have to thank me, detka. I’m here because I want to be. Because I can’t… I can’t imagine being anywhere else.”
Her eyes lingered on me, half-lidded with exhaustion but still shimmering with that quiet, cautious trust. I brushed a strand of hair back from her temple, letting my fingers trail along her jaw, memorizing the softness of her skin.
“You mean it,” she murmured, almost a question, almost afraid to believe it.
“I do,” I whispered fiercely, leaning closer until my forehead rested gently against hers. “Every word. I’ve always meant it. Always. You’re not a replacement for anyone, Y/N. You’re… everything to me. My person.”
She gave a faint squeeze of my hand, pressing her palm against my cheek again for a heartbeat before letting it fall to the blanket. Her gaze softened, a fragile warmth beginning to seep in.
I stayed there, brushing her hair back slowly, humming the soft, low tune I used to sing when she couldn’t sleep, letting the quiet fill the room with a sense of safety. The apartment was still, sacred, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I let myself believe she was truly back. Truly here with me.
And in that quiet, shared space, I vowed silently to spend every moment proving to her that I would never let her doubt it again.
---
The days stretched slowly, filled with quiet routines that felt sacred in their own way. Y/N’s body was fragile, every movement cautious, every breath measured. And I was there for every single one, just as she had always been there for me.
Even after the doctors removed her stitches, I didn’t let her lift anything heavier than a water glass. I guided her through small tasks, held her while she stretched, helped her sit or stand, and made sure she rested more than she tried to move.
“Detka, let me do that,” I’d say, gently taking her hand away from a towel or a plate. “You don’t need to strain yourself.”
She would smile, faint and appreciative, but there was always a flicker of frustration in her eyes. “I can manage—”
“No,” I interrupted softly but firmly, brushing her hair back from her forehead. “Not yet. I’ve got you. Always.”
I stayed with her every moment I could, reading to her when her energy dipped, brushing her hair, holding her hand while she tried to sit up, making sure she drank water and took her medicine on time. I learned the rhythm of her breathing, the little movements that indicated she needed help, and the moments she simply wanted to be left in quiet with me beside her.
There were nights when she dozed in my arms, and I just lay there, tracing the lines of her face with my fingers, memorizing her all over again. The guilt from the fight, from the words I had said about her being a replacement for Vision, pressed on me like a weight I could not shake. Every time she shifted in her sleep, I whispered apologies I couldn’t say enough: “I’m sorry, detka… I don’t deserve you… I love you.”
And slowly, day by day, she began to regain strength. She could stand a little longer, reach for small things on her own, and even smile more freely. But I never stopped being there, watching over her, protecting her, proving with each quiet gesture that she was my person—not a replacement, not a shadow.
Finally, when she laughed at something silly I said while adjusting her pillows, I let myself relax a fraction, a small, careful smile on my face. She was back—she was safe—and I would never let her feel anything less than loved again.
---
Then one day as Wanda was cooking. The scent of garlic and herbs filled the kitchen, mingling with the faint lavender from the diffuser in the living room. I was carefully chopping vegetables, glancing occasionally at the pan sizzling on the stove, when I felt her presence behind me.
“Detka, sit—” I started, about to tell her to go rest, but before I could finish, I felt the soft, insistent pressure of her hands on my waist. She pulled me toward her slowly, deliberately, and my knife clattered softly onto the counter.
Her eyes were wide, intense, searching mine with a fire I hadn’t seen since before the accident—bold, unguarded, and utterly hers. My chest tightened.
Then her lips found mine, pressing softly at first, almost shyly. But within moments, she deepened the kiss, tilting her head, parting her lips, and I responded instinctively, my hands cupping her face, pulling her impossibly close. The heat between us built in a rush—her arms winding around my neck, pressing her body flush against mine, her small moans vibrating against my lips.
I could feel her pressing harder, her urgency mixing with a tenderness that made my heart ache. Her fingers dug into my shoulders as she shifted her weight, and then, suddenly, with a quiet grunt of effort, she lifted me slightly onto the edge of the kitchen island.
“I—ugh—” she groaned softly, wincing in pain, and I froze, my hands steadying her. “Y/N… wait, you’re still hurt—”
“I don’t care,” she murmured against my lips, breathing ragged, eyes half-lidded with want and determination.
Her breath ghosted hot across my lips, the stubborn fire in her eyes sparking even through the haze of pain. She kissed me again, deeper this time, as if to prove her point—that nothing, not stitches or scars or bruises, could keep her from me.
My hands trembled where they rested on her shoulders, torn between pulling her closer and pushing her back down to safety. “Y/N…” I whispered, my voice breaking as her mouth claimed mine again. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
“Then let me,” she whispered into the kiss, her tongue brushing mine, the plea in her voice raw. “Just… let me feel alive again. With you.”
That undid me. Every wall I had built, every ounce of restraint I’d been holding onto since her accident, crumbled. I kissed her back with everything inside me—months of fear, weeks of exhaustion, years of love I’d never spoken spilling into the press of my lips, the way my hands framed her jaw, the way I leaned into her as though she was air and I had been suffocating.
She groaned into me, her hands sliding down my back, pulling me closer, harder. My legs wrapped instinctively around her hips. Her body trembled against mine, every kiss threaded with desperation and pain, but she still held me like I was the only thing tethering her to this world. Her lips broke from mine just long enough to whisper hoarsely, “I love you, Wanda.”
The words burned through me, fierce and raw. Her forehead pressed to mine, breath unsteady. “I don’t care if you ever really love me back. I don’t care if I’m not enough for you. Because I love you. I always have. There’s no other woman for me.”
My heart split open, shattering at the quiet devastation in her voice.
She swallowed hard, her hands shaking as they held me. “These months—seeing you take care of me, holding me, staying even when I was weak—it only proved it. It made me see… there’s no one else I want. It’s only you, Wanda. Always you.”
I froze, her words crashing into me like a wave, drowning me in equal parts love and guilt. My lips trembled as I kissed her again, not to silence her but to hold her words on my tongue, to feel them sear into my skin.
“I don’t deserve that,” I whispered against her mouth, tears sliding down my face. “But God, detka… I want it. I want you.”
Her lips parted on a shaky breath, her eyes glistening as they searched mine. “You don’t get it,” I whispered, my voice breaking as my hands framed her face. “I do love you, Y/N.”
Her body stilled against me, as though she didn’t quite believe she’d heard me right. My tears slipped freely, dripping onto her skin as I pressed my forehead to hers. “I’ve loved you since college,” I confessed, my voice raw, unguarded. “Even when I chose the wrong path, even when I ran back to Vision out of fear—I still loved you. I was terrified of losing you if we didn’t work, and in the end, I almost lost you anyway.”
Her breathing hitched, eyes wide, lips trembling.
I kissed her again—slow, desperate, full of the years I’d wasted holding back. “You were never a replacement. You were always the one. My person. My home.” My hands slid down to her chest, feeling the rapid beat of her heart under my palms. “I love you, Y/N. I love you so much it scares me.”
Her tears broke then, spilling as she clung to me like I was salvation. “Say it again,” she begged, her voice shaking.
“I love you,” I breathed against her lips, kissing her through the words. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”
Every repetition of I love you poured out of me like I’d been holding it back for years, and when her sobs broke, I kissed them away, frantic, desperate.
Our lips crashed together again, harder this time—needy, messy, full of heat. She clung to me like she’d drown without me, and I pressed back with the same desperation. My hands tangled in her hair, pulling her closer, closer, as though I could press my love into her through sheer force.
Her hands roamed, trembling but insistent, clutching at my shirt, at my back, at anything to keep me tethered. Her moan vibrated into my mouth, a sound that made my knees weak, and before I could stop her, she hooked her arms under me and lifted.
“Y/N—no!” I gasped, pulling back just enough to look at her strained face. “You’re not healed—”
She cut me off with another kiss, groaning into my mouth as though the pain was nothing compared to the need driving her. “I don’t care,” she breathed, her words ragged, eyes dark and blazing. “I need you. I can’t wait anymore, Wanda.”
I tried to protest, my hands pressing to her chest, but she carried me through the apartment anyway, step by step, her breath hitching with every movement. I kissed her, trying to ease the strain, trying to stop her and yet unable to resist her—because I needed her just as badly.
When my back finally hit the mattress, her body hovering above mine, I cupped her face in my hands, my own tears blurring her features. “You’re going to hurt yourself,” I whispered, but my legs were already wrapping around her waist, pulling her down to me.
Her forehead dropped to mine, her breath shuddering. “Then let me hurt, Wanda. Just… let me love you.”
I broke then, completely. My lips found hers again, slow at first, then hungrier, deeper. Clothes fell away in rushed movements, skin pressed to skin, every touch igniting something electric, something I’d buried for years.
She moved with both urgency and reverence, her hands mapping me as if rediscovering sacred ground. I whispered her name over and over, clinging to her, my protests drowned out by the fire consuming us both.
And when she finally slid into me, her face twisted in both pain and relief, I held her close, tears streaming down my cheeks. “I love you,” I gasped, nails digging into her back. “I love you, detka. Don’t ever leave me.”
Her groan was broken, guttural, her lips capturing mine again as we lost ourselves to each other completely—two souls colliding, healing, burning, breaking, and mending all at once.
For the first time since everything shattered, it didn’t feel like grief or guilt.
It felt like home.
---
A Year Later
No one's POV
The church bells tolled again, but this time they weren’t mourning. They were singing.
The courtyard was alive with laughter, the air sweet with roses and jasmine. White ribbons fluttered in the breeze, tied carefully to each pew, and soft sunlight spilled through stained-glass windows, scattering colors across Wanda’s veil.
Y/N stood at the altar, her hands trembling despite the calm smile she tried to wear. Her heart pounded so loudly she swore everyone could hear it. A year ago, she’d carried Wanda, fragile and bruised, to bed, terrified of losing her. Today, she would carry her again—this time across the threshold of a new life together.
The doors opened.
Every breath left Y/N’s body. Wanda stepped forward slowly, her arm linked with Clint’s as he walked her down the aisle. Her dress was simple but perfect, silk that caught the light, a veil that framed her face like something holy. But it wasn’t the dress, or the veil, or the flowers that made Y/N’s eyes sting—it was the look in Wanda’s eyes. Pure love. No fear. No hesitation.
Her lips curved in the smallest, trembling smile, the one she saved only for Y/N.
When she reached the altar, Clint kissed her cheek, whispered something only for her, and placed her hand in Y/N’s. Y/N’s fingers shook as they closed around hers, grounding, needing, reverent.
“You look…” Y/N’s voice cracked. “You look like every dream I’ve ever had.”
Wanda squeezed her hand, tears gathering in her lashes. “And you look like the answer to every prayer I’ve ever whispered.”
The ceremony blurred after that—words spoken, rings exchanged, promises made in front of the world. But when the officiant finally said, “You may kiss your bride,” everything stilled.
Y/N cupped Wanda’s face like she had a thousand times before, but this kiss was different. It wasn’t desperate or afraid. It wasn’t weighted with guilt or grief. It was light, infinite, sacred—sealed with the kind of forever they’d both thought they’d never get.
The crowd erupted in cheers, but Y/N barely heard it. Wanda was in her arms, her lips on hers, her laughter trembling against her mouth, and for the first time in years, both of them believed in happiness again.
---
The reception hall glowed with golden light. Candles flickered on every table, their flames mirrored in glasses of champagne. Fairy lights strung across the ceiling sparkled like stars, and the soft hum of a string quartet filled the air.
Wanda had insisted on keeping it intimate—no grand spectacle, just the people who had become their family. The long tables were crowded with friends, laughter spilling louder with every toast, every clink of glass.
Y/N couldn’t take her eyes off Wanda. Her wife. Even the word made her dizzy. Wanda was radiant, cheeks flushed, veil traded for a crown of wildflowers that Clint had awkwardly, lovingly woven together that morning.
When the music shifted, Y/N rose and offered her hand. “Dance with me, my love?”
Wanda’s eyes sparkled. “Always.”
They moved together to the center of the floor, the world falling quiet as the first notes of their song began. Y/N’s hand found Wanda’s waist, gentle, steady, while Wanda’s arms looped around her neck. They swayed, slow and easy, forehead to forehead. Neither of them cared about the watching eyes; the only thing that mattered was that they had made it here—through war, grief, fire, and blood—to this.
“I thought I’d never get this,” Wanda whispered against her lips.
“You’ll always have me,” Y/N promised, her voice thick with emotion. “Even if the world falls apart again.”
Applause erupted as the song ended, but Y/N only grinned, stealing another kiss that made Wanda laugh into her mouth.
Later came the toasts. Clint stood awkwardly with a glass of whiskey, clearing his throat. “I’m not much for speeches,” he started, earning a ripple of chuckles. His eyes softened as he glanced at Wanda. “But I’ve watched her lose more than anyone ever should. And I’ve watched Y/N love her through it. That kind of love—the stubborn, immovable kind—that’s what saves people. That’s what makes life worth it.” He raised his glass. “To Wanda and Y/N. May you keep saving each other.”
Natasha’s toast followed, dry and teasing, but ending with a smile so rare it brought tears to Wanda’s eyes. Sam cracked jokes, Steve stumbled through something earnest and heartfelt, and by the time Pietro took the mic, Wanda was already clutching Y/N’s hand to her chest.
“I never thought anyone would be good enough for my sister,” Pietro said, grinning but with his voice thick. “But you—you proved me wrong. Take care of her, Y/N.”
“Always,” Y/N said, without hesitation, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Dinner flowed into laughter, dancing, clinking glasses. At one point, Wanda stole Y/N away from the crowd, dragging her outside under the string lights. They stood there, away from the noise, hands intertwined, breaths mingling in the cool night air.
“Do you hear that?” Wanda asked softly.
“Hear what?”
“The quiet,” she whispered, resting her head on Y/N’s chest. “For once, it’s just us.”
Y/N held her tighter, kissing her hair. “It’s always just us, detka.”
Inside, the music swelled, calling them back to the party. But for that moment, under the stars and lights, they stood still—two souls who had finally found their way home.
---
The door clicked shut behind them, muffling the echoes of laughter, music, and clinking glasses still spilling from the reception hall. For the first time all day, there was quiet. Just the soft hum of the night outside and the heavy thrum of Y/N’s heart.
Wanda leaned back against the door, her cheeks still flushed from dancing, her wildflower crown slightly askew in her mussed hair. The silk of her gown shimmered faintly in the dim light, but what stole Y/N’s breath was the way Wanda looked at her—soft, unwavering, as if she were standing at the edge of something sacred.
Y/N stepped closer, her fingers twitching as if asking permission. “My wife,” she whispered, the word foreign and yet so natural it made her throat tighten.
Wanda’s lips curved, slow and trembling, her eyes glistening. “Say it again.”
Y/N leaned in, her forehead brushing against Wanda’s. “My wife. Mine. Forever.”
Her hands slid to Wanda’s waist, gathering the silk fabric, drawing her closer until there was no space left. Their mouths met in a kiss that was both tender and starving—months and years of fear, grief, and longing burning away into nothing but need. Wanda sighed against her, opening for her as she had that night a year ago, but this time without hesitation, without guilt. Just love.
Wanda whimpered when Y/N’s hands found the zipper of her gown. “Careful,” she teased breathlessly, though her body arched into Y/N’s touch. “It took three people to get me into this dress.”
“Then it’ll only take one to get you out,” Y/N murmured against her lips, earning a laugh that melted into another desperate kiss.
The gown slipped to the floor with a whisper, leaving Wanda in lace and trembling under Y/N’s gaze. “God, Wanda,” Y/N breathed, drinking her in, her chest tightening at the sight of the band of gold glittering on her finger. “You’re… you’re everything.”
Wanda reached for her then, tugging impatiently at the buttons of Y/N’s tux, her voice breaking as her hands slid beneath the fabric to touch bare skin. “And you,” she whispered, urgent, reverent, “you’re mine.”
A groan tore from Y/N’s chest as she swept Wanda up into her arms, carrying her across the room the same way she had a year ago—only this time there was no protest, no fear she might fall apart. Wanda clung to her, her mouth hot and needy against Y/N’s throat, soft moans spilling between kisses until they tumbled onto the bed together.
They made love slowly at first, reverent touches mapping every scar, every curve, every place grief had once hollowed and love had healed. Their rings caught the golden lamplight, glinting each time their hands found one another’s. The night became a symphony of whispered vows and breathless gasps, of Wanda crying Y/N’s name and Y/N whispering hers back like a prayer.
And when at last they stilled, tangled in sheets and sweat and laughter, Wanda pressed her lips to Y/N’s chest, right over her heart.
“My wife,” she murmured, drowsy but certain. “Always.”
Y/N kissed her hair, holding her closer than she ever thought possible. “Always,” she echoed.
For the first time in years, there was no fear clawing at the edges of their joy, no shadows threatening to steal what they had built. There was only love—quiet, steady, unshakable.
The world had taken so much from Wanda, but it had not taken this. Not Y/N. Not them.
And in the soft dark of their wedding night, Y/N and Wanda finally let themselves believe in forever.
AN: GUYS, I HOPE YOU WILL LIKE IT, PLS FORGIVE ME FOR EVERY MISTAKE
The first thing I noticed was warmth.
The kind that comes from a knotted duvet, warm sunshine shining through cream-colored drapes, and Wanda's arm tightly wrapped around my waist. Her body was pushed against mine, legs lazily wrapped beneath the blankets, and her breath was gentle and warm against the back of my neck.
I gently opened my eyes, gazing at the quiet of our bedroom. It was silent, save for the faint chirping of birds outside and the smooth hum of the house settling.
There are no running footsteps. No screams. No magical messes.
It's just us.
For once.
I sighed happily and sank back onto the pillow, shutting my eyes again, trying to drink up every moment of this uncommon peace. Wanda moved behind me, her arm wrapping around my waist.
"Mmm," she said sleepily, her lips brushing across the back of my shoulder. "You're awake?"
"Barely," I said softly, my voice still hoarse from sleep. I raised my head slightly to get a sight of her. "But you are warm. So I will let it."
Wanda giggled softly in her throat, her voice gruff yet lovely. "I am always warm; that is one of the benefits of being a witch."
I grinned as I felt her move behind me, getting closer. Her hand went gently up my stomach, making little patterns on my shirt before going under the hem and touching the skin. My breath caught slightly.
"Wands," I warned softly.
"What?" she said innocently, even though her hand had moved lower and was brushing the waistband of my panties. "We are alone. They're probably still sleeping. Let me love you."
I turned to face her, still half-smiling, and her brilliant green eyes met mine, messy hair, flushed cheeks, and that sleepy glint that always made my pulse race. She leaned in and gave me a soft kiss on the lips, followed by another, slower and deeper, like a promise.
She kissed my jaw, her hand still warm beneath my shirt, thumb brushing against the underside of my ribs. Her leg slipped between mine, and I could feel her breath near my ear.
"I missed this."
"Me too," I whispered, allowing myself to melt a little deeper into her touch. "God, I missed this."
Her kisses moved lower, and just as her hand dipped beneath the waistband of my shorts,
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK
"Mommy?"
We both froze. Wanda let out a strangled groan into my chest.
Another knock.
"It's me and Tommy! Can we come inside?"
I didn't get a chance to respond before a click echoed throughout the room, the doorknob turning itself with a shimmer of blue magic.
"Billie!" I yelped.
The door swung open, showing both boys grinning broadly in their matching pajamas, their hair still messy from sleep. Billie stood proudly, hands on hips, obviously proud of his magical door-opening abilities, while Tommy waved shyly from behind him.
"We made a surprise," Tommy stated.
"Why do I suddenly feel afraid?" I murmured beneath my breath and rubbed my face.
Wanda sank onto the mattress, sighing with defeat. "Can I not have one peaceful morning with my wife?"
"C'mon, c'mon!" Billy grabbed one of my hands and tugged hard. "You're gonna be late!"
"You're late for what? It's Saturday," I murmured, allowing him to draw me to the edge of the bed.
"You'll see!" Tommy grinned.
Wanda sat up slowly, murmuring in Sokovian beneath her breath as she grabbed for the big sweatshirt on the floor. She gave me one final yearning glance and whispered in my ear as she pulled it over her head.
"I was going to eat you for breakfast."
I suppressed a giggle and muttered back, "Now you get to eat burnt pancakes."
Wanda exhaled deeply, rising and allowing Tommy to pull her out the door. "Motherhood is a scam."
I smirked back at her as I continued to grip Billy's hand. "But you love it."
"I love you," she said, and despite her sleepy hair and annoyed frown, she meant it.
The kitchen smelled... Suspiciously great.
This was shocking given the two little chaotic goblins who were now preparing meals like professional chefs in pajamas.
I sat at the table, staring in surprise as Billy gently placed a dish of golden-brown pancakes stacked beautifully with syrup poured like artwork. Wanda, still dressed in my old sweatshirt, cocked an eyebrow at me from across the table as she sipped her coffee with a thankful sigh.
"I'm almost afraid to ask how they did this," I murmured, looking at my plate. "Did we leave a five-star chef locked in the pantry overnight?"
Billy giggled, and Tommy moved onto the seat next to him. "We used magic. And YouTube."
Wanda almost choked on her coffee. "That's not a safe combination."
"But it worked!" Tommy said gleefully, inserting his fork into a delicious pancake. "And we didn't set anything on fire this time."
"Progress," I mumbled, still looking at the meal warily before ultimately caving in and taking a piece.
I hesitated.
Wanda halted.
We stared at each other in startled stillness.
I muttered, "This is actually good."
Wanda nodded slowly with her lips full. "Like... really good."
Billy lights. "I told you! We checked everything this time! And Tommy did not attempt to fire anything!"
"Which I believe should have improved it," Tommy said with a scowl.
"You did amazing, both of you," I replied truly, ruffling Billy's hair as he proudly leaned into my side. "But why do I feel like you're buttering us up for something?"
Both lads froze, only for a second, but enough to be obvious.
I did not say anything.
Tommy hurriedly put a bite of pancake into his mouth and said, "We just love you!"
"Sure you do," I said, trying not to smirk. "I'll keep that in mind when I find the paint spilled in the hallway later."
Billy returned to eating silently, staring at Tommy out of the corner of his eye. Something was obviously rising, but they weren't ready to reveal it yet. So, I let it go.
Wanda kissed my cheek and said, "I need to finish those mission reports Fury gave. I will be in my office."
"Alright, Scarlet Witch," I joked.
The kitchen was unusually quiet on a Sunday morning. The rush of dishes was gone, but the aroma of pancakes lingered in the air, and I was drinking my last warm coffee while reading through my phone when I heard the familiar shuffle of small feet.
I looked up to find Billy and Tommy slipping back in, muttering rapidly to one another as if they were planning a very little and very spectacular theft.
"Alright," I responded without looking up. "What's the mission, agents?"
They hesitated, definitely caught, and then attempted to appear casual.
Billy cleared his throat and approached me with his most innocent grin. "Mummy?"
I raised an eyebrow. "You only call me that when you want something."
Tommy sat in the chair next me and leaned forward, his eyes bright with excitement. "We wanna talk to you about something really important."
"And serious," Billy replied swiftly, nodding.
I carefully placed my mug down. "Okay... I am listening."
The twins exchanged a short glance before Billy spoke out. "We've been thinking about it for a long time. Really, a lot. And it's not just a cool idea; it's something we really want."
Tommy nodded, almost jumping in his seat. "We were wondering if... maybe... we could have a little sister?"
I blinked. "A what?"
Billy beams. "Little sister. Or a little brother! But we believe having a sister would be really fantastic!"
I gazed at them both for a long time, allowing the silence to pass before leaning back in my chair.
"Okay. So, just to be clear, you got up this morning, prepared wonderful pancakes, and buttered me up so you could ask me to give you a whole new sibling?"
Tommy tilted his head. "Well, when you say it like that..."
Billy scooted closer, resting his chin on the table. "Please, Mommy?" We would help. We would be the best big brothers in the world. We promise."
"I've already been tired for ten years," I murmured, glancing between them. "You think we can just click our fingers and poof, a baby?"
Tommy's face lit up. "Actually... we do have magic- "
"No," I interrupted, pointing a finger at him. "Absolutely not. No magic babies."
They both moaned deeply.
"My loves," I added more softly, reaching across the table to grab each of their hands, "you two are everything. Really. You have filled our house with more love and craziness than I ever imagined possible. But what about another baby? That's a serious decision."
"But we're ready!" Billy insisted. "We're old enough to help!"
"And I just started sleeping through the night again," I admitted with a sigh. "Do you have any idea how valuable that is to a grown-up?"
Tommy pouted. "So... that's a no?"
"It's not right now," I explained, squeezing their hands. "I love you both more than anything, but let's enjoy what we have before we try to add more to it."
They nodded unwillingly, obviously disappointed yet respectful.
"...Does this mean no dessert after lunch?" Tommy asked optimistically.
I snorted. "Nice try, kid."
Billy groaned and got up. "Okay. Thank you for listening, Mummy."
"Of course, you two are sneaky but sweet."
I watched as they exited the kitchen, speaking again. I got an annoying feeling that this wasn't over.
Not by a long way.
Meanwhile, in Wanda's office...
The subtle hum of Wanda's computer filled the silent room as she sat at her desk, glasses perched low on her nose and a stack of documents in front of her. She scratched her temple, straining at the computer, attempting to concentrate on mission briefings, but her mind kept wandering to breakfast. Her twins had been particularly silent following their debut as tiny chefs.
That usually meant that something was coming.
Sure enough, there was a faint knock on the door, followed by it opening before she could respond.
"Billy," she said without looking up. "What have we said about boundaries?"
"It's important!" Tommy responded instead, slipping in after his brother and cautiously locking the door behind them.
Wanda eventually glanced up, removing her glasses and putting them down with a groan. "Uh-huh. Important, like when you two said the cat was on fire and it turned out to be a hologram?"
Billy grinned shyly. "No, actually important this time."
Tommy was already by her side, leaning in, and Wanda's expression softened as she reached out to gently comb her fingers through his tangled hair.
"What is it, my loves?" she said, gazing between the two of them. "You are really synchronized. "That is always dangerous."
Billy shuffled awkwardly and pushed Tommy to speak first.
Tommy did not hesitate. "We want a baby sister."
Wanda blinked.
"Excuse me?"
"A baby sister," Billy said hastily, rushing forward. "Or, brother! But we believe having a sibling would be nice. We've been thinking about it a lot. We even spoke with Mummy about it first."
Wanda tilted her head, completely focusing on them. "You did? What did she say?"
"She said no," Tommy stated with a little grimace, perched on the edge of her desk and kicking his legs. "Well, she said not right now, but that's just 'no' in disguise."
Billy said, "But we believe you are able to convince her. You're good at that."
Wanda sat back in her chair, a slow smile pulling on the corner of her mouth despite her best efforts to remain serious. "You two are unbelievable."
"But you want another baby, right?" Billy inquired, hope flaring in his eyes. "You love babies."
"I do," Wanda said gently.
"I didn't carry you," she said softly, putting a kiss on Tommy's hair. "But I watched every flutter of movement in Mommy's tummy. I held her hand during every step. I put you there with my power, and she, she gave you life."
The boys smiled, obviously proud of this fact.
"So," Billy softly prodded, "you can do it again, right?"
Wanda breathed gently, her eyes fluttering shut for a second. "I can. If Mommy agrees, I will... I'd love to."
Tommy nearly fell off the desk from delight as both twins lit up immediately.
"But," she right away added, holding up a finger, "you two are not allowed to bother Mommy about it again. Okay, let me talk to her."
"Okay!" they both said at the same time, accepting her hard before running out of the room with triumphant little chuckles.
Wanda shook her head as the door closed behind them, a gentle smile tugging on her lips. Her heart was full, full of the sons they already had and the fresh, small desire they'd just whispered into her chest.
She could immediately feel how it was snuggled inside her.
Now she simply needed to convince Y/N.
A few days later...
The weekend arrived faster than I expected, and she was just finishing up cleaning the boys' room when Wanda entered the room, arms crossed and a curiously calm look on her face.
"Guess who called this morning?" Wanda questioned, casually leaning into the doorway.
I glanced up from folding Tommy's sweater. "Hmm, Clint?" Trying to convince us to let the boys try archery again?"
Wanda chuckled. "Nope. Tony. He mentioned Morgan was holding a little weekend party. There were a lot of games, movies, and pool time—it was practically kid paradise."
I raised an eyebrow. "Tony Stark voluntarily offered to babysit?"
Wanda shrugged, attempting to seem casual. "Told the boys that they could come hang out. They miss Morgan, and he felt it would be great if they stayed the entire weekend. Give us some calm time."
That last thing was spoken a little too gently: "You're up to something."
"Me?" Wanda batted her eyelashes. "Never, Detka."
I rolled her eyes, but grinned anyway. "Fine. If Stark wants to deal with superpowered twins for 48 hours, who am I to argue?"
With the bags packed and the boys already excited, I put them into the car and drove to Tony's upstate house. Morgan rushed out the front door, calling the boys' names, and they were out before the automobile came to a complete stop.
"Kids these days," Tony chuckled as he joined me, sunglasses on his head and a half-empty smoothie in hand. "It's as if they no longer understand the concept of dramatic exits. "I taught them better."
I chuckled, "You sure you're ready for this chaos?"
"Please. I've raised both a toddler and Spider-Man. What about these two? Easy money. He sipped the smoothie. Besides, it is good practice. Pepper says I'm becoming soft."
"Did Pepper really say that, or are you just trying to prove something?"
Tony flashed her a wink. "Does it matter?"
We laughed and turned back to the car. "Alright. You have my number. And Wanda's."
"Exactly. Now go enjoy your suspiciously nice, quiet weekend," he teased, using air quotes.
I rolled my eyes and climbed into the car. "We will see. Wanda's got the look. I'm guessing this 'quiet time' is part of a bigger plan."
The ride back home was calm, the kind of silence I didn't get to experience very often. The sky was coated with watercolor streaks of peach, gold, and that lovely lavender color that always reminded me of bedtime stories and cozy kitchens. I had one hand on the steering wheel and the other comfortably lying in my lap, fingers tapping gently to the smooth beat playing through the speakers.
I hadn't realized how much I missed driving alone until I had a time like this—no backseat laughter, no food crumbs flung, no small voice asking "Are we there yet?" every five minutes. Although I enjoyed the chaos, the calm was refreshing.
Just as I turned onto the main road heading home, my car's Bluetooth pinged with an incoming call.
Natasha.
I smiled immediately and tapped the steering wheel to pick up.
"Romanoff," I said, keeping my tone light. "Didn't expect to hear from you."
"Wow." She mocked, "You're still answering as if you're on a mission. You haven't gone full soccer mom on me, then?"
I snorted. "I've been so close. I actually told the boys '10-4' the other day when they completed brushing their teeth."
"That is adorable. And mildly terrifying," she laughed. "But, hey...I miss hearing your voice."
The sudden seriousness in her tone took me off guard. My fingers curled slightly tighter around the driving wheel as I murmured softly, "I miss you too, Nat."
"It isn't the same without you. Missions felt strange. I keep waiting for you to pop up out of nowhere and do something reckless, then play it off like you sneezed."
I giggled beneath my breath and shook my head. "Well, I am not twenty-five anymore. I attempted jumping over the couch last week and almost ripped a muscle."
"Oh no," she murmured loudly. "Not my reckless queen turning responsible."
"You will survive. Barely."
For a little moment, we both lapsed into a comforting stillness, as if we were sharing a blanket. I turned onto a familiar street, my gaze drawn to the neighboring homes. "Things are different now." In a positive way. Wanda and the boys... It's home."
There was a silent pause on her end. "Yeah. And I am pleased for you. But I'm still thinking about our previous runs. You had a sniper rifle, and I was throwing knives. Good times."
"I still have the scar from Berlin," I said with a smile. "Right on my shoulder. Boys believe it is from fighting a dragon."
"Well, technically, you did fight me before my coffee once."
"That was the most dangerous mission of all."
We both laughed again, and I realized I had already driven into our driveway. The porch light was turned on, creating a nice glow across the front stairs. Something about that made my chest hurt in the greatest way.
"I'm home now," I said, moving into the park. "Thank you for calling, Nat. Really."
"Anytime," she replied kindly. "Say hello to Wanda for me. And maybe show your face at the compound soon before we start calling you 'legend.'"
I smiled. "Deal."
I hung up the phone and let the silence settle again. For a few periods of time, I sat in the car, glancing at the house, where Wanda was most likely planning something with her sly smirk.
I had no clue what she was up to, but knowing her... I should have been suspicious.
Maybe also excited.
When I unlocked the front door and stepped inside, the warm aroma of something delicious hit me like an inviting wave. Garlic, spices, something buttery, it really smelled like love.
I hardly had time to take off my shoes when I heard fast footsteps, and then bam, Wanda emerged around the corner, eyes bright as if she'd been waiting hours for this very moment.
"There you are," she murmured with that unbelievably lovely grin of hers, and before I could answer, her arms closed around me and her lips touched mine.
She kissed me like we hadn't seen each other in weeks: slow and full, as if she was trying to pour something into me. I melted immediately. Of course, I did. How couldn't I?
When she finally pulled back, her nose touched mine, and she said, "I prepared us dinner. Dinner starts early. I thought it might be nice."
I blinked. "You cooked?"
"I do know how, you know," she joked, softly pulling me into the dining room.
"I know you can cook, darling, but I didn't expect a five-star meal on a Saturday," I murmured, allowing her to draw me along. "What is going on? Have you done anything? Is something happening?"
She chuckled, gently swatted my hip, and said, "You're so suspicious."
"You prepared garlic butter chicken with rosemary potatoes. That is not your typical Saturday-night meal when we eat while watching a reality series. That's 'I'm trying to charm the pants off my wife's dinner."
She took out my chair like a lovely little romantic and sat across from me with a grin. "I'm trying to charm the pants off you. But not for a terrible reason."
I raised an eyebrow as I cut into the dish. It smelled insane. Like a posh restaurant, ridiculous. "Then why?" What have I done? Or what did you do?"
"I'm just being sweet. Am I not allowed to cherish my wife?" She inquired, eyes wide with fake innocence.
I gave her a look. "You are. But it's giving... hidden plan."
Wanda took a sip of her wine and hummed. "Mmm. Maybe I just missed you."
"Mhmm"
She leaned on her hand, elbow propped on the table, and stared at me as if I were the most fascinating object in the room. And, God, her expression, her eyes half-lidded, lips twisted in a faint smirk, was dangerous.
I cleared my throat and ate another bite of chicken, pretending I wasn't blushing like a teenager. "Okay. So either you want something or you're about to break something to me, and trying to soften the shock."
Wanda chuckled, poking her potatoes with a fork. "You really think I'm that manipulative?"
"I think you are a Maximoff. So, yes. Perhaps a little."
She let out a full laugh, her eyes shining. "Rude."
"Just mindful," I smiled and chewed attentively. "Besides, you don't usually go full Stepford Wife unless there's a reason."
She took a long sip of wine before shrugging with an innocent tilt of her head. "Maybe I just wanted to remind you how good I am at being domestic."
I narrowed my eyes. "Okay, now that sounds suspicious."
Wanda furrowed her brow, as if shocked by the statement. "So I can't cook for my wife, kiss her like I missed her all day, and act soft without being questioned?"
"You can. But when it comes to wine and candlelight, and you haven't looked at your phone in an hour?" I leaned forward. "Something is definitely up."
She breathed out deeply, as if I was wearying her with my suspicion, yet her grin never wavered. "Fine. Perhaps I had a small idea. A... thought."
"Mhm. There it is."
"But it can wait," she replied, reaching across the table and brushing her fingers across mine. "Right now, I simply want to enjoy it. You. Us."
My hand eased beneath hers. Despite the tease and confusion, her voice was sweet. Honest. And it always surprised me how quickly she could close my mouth with a single light touch like that.
"Okay," I answered quietly now. "Just us."
Dinner had concluded with laughing, warm glances across the table, and Wanda offering me a chocolate-covered strawberry as if we were in a clichéd romantic movie. She kissed my cheek and said something about "grabbing something real quick" before going upstairs, leaving me alone in the kitchen with empty plates and wine glasses.
I sighed, smiling to myself, as I collected everything and began washing the dishes. The home was peaceful, with soft jazz playing on the small speaker Wanda insisted we keep in the corner. I hummed along as I washed the last plate, allowing my mind to wander.
I hardly heard her coming before I felt her warm, soft arms wrap about my waist from behind.
"Wanda—" I chuckled, leaning back toward her as her nose touched my shoulder. "You scared me."
She didn't respond. Instead, her lips brushed against the base of my neck, like featherlight kisses, warm and slow. A quiet groan escaped my lips before I could stop it, my hands still resting on the sink's edge as her fingertips moved across my stomach, bringing me closer.
Then her voice, low and filled with something deeper, something hungry, whispered against my skin:
"I want another baby with you."
My breath caught. My heart struggles.
I did not turn. I just stood there, stunned, her lips still searing down the side of my neck as my world shifted slightly.
I blinked. "Oh," I replied directly, "So that's the plan?"
Wanda's lips paused against my skin, and her arms tightened slightly. "What plan?"
I raised my brow as I faced her and folded my arms over my chest. "You, cooking dinner, being so lovely, kissing my neck like that? And then you hit me with the baby bomb." I inclined my head, narrowing my eyes slightly. "Did Tommy or Billy put you up to this?"
Her face broke into a bashful smile. "They might've mentioned something..."
I grumbled and hid my face for a second. "Wanda."
"They just asked," she responded hastily, moving closer and throwing her arms around my waist again. "And I might have started thinking about it... a lot."
"You're serious?" I inquired, half disbelieving, half melting under her touch.
"I am." Her voice dipped slightly, that sensual little hum that always caused my brain to short-circuit. "Come on, we're amazing moms. And you looked stunning while you were pregnant." She kissed the side of my neck. "Glowing. Strong, powerful."
I gave her a dubious look, but she simply smirked.
"And your boobs.. I'm not going to lie, baby: your pregnant boobs? Insane. Like, next level."
"Wanda!" I slapped her arm and laughed in surprise.
"What?!" she exclaimed, plainly not embarrassed in the least. "It's a valid reason!"
"You can't use my boobs as an argument for bringing another tiny human into the world," I replied with a grin, attempting to be angry but failing horribly.
"Why not?" They were huge, soft, warm, and mine," she whispered against my jaw. "You were constantly needy, sensitive, and glowing... I miss that version of you. Not that I don't enjoy this one." Her lips brushed mine. "But I'd like to go through that with you again. Watch you grow alongside our child."
Her hands slipped down my waist, drawing me in until our bodies were touching. I didn't even realize my arms were slipping around her shoulders. Our breaths mixed.
"You're unfair," I muttered.
She smirked, pressing her forehead against mine. "I know."
And then she kissed me.
Deep, slow, claiming.
I moaned softly into her mouth as she backed me into the counter, one hand tangling into my hair while the other stayed pressed against the small of my back. She kissed me like I was hers—still hers, and like no matter what argument I thought I had, none of it would matter once her lips were done with me.
I backed away from the kiss, breathless and heated, but my hands pressed softly against her breast to maintain some distance between us.
"No," I softly replied, shaking my head.
Wanda blinked. "No?" she repeated, puzzled and perhaps a little hurt.
"I'm not saying yes just because you kissed me like that," I said quietly, taking a step back. "It's serious, Wands. Another baby? That is not something we simply decide in the kitchen between making out and cleaning the dishes."
She crossed her arms again, frustration mounting in her gaze. "I understand it's serious. That is why I have been thinking about it. And I'm not just bringing it up for fun; I actually want this. With you."
"You already have two incredible kids," I murmured, trying to remain cool as my chest tightened. "They're delighted, we're finally getting some sleep, and we've created something constant. I just don't know if I'm willing to start fresh."
"You think I'd let you do it all alone?" She said, her voice becoming increasingly heated. "Do you think I don't recall every second I spent at your side while you were carrying them? I was there, y/n. I've never left. And I won't this time either."
"I know!" she shouted, coming toward me. Her voice cracked only a little. "I understand what I am asking. All I can promise is that I'll be there every second."
She came to a halt, breathing heavily. My eyes met hers, and for a brief moment, all I saw was love. Raw and desperate.
Then, without warning, Wanda grabbed me up in her arms.
"Wanda, what the hell—!"
"I'm done arguing in the kitchen," she said, her jaw hard as she walked toward the stairs.
"Put me down!"
"Nope." She climbed the first step. "You want to fight? We will fight. But in our bedroom. Where you can't get away from me."
My heart pounded. My fingers gripped her shoulders. "This isn't fair."
She glanced down at me with a smirk that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Nothing is fair when you marry an avenger, darling."
And with that, she carried me upstairs.
Wanda smashed the bedroom door open and dragged me to the bed. She put me down as if I were something delicate or fragile, even though her eyes were filled with something far from kind.
She crawled on top of me, her body warm and secure against mine, her gaze fixed on mine as if she were looking for the proper words in the midst of a conflict.
She then kissed me.
Deep. Needy. Frustrated.
It wasn't a kiss that begged for forgiveness; it asked it. She seemed to be trying to carve herself into me with nothing but her lips, breath, and passion.
"My love," I tried to say between kisses. "You're not gonna win just because you kiss like that."
She laughed quietly on my mouth before kissing me again. "No?"
"No," I replied, but my hands had already gripped her hips. "You can't kiss away your anxiety. Or the fear. Or the stretch marks. I've already done this, remember?"
"I remember everything," she said, leaning her forehead on mine. "I remember every second I held your hand during it. I remember the pain. But I also know how your face lit up the moment they were born."
My chest tapped. My heart deceived me with each beat.
"I remember you holding them like your heart had finally found a shape it could fit in," she told me. "I can't quit picturing it now. Just once more, Y/N. One more time, together."
I inhaled gently, and my voice cracked. "Why do you want this so bad?"
She looked at me as if I were the moon and the stars together. "Because I want to create a life with you. Because I want to create more memories with you. Because we make beautiful babies."
She leaned in again, her lips brushing across mine, teasing.
"And, let's be honest..." she smirked. "Your pregnancy boobs were incredible."
I gasped and pushed her playfully, even as heat poured up my cheeks. "Wanda!"
She grinned, confident and confident. "I stand by it."
"You're unbelievable."
"And you're beautiful," she remarked more seriously, her voice softening. "And I love you. And I want nothing more than to do this with you."
I looked up at her, my wife, my everything—and forgot why I was resisting.
I dragged her down and kissed her so passionately that she gasped into my mouth.
Her hands slid under my shirt, fingers dragging on my breasts, and I instinctively wrapped my legs around her waist. Our bodies crushed together in a fever we had been suppressing for too long.
We kissed like we were starving, like the world was going to end, and all we had left was each other.
The argument? Forgotten.
The plan? ...Maybe not as terrible as I thought.
And the fire? Just getting started.
"Wanda..."
She leaned in and kissed me again, slowly and deeply, as if she had all the time in the world to demonstrate how much she meant every word. Her fingertips went down, tracing the contour of my waist and carving tiny shapes into my skin like she was following a memorized plan.
"I want all of you," she whispered between kisses. "Again and again."
I arched up to meet her touch. "You already have me."
"Then let me show you."
The air moved.
Magic shimmered softly across her skin, her power humming beneath the surface, just enough to make my breath catch. Her eyes darkened, burning softly in that familiar red tone, and it felt as if time stood still in her presence.
She did not rush.
She explored.
Her hands moved with purpose, reverence, and just a hint of teasing, like she knew exactly where I was sensitive and was determined to make me melt for her. Her voice, low and velvety, wove between kisses and touches. "You're everything to me, Detka. My love. My life. The mother of my children. And the only one I want to make mine again tonight."
Every praise, every kiss, every breath was a thread tying us closer.
"Let me show you how much you mean to me," she said softly, her breath warm against my skin. "I want you to feel loved and appreciated in every way. I want to give you my everything."
With that, she carefully guided me back, laying me down with the same attention she usually demonstrated. Wanda's eyes were soft and full of admiration, as if she were looking at something too wonderful to be true.
She took her time, tracing her hands over my body as if every inch of it was precious.
Her lips followed, kissing the soft skin on my inner thighs, her breath warm and tempting. Every nerve in my body was alive, pulsing with need, but Wanda took her time, gentle and kind. Her hands massaged the smooth skin on my hips, drawing me closer and encouraging me to relax into her touch.
"Let me take care of you," she said, her voice low and full of longing.
Then she dropped her lips to where I needed them the most, her tongue smooth and warm, licked my folds.. I gasped, a groan escaping from my lips as she expertly worked, her tongue teasing, tasting, and driving me insane with each slow, methodical movement.
"Ahh, Wanda," I whispered, reflexively groping for the sheets.
She glanced up at me, her eyes full of love and adoration, and proceeded to please me, her movements steady and her focus constant. The way she gazed at me, so truly, so tenderly, made me feel as if I were the only person in the world, and that love, that dedication, intensified every touch and kiss.
"You're mine, always," Wanda whispered between smooth, seductive strokes, her palm softly satisfying my clitoris and guiding me closer to the edge. "And I will love you like this forever."
Her words were a promise, a vow that resonated in every movement, kiss, and tender caress. The pleasure grew inside of me, and as she pushed me to the edge, I couldn't hold back anymore.
"OHH WANDA, I LOVE YOU," I yelled, my body shaking with the rush of pleasure, and Wanda held me close, her hands steadying me.
Wanda kissed her way back up my body while I lay there, gasping my breath in the aftermath of her touch, her lips gentle on my skin, her hands stroking every inch of me as if I were something sacred.
She sank over me again, her eyes blazing softly with red magic, familiar, warm, and full of love. Her fingers brushed against my cheek as she smiled, and her hand glided slowly between them, red light collecting in her palm. Her strap-on materialized with a subtle glimmer of energy, smooth and warm, filled with her magic. However, this wasn't just for fun tonight. It was full of something deeper. Love.
Her voice was as faint as a whisper, but it conveyed the full weight of her emotions.
"Are you ready, my love?"
I nodded, breathless, moving my hands up her arms and bringing her closer. "Always."
She kissed me again, deep, slow, and possessively, before turning her hips and gently placing the strap-on between us. A shaking sensation ran through her as she gently entered me, her eyes fluttering closed.
"Ohh... detka..." she breathed, shaking. "I can feel you. Every part of you."
Her magic made everything real for her, including every squeeze and flutter of my walls surrounding her. Her hips moved gently and reverently, as if she were enjoying how well we fit together. With each stroke, she let out a loud and needy groan.
"You feel so good...so warm," she muttered, pressing her forehead to mine with trembling breath. "I am in heaven with you. Each time."
Her hands grasped my waist as her rhythm grew, not quick, but deep and loving, as if she were making love to my soul rather than just my body. She murmured quietly against my ear, her voice heavy and breath catching.
"You're mine," she said softly, moving with deeper thrusts, her voice full of amazement and pleasure. "You're the love of my life. My wife. The mother of our boys"
I whimpered, wrapping my legs around her, completely lost in the way she moved, the way she filled me. Her body trembled against mine, overwhelmed by how much she felt, how much she wanted to give.
Wanda's pace quickened but never rough, her hips rotating carefully, her magic pulsating softly where we were joined. Every thrust sent a flood of fire through me, and her deep groan echoed in my chest like a plea.
Her mouth was only above my ear now, her voice rough with yearning.
"You're taking me so well," she said quietly, her breath hot and shivery. "So tight and perfect around me. I can feel everything, Detka. You're already milking me."
She let out a deep sigh as she rocked into me again, the strap-on throbbing with her magic. She could feel it—me with every clinch, smooth pull, and cry of her name.
Wanda's hands roamed my body like she couldn't get enough, one sliding up to cup my breast, her thumb brushing over my nipple in slow, teasing circles. The sensation made me arch into her, a breathy moan tumbling from my lips.
"Look at you," she whispered, eyes locked to mine as her hand squeezed gently. "So sensitive... so beautiful. I love watching you fall apart for me."
She leaned down, lips wrapping around my nipple while she thrust into me, her moans vibrating against my skin as she sucked and licked with devotion. Every roll of her hips was perfectly timed with the flick of her tongue, drawing gasps and whimpers from deep within me.
"I could spend hours right here," she murmured, dragging her tongue slowly across my chest. "Loving every inch of you."
"You want me to fill you up, don't you?" She laughed softly, lips brushing across my cheek. "Do you want me to come inside you and give you another baby? Is that what you want, my love?"
"Yes," I murmured, my voice scarcely heard. "Please, Wanda...I want everything from you."
A surge of heat rushed over her, darkening her eyes. Her body trembled, every muscle clenching, her hips faltering as she sank herself further.
"Fuck," she murmured, long and guttural, lost in the moment. "I am coming, baby... Y/N—"
A low, broken cry from her lips as she pushed in one last time and came hard, her power exploding in an outburst of red light around us. I could feel her cum—warm, deep, her spell flowed into me, her entire body shaking with its power.
She whimpered and crashed against me, her breath rough across my neck, and her heart beating.
"God, you feel like home," she moaned into my skin, her voice shaking with joy and love. "I could stay like this forever."
I placed my arms around her, hugging her tight as her power faded, the faint red glow disappearing. She softly slid out of me, her touch remarkably delicate and her actions full of love.
Wanda drew me into her arms and kissed my forehead and lips—sweet, slow, and long. She ran her fingers through my hair, stroking it back as if I were the most valuable thing she had ever held.
"You did so well, Detka," she said, her lips running along my temple. "I'm very proud of you. I'm very lucky to be yours."
She produced a soft cloth with a flick of her fingers and gently cleansed us both, muttering beautiful nothings throughout—praise, love, appreciation, and worship.
She then pulled the blanket over us and cuddled me against her chest, her heartbeat strong beneath my cheek.
"We'll rest now," she said quietly, her arms wrapped around me. "And maybe in the morning... We'll try again."
Summary: Nighttime routine with the love of your life <3
Warnings?: Literally none, teeth-rotting fluff, user is a woman
A/N: First fic posted!! I really really like this one for not having written in a really long time. I'd love to write more so it'd be cool to get any feedback on this or maybe some recs for characters or suggestions on writing x3. I'm open to anything! Enjoy :3
The kitchen is warm, but it's a warmth that feels much more like presence than temperature. Wanda leans against the counter next to the stove, sleeves rolled up to her forearms as she stirs the sauce that's been simmering for the last twenty minutes. The smell of tomatoes and garlic fills the kitchen and anywhere near it. It’s so comforting that wish you could bottle it and keep it for lonely nights. You sit on one of the stools at the island, resting your chin on your hand and watching her with a soft little grin.
It's probably silly how much you enjoy watching her do simple things. Cooking, humming softly, tapping her spoon on the pot in a beat she hears only in her head - it shouldn’t be this captivating. But it’s Wanda; of course everything she does feels magical.
“Stop staring,” she murmurs without looking up, though her smile tugging at her lips gives away that she doesn't actually mind.
“I’m not staring,” you reply cheekily, grinning into your palm. “I’m… simply observing.”
“Oh? Is that what we’re calling 'blatant staring' now?”
“Yes. Scientific observation. For research purposes.”
Finally, she looks at you, those ridiculously loving green eyes catching the soft glow of the kitchen lights above her head. “And what have you scientifically observed so far, Dr. y/n?”
“That you're so unbelievably cute when you cook.”
She tries to roll her eyes, but the pink in her cheeks betrays her false annoyance. “You’re an idiot.”
You don’t argue this time. You hop off the stool and sneak beside her like she isn't watching your every move, slipping your arms around her waist with a squeeze. She smells like rosemary and basil, warmth and just uniquely Wanda. She leans into you, moving to stir the sauce with one hand while the other rests against your arm.
Dinner is simple - pasta, a salad that you helped throw together while she made the sauce, and a bottle of wine that goes unopened. You eat at the small dining table near the window, your legs brushing under the table as the stars add ambience to the meal. Your conversation drifts from the day you both had to little topics that don’t need weight to matter. With Wanda, every word feels right, and they don't need to matter.
When the plates are empty, you insist on doing the dishes. Wanda protests, but you shoo her away with the dish towel. Your only way of getting her to concede is to say if you don’t do them now, you’ll wake up to a kitchen full of regret and flies. She gives in without much fight, mostly because she likes standing behind you and wrapping her arms around your stomach while you work. She kisses the back of your neck, and you laugh when the sponge slips from your hand in your momentary distraction.
“You’re a menace,” you say, fishing the sponge from the soapy water in mock exasperation.
“And yet,” she whispers against your skin with a smug grin, “you love me.”
“Unfortunately.”
She pinches your side lightly in retribution for your comment, making you squeal. You splash some water in response, and her shocked laugh is a sound that could light up a room.
By the time the kitchen is clean, the streetlights are on outside and the moon is shining bright. The lights inside are dimmed, and the city outside your window buzzes at a distance that doesn’t reach you here. Wanda takes your hand gently and leads you to the bedroom.
Your bedroom isn’t large, but it doesn’t need to be. It feels cozy and lived in, with warm-toned lamps on the nightstands, books stacked at odd angles, and a throw blanket that doesn’t quite match the blankets but feels right nonetheless. Wanda kicks off her slippers by the door, sighing as if she has just shed the last weight of the day.
You watch as she goes to the dresser and pulls out one of her favorite oversized shirts to sleep in. It’s faded from too many washes, soft, and makes her look cozy. She tosses you another shirt - one of yours, but stolen so many times it might as well be hers.
“Go change,” she says softly, like speaking any louder would disturb the moment.
You roll your eyes but obey, slipping into the bathroom to wash up. The routine is the usual one - brushing teeth, washing your face, putting on pajamas - but knowing Wanda is just outside makes it feel special. When you come out of the room in softer clothes and with clean teeth, she’s sitting cross-legged on the bed, her hair loose and down around her shoulders instead of the ponytail of the day, idly scrolling through her phone.
She looks up when you climb into the sheets beside her, and her smile is soft enough to melt you inside and possibly out. “Much better, lovebug.”
“Was I worse before?” you tease.
She leans over and kisses you, quick and sweet. “No. But now you’re perfect.”
You settle against the headboard together, legs tangled beneath the blankets. Wanda sets her phone aside, resting her head on your shoulder. You stroke your fingers through her soft red waves absentmindedly, and she hums in approval, her eyes fluttering shut.
These moments are what you cherish most. Not the big ones - though there have been plenty of those in your life filled with chaos and heavy choices. It’s this. The quiet. The rhythm of her breathing against your side, the warmth of her hand in yours under the covers. The simplicity of being allowed to love and be loved without conditions.
“Tell me a story,” she murmurs, her voice sleepy and syrupy.
You chuckle. “What kind of story?”
“Something happy.”
So you do. You make up a story on the spot - a story about two witches who find a little house in the woods where they can grow tomatoes, basil, and sunflowers. A place where no one bothers them and they can make soup every night if they want to. You tell her about their garden, how the sun filters through their kitchen window in the morning, and how the world outside doesn’t matter when they’re together. How they're in love.
By the time you finish, Wanda is smiling, her eyes still closed. “That’s a good story,” she whispers.
“It’s our story,” you reply softly.
Her fingers squeeze yours under the blanket in a way that shows her appreciation more than words ever could.
The night routine of tonight stretches longer than they usually do, but neither of you seems to mind. Wanda insists on braiding your hair, claiming it will be less tangled in the morning and pretending it's not just so she can play with your hair. She sits behind you on the bed, her careful fingers working through each strand. Everu now and then, she kisses the crown of your head, and your heart swells with an emotion words can’t possibly do justice.
When she’s done, you return the favor, brushing out her hair while she sits cross-legged in front of you. It’s a quiet task, comfortable in the silence you share. Each stroke of the brush feels grounding, tethering her to this soft reality where she belongs with the woman who loves her.
Eventually, the lamps are switched off, leaving just the glow of the city lights filtering through the curtains. You and Wanda curl up under the blankets, facing one another. Her nose touches yours, and you feel the soft brush of her breath against your lips.
“Do you ever think about how strange this is?” she inquires quietly.
“What do you mean?”
“All of it. That after everything, after… everything that's happened in the world… I get this. You. Us.”
You reach up and brush your thumb over her cheek. “I think it’s not strange at all. I think we deserve it.”
Her eyes glisten in the dim light, and she blinks quickly to hopefully stop the tears from spilling over. “You always know what to say.”
“Not always. Just when it comes to you. And even then, I mess up sometimes. But lovers mess up every once in awhile.”
She presses closer, tucking her face into the curve of your neck. You hold her as if she might disappear, even though you know she won’t. Not here. Not now. Not ever.
“I love you,” she whispers.
“I love you too.”
And that’s enough for you both.
Time slips away in that slow but also fast way it does at night. Wanda’s breathing grows steady and slow against you as sleep claims her. You trace easy patterns along her back, content to stay awake a little longer just to savor this time with her. Eventually, your own eyes grow heavy, and the last thing you notice before sleep pulls you under is the weight of her hand resting over your heart.
Summary: Wanda's not so happy when she finds out your colleague calls you her "work wife"
A/N: Happy bday, @a-cat-on-titan! Thank you for being such a cool, amazing friend and for always giving me great fic ideas <3
PS - whoever guesses the reference on the title gets a cookie ;)
Wanda’s used to getting what she wants.
From her time as a junior editor and all the way to releasing her own fashion line, she’s had her charm and wit to help.
You were the exception, only at first.
It was supposed to be a sales meeting, to pitch and close the biggest deal of your entire career. Wanda, on the other hand, had decided the minute she laid eyes on you that she was going to make you hers.
Flattery and charm couldn’t win you over, not when she had all the money in the world to date whoever she wanted. You assumed it was just a game to her, to see how much she could string you along before breaking your heart and leaving your quarterly commission dangerously low.
If she insisted on reviewing the financial proposal face to face, you went to work and kept it professional. Even when she smiled at you, and tried to steer the conversation away from work and on to more personal topics.
Especifically, your dating life.
“I don’t mix business and pleasure, Miss Maximoff” you had said once.
It only made her want you more.
And truth be told? During all those conversations, the back and forth, negotiating and preparing a contract to sign, you had fallen for her.
When she asked you to come over after hours to approve the final offer, you pretended it was totally normal.
You sat in front of her, and watched as she signed with a smile.
“Now, can I take you out on a proper date?” she said.
“Well…”
“What is it?” she tilted her head. She had seen the way you acted around her, and Wanda knew you felt something too.
“If people think I slept with you to get this deal… my career is over”
“But you didn’t”
“Miss Maximoff” you walked around her desk, leaning against the edge. Your skirt hiked up only a little, but it was enough to distract Wanda. “It’s not about what happened. It’s about what people will believe”
“Ok, so consider it gone. I will rip this apart. You’re done” she took the contract, ready to set it on fire or throw it out the window.
“Hey, that’s a big commission” you smiled, taking it away from her before she backed out of the deal. “Like any great salesperson, I happen to have a counteroffer. And I think you’ll want to hear it”
“Fine. But you have five minutes” she finally stood up, standing between your legs. It was driving her crazy, having you so close, both physically and metaphorically; because this was the final stretch and she was expecting a big reward in the end.
Wanda wanted all of you.
“I close this deal” you started to say, sighing when you felt lips on your jaw. Your hand wrapped around her wrist, squeezing as she bit the spot behind your ear. “I cash my commission. And then I quit”
“You quit? Want to be my sugar baby?” she asked, hands pushing your skirt up.
“No. I already have another job. Better salary, manager position. I thought this through, Wanda. That’s why I was taking as long as I did” you wrapped your legs around her middle, pulling her closer. “So, how does my offer sound?”
“You’re taking a two week break between jobs. And you’re going to Paris with me” she said, holding your chin in place.
“I can work with that. Handshake on it?” you offered your hand, and Wanda chuckled, inching closer to you.
“I have other ideas to seal the deal, detka”
And you did. Right on her desk until your legs gave out.
—
It was everything Wanda had dreamed of, and even more.
Now, a year and a half later, you were newlyweds, living in a beautiful house outside of the bustling city.
It is the perfect escape from work, responsibilities, and the constant harrassment from the press, wanting to know the details of Wanda’s private life. Turns out, if you dress celebrities, you’re bound to become one.
Aside from a few sightings here and there, your relationship and marriage had been kept as a secret and you were more than happy to stay that way.
Wanda thought she was happy with that too.
And then she noticed her.
It all started one afternoon, as you were busy making dinner and she reviewed some designs. Once she was done with work (or too tired to keep it up) she went to find you in the kitchen, cornering you between her body and the counter.
“Food’s almost ready” you say, hands going to her shoulders, rubbing the tension away. She’s always slouching.
“How long? We can pass time in some other ways” her hands move to cup your ass, and you let out a breathless laugh, though it turns into a moan when you feel her lips against that spot behind your ear that always makes you weak.
It could have been the perfect rendevousz, right in the middle of your new kitchen, but your phone keeps buzzing.
“Work” you mutter between breaths, forgetting about it when Wanda kneels, pulling your denim shorts and underwear down, your arousal exposed.
Too busy with her head between your legs, you barely register the constant buzzing, throwing the phone across the room.
This is your day off, and you are determined to come in Wanda’s mouth. Which happens not long after, your chest heaving and her face glistening as she climbs back to let you have a taste from her lips.
It could have been fine, but right in the middle of dinner, the phone buzzes again.
“Work?” Wanda says as you scroll through your texts. Which was weird, because you emailed or Slacked everyone.
“Yeah. Sorry” you set it down again, resumig the episode of I love Lucy Wanda had chosen for the night.
It bothers your wife, but she tries to keep it to herself. The company you currently work for grew massively in the last few months, which meant more people to manage, more work and more headaches. Even if your career wasn’t as glamorous as Wanda’s, it was important to you, and she supported that.
As much as she’d like to support you in other ways (namely, financially) so she could have you all to herself 24/7.
But then again, your phone buzzes as you get ready for bed. Wanda’s already done with her routine, and she can’t help but look at your screen.
Sasha: Anything for my work wife, LOL!
Sasha: Sweet dreams ;)
Wanda was expecting you to notice as soon as you settle in bed, but her poker face must have been better than she thought. Because you just kiss her cheek, say goodnight and turn off your side of the lights.
But Wanda doesn’t move, so you turn back around and give her a look.
“Baby?”
“Who is Sasha?”
“Darling” you sigh, kissing your early night goodbye.
“Work wife? Really?” she snaps. Now she does look pissed, but the thing is, you never take it seriously. Because you know she’s not mad at you. She’s mad at whoever dares to think they have a chance with you.
“Look, she’s new. From marketing, you know how it is between our departments. I honestly don’t like the whole work wife things because, boundaries. But she’s new and I guess just trying to fit in?”
“I will kill her”
“Now that would be really inconvenient because we’re in the middle of Q3 and that would set me back big time” you straddle her lap, smiling when she frowns. Nothing will ease her mind except one thing.
And honestly? You’re fine with that.
“I am yours, Wanda Maximoff. No one else’s. Ok?”
“Promise?”
“Swear. Now…” you take your shirt off, and finally, the puppy eyes stop, her gaze clouded by lust. “Why don’t you show me how much you own me, baby?”
—
“Hey, wifey”
Your coworker greets you, and you have to control your stupid smile from remembering how Wanda had her way with you this morning.
You really don’t want to talk to HR.
“Heya” you say, straightening up in your chair. “What’s up?”
“Well, I was wondering if…”
“Hey, these are for you” Leroy, the guy at the front desk suddenly knocks on your office door. He’s having trouble with the huge flower arrangement, and you stand up quickly, helping him. “Sorry, there’s more. Tulips… and daisies”
By the time he’s done, your desk and couch are overflowing with flowers.
Sasha interrupts the moment a second later, sneezing loudly.
“Sorry, allergies” she says. “I better go before all this pollen kills me”
“Yeah, if you need anything, I guess you can Slack me!” you say, hoping her allergies are nothing serious.
And of course, you know who’s behind this.
“Hello, moyá lyubóv'” Wanda says, sounding a lot happier than she did last night.
“I got the flowers and I love them, thank you. If it makes you happy, she’s allergic to them so I won’t have anyone calling me work wife around for the day”
“Really? Well, good to know. I’m sending flowers to you every week, then”
“Wanda” you laugh, knowing she’ll do it.
“I love you”
“I love you too, even when you act crazy”
—
Crazy was just the start. The sound of a text coming through set off a Pavlovian response for Wanda. She practically pounced on you everytime you got a message, as if it was a button to jump start her jealous streak.
“Baby, this isn’t even her, it’s a scam message” you moaned against her lips one morning, her fingers sinking in your cunt until you forgot your own name.
But now, she’s on a work trip. It’s only two days, that you can’t afford to take because it’s the last week of the month, and the last chance to close out all the deals left.
You weren’t surprised when Leroy dropped another flower arrangement in your desk.
“You dating a florist?” Sasha jokes, not daring to come in.
“Well, she does like colors and style” you reply.
Only a handful of people in the office know you are married, though the identity of your spouse is a mystery. The only lead they could work on was the picture you kept in your desk, but Wanda was wearing sunglasses and not facing the camera, kissing your cheek as you laughed.
“When we close this deal, we should go out and celebrate” Sasha says.
“Yeah, might be good for team morale”
“Oh, I meant…”
Thankfully, your potential customers finally join the call. And of course, Sasha has to take it in her own office, as your space is a hazzard for her. You’re the first to present, knowing your way around the sales pitch and the conditions of the contract.
You finish your presentation, handing it over to Sasha. She thanks you with a big smile and a lot more excitement than necessary for a sales meeting.
And then, your phone pings. It seems like Wanda’s not the only one conditioned to get horny off a notification.
You hold on tighter to the pen in your hand, knowing who’s messaging you.
Wands: I’m coming back tonight. Got you a little surprise ;)
Y/N: more flowers?
You’re aware that you’re smiling while Sasha speaks, and you hope to god she doesn’t think it’s because of her.
And then, your actual wife sends you the last thing you’re expecting. A picture in front of the mirror, Wanda naked except for the harness and a crystal strap hanging sensually from her hips.
The cherry on top? There’s a fucking flower pattern in the dildo.
You let out a laugh, but disguise it as a cough, legs squeezing together at the anticipation of what’s to come.
Y/N: Killer cock, darling
—
A few weeks went by, and things started to settle again. Wanda was busy with work, which gave her little time to worry over your self proclaimed work spouse.
It took one text to change everything.
Sasha: All ready. You should wear that white top for preso. You look stunning in it <3
Wanda knew which top she meant. It was the one you rarely wore, because one tricky movement and part of your cleavage was on full display.
That’s fine. Wanda can give this slut something to oggle at, other than your breasts.
You’re not even out of the shower when Wanda’s discarding your towel, hands on your breasts, pinching your nipples.
“Baby?” you say, and you’re not sure what is it you’re asking. All you know is Wanda’s pushing you against the bed, head between your legs and licking your cunt like there’s no tomorrow.
Her movements are slow, and you know what that means. Wanda wants to edge you until you’re begging.
Which happens pretty quickly, after she leaves you hanging two times, teeth scrapping against your clit.
“Please, Wanda. Baby, just make me come, ok? I’ll do anything” you almost cry. It’s too early, you haven’t had your coffee and your hot, possessive wife is denying you the release you desperately need.
“Anything?” she tilts her head, in that way that tells you she’s up to no good. But you’re too desperate, so you nod frantically, promising that yes, you’ll do anything as long as she lets you come.
Instead of returning between your legs, she goes on top of you, her arms caging you in while her leg rubs against your center.
“You’re so fucking desperate, hump my leg and do it yourself”
She knows exactly which buttons to push, because the words only turn you on more, and you do as she says. As your movements become more frantic, Wanda sinks her teeth in the flesh of your breasts, marking you everywhere she can.
Pain and pleasure mix as you finally come, letting out a strangled moan against her shoulder. She doesn’t stop marking you, even after you slump in bed, too tired to move.
“I have a presentation today” you say, out of breath.
“I know” Wanda nods, smiling.
“You left me looking like a vampire attacked me” you accuse, not needing to look in the mirror to imagine what you look like.
Fuck, it’s going to take extra time to cover the hickeys.
Once you find the will to move, Wanda follows you close behind, pulling out the cause of all this mess from your closet.
“Wanda”
“You said you’d do anything if I let you come” she reminds you. “Wear this. And your engagement ring”
“Baby” you say, but stop the minute she gives you an icy look.
You’re pretty sure everyone in the office is staring, even if you tried your best to cover the hickeys. Or, it might be the giant engagement ring that Wanda got you, the diamond so big you swear it makes your hand heavier.
Honestly, you consider it a success when you only stutter once during your presentation, but then you lean forward to pass a file towards Sasha, and you know she’s not only getting a good look at your boobs, but also at all the marks your wife left on you.
“Shit” she drops the file and you’re quicker than her, left hand going to pick it up. “That’s… a huge ring”
“Uh, yeah…”
What else is there to say?
Yeah, if you keep calling me work wife I’m pretty sure my actual wife will get here and fuck me in front of the entire office.
But again, you really don’t want to talk to HR.
Thankfully, the meeting ends, and you go back to your office, locking the door for good measure.
It’s going to be a long day.
—
“All packed?” Wanda says, and you nod. “Ok, I’ll leave you at your office and then pick you up after lunch”
“Yes, darling”
Finally, after an exhausting month, you get to take a few days off. Wanda was more than happy to plan a mini holiday, and all you had to do was swear that your phone would be off for the entire time.
Though, considering how she gets when you get a text… you’re thinking about using it to spur her on.
“Alright, see you later” you smile, but look confused when Wanda gets out of the car, walking with you. “Baby?”
“Come on, I’ll walk you to the office”
“Wanda” you begin to say, but then her lips are on yours, tongue pushing until you submit to her, allowing her to explore your mouth.
“It’s fine. What do you think I’ll do? Slap her?”
“Maybe, yeah”
“I just want to walk with you, detka” she says, but you know it’s a lie. Still, you walk into the elevator, pressing the button to the fourth floor.
“After you” she gestures to the door.
“You gonna walk me all the way to my office?”
“Maybe” she smiles and you roll your eyes, knowing it’s no use to argue with her.
“There, I’m all set” you say, opening your laptop and kissing Wanda’s cheek. “See you in a bit”
“Ok, my love” she nods, but makes no effort to move.
And you know that look.
It’s trouble.
For you, and for anyone who dares walk into your office. Because before you know it, Wanda’s pushing you against your desk, hands cupping your ass as you sink your nails in her arms.
“I’m so getting fired” you sigh, fearing someone will see you.
“Afraid you’ll have to find a new work wife?”
“Wanda” you scoff, but she bits down your lip. Hard.
“Say my name, darling. Remember who owns you, yes?”
“Yes” you sigh against her mouth.
You swear to God, if it wasn’t for Sasha, you’d be bent over the fucking desk, Wanda pounding into you until your legs gave out.
But she does walk in, blushing madly, as you break apart. Wanda glares at her for a second, before changing her entire demeanor to a charming smile.
“Well, my darling wife. I’ll pick you up in a bit”
“Yes, baby”
“Oop, your lipstick’s all smudged” she laughs.
You wanna remind her it's her fault, but you know better.
If you want to spend the entire holiday getting fucked in the best way possible, you have to be a nice girl for Wanda.
With a final kiss, she walks past your coworker, who you’re sure will never EVER call you “work wife” again.
“Was that… Wanda Maximoff?” she says, jaw on the floor. “You’re married to Wanda Maximoff?”
“Yeap. The one and only”
“What is it like? I mean, isn’t she super rich?” the woman is still in shock. You just snort out a laugh.
“Yeah, she is. I guess that makes me super rich too. And what is she like? Well, Sasha. She doesn’t like to share. At all”
In case you didn’t make it clear that day, Wanda sends you back from your holiday with a new set of hickeys.
- WHAT I WANT IS SOMETHING MONEY CAN'T BUY -
barista!wanda x fem!reader oneshot
synopsis: you've always been a nervous wreck when it comes to beautiful women. but after meeting wanda, the café owner's daughter, you made it your life's mission to clear up your reputation and get to know her better, but on one condition: you have to buy something from their store to let you speak to her.
word count: 7.9k words
tags: coffeshop au, fluff, comedy (i tried to make it as such), wanda is an ethereal goddess and reader is an idiot, vision is referred as victor in this, so many dialogues, people get interrupted most of the time, reader uses she/her pronouns
author's note: hi guys,,, this is the first ever fanfic i've ever made so i hope you like it🥲😸 this is inspired by the opm "tindahan ni aling nena" by eraserheads bc it's a banger (any filipinos in here? *taps mic a few times*) im planning to make more fanfics that are inspired by opm songs so if you guys want that, let me know!!😸😻
(p.s. it took me 6 months to finish writing this ffghfgfhgfhg😭😭😭)
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“Iryna’s Cafe and Pastries. Is this the place?” You huff as you look up at the sign above you.
”Yup. You remember my order, right?” Your friend Yelena asks through the phone, which in turn causes you to roll your eyes and hum unenthusiastically.
”Hey, watch your tone, idiot,” she says so sternly that you can imagine her pointing a finger at you, “you owe me after making me work overtime to help you. The least you could do is buy me some breakfast and coffee to get me through the day. Plus, it might be time for you to try new things, seeing you eat meal-prepped chicken and vegetables for a week and a half makes me sad.”
You grumble in response like a petulant child, even though she’s right. It was rare for you to try something new, with the reason that it might ruin your routine that always helped you function normally. You could say that your routine isn’t broken, so there’s no need to fix it, but you know that you’re lying to yourself.
Lately, it’s making you feel like a machine, going through the motions every time you wake up and fall asleep on the same bed. And now that the universe — specifically a blonde woman starving for a cinnamon roll and black coffee — is giving you the opportunity to change up your routine, you decide that you shouldn’t miss your chance to feel more alive than the last few weeks.
”You still haven’t answered me, you know,” Yelena pipes up after a few seconds of silence from your part. “I want three cinnamon rolls and a black coffee, you understand? Three cinn—”
”Glutton,” you interrupt before hanging up the phone.
Taking a few steps towards the door and pushing it, your eyes are met with a small yet cozy-looking shop. The rising sun casts a golden glow through each window and hits every nook and cranny, lulling you to a sense of comfort, comfort that makes you forget about your anxieties from ruining your routine the moment you stepped foot into this establishment. Once the door chime stopped ringing, your ears catch the faint hum of pop music that you’ve heard a million times from the speakers, causing you to absentmindedly hum along the lyrics as you look at the menu.
”Good morning, can I take your order?” A soft yet slightly raspy feminine voice on the other side of the counter asks. As your eyes drift back down to meet the cashier’s eyes, you’re met with a woman having soft and captivating green eyes. As you voice out the orders that you have for yourself and Yelena, you inadvertently take a glance at the tag pinned on her chest: Iryna. It’s not everyday you see a business owner also working as a cashier.
It didn't take long for someone to call your order number, which meant you had to walk back to the counter while typing a message to your co-worker. The familiar aroma of Yelena's strong coffee compelled you to put your phone into your pocket, your eyes roaming the tray in front of you to check if everything’s in place.
“Is everything to your liking?”
A new voice with an accent similar to the cashier gracefully blesses your ears, which led you to flick your gaze up to a different set of emerald eyes, yet not less captivating than the first ones you saw. No, somehow those shades of green had enough power to turn you speechless, which made you look like an idiot in front of the brunette woman, who's still holding up a soft, welcoming smile.
God, she has such a nice smile. Those slightly crinkled eyes that twinkled under the café’s fluorescent lighting, those upturned lips that make you feel like a friend rather than just another customer, which are… slowly turning into a frown? What—
Oh god. You've been staring at her face like a creep.
You begin to stammer as embarrassment fills your entire system, nodding while you try to form a single sentence that at the very least consists of words like “yes” and “thank you”. But of course, you fail to do that, because while you were blabbering incomprehensible nonsense out of your lips, your hands were shakily grabbing the bag of pastries, which led to toppling yours and Yelena's drinks, spilling it all over the floor.
”Oh shit, I’m so sorry, I-I didn’t mean to, shit—”
“No, no, it’s okay, it’s okay, Piet will clean it up. Pietro!” The woman reassures you, her accent still prominent, especially when she yells out an unfamiliar name. A tall muscular man quickly rushes towards the two of you, however you didn’t have the time to register his face as you hear the cashier loudly click her tongue out of exasperation (which was obviously directed at your clumsy ass). Thus, out of instinct, you tightly grip the bag of pastries and scurry off, still blabbering apologies out of your lips as you left.
And now, as you walk through the town of Westview, you nervously accept the call that causes your phone to ring obnoxiously.
”Hey Yelena, remember our breakfast? I…” You pause for a few seconds to get your bearings straight.
“Iaccidentallyspilledourcoffeeinthecaféandgotsoembarrassedandleft—” You manage to jabber out in one breath, just to be met with silence on the other end of the line.
After another five seconds of silence, you decided to speak up. ”Hello? Lena—”
”I will strangle you the moment you clock in.”
It seemed like the universe pitied you so much that Yelena decided to spare your life after that incident, which is (thankfully) one less problem in your life. Your current problem, however, is trying to erase that embarrassing moment in your brain. Even the most insignificant things become greatly significant when it even barely relates to that specific incident. Just a few hours ago, the tiniest coffee stain on your co-worker’s collar immediately reminded you of your insanely stupendous gay panic four days ago.
However, as much as you wanted to forget how you ruined your reputation, you couldn't bear forgetting the only memory that included her, with those emerald eyes that captivated your very heart and soul. And now, here you were, standing in front of the same building that contains the coziest café you've entered (and the most gorgeous employee you've ever seen).
The same relaxing ambiance from the first time you entered welcomes you when you walk towards the line of customers, although it's completely and immediately overshadowed by how nervous you are to be facing the girl. To be honest, this was an impromptu visit, but your mind persuaded you so much to see her again to talk to her (and maybe even clean your reputation). As a result, your mind is now starting to go rampant with anxiety.
God, what if she makes fun of me when she remembers my face? That would be so embarrassing and would hurt my ego more. But maybe she won't remember me, since she probably serves a lot of people and she could care less if I came back or not. If that's the case, then I wasted my time and energy coming here! I swear to god, I hope that's not the case—
Your thoughts get interrupted once it was your turn to order. As you walk closer to the counter, the same cashier from before, Iryna, greets you with a modest smile. You then start to notice her face scrunching up to scowl at you the more you stare at each other. Great, she recognizes you.
“Can I help you?” Iryna asks with an arched brow, her sass emanating from her figure so intensely you swear you could feel it in your own skin. You try to quell your nervousness before speaking to the intimidating woman. “I um, yeah. Can I just get a small latte?” You manage to murmur while you tap your fingers against the counter.
“You sure you can trust yourself with handling drinks?” The woman’s derisive reply causes you to wince, it’s clear that she hasn’t forgiven you. However, instead of scurrying away like you always do, you get the strong surge of courage, your feet now planted firmly against the wooden floors of the café as you take a deep breath before responding.
“Miss Iryna, I— I wanted to apologize for the commotion I made that day. I’m sorry for making a mess in your café, I just got really… overwhelmed that moment that I got really clumsy. I understand how hard it is to keep a small business from getting chaotic, and I’m sure how stressful it is to deal with a disruptive customer.”
Once the words register in Iryna’s brain, her eyes snap back up at you, piercing through your soul as she scrutinizes your very being. “Oh, I’m not the one you should be apologizing to,” she replies, making your head tilt a bit out of confusion.
“You should be apologizing to my kids, since they did all the work only for you to waste them,” she reprimands, “my daughter, Wanda, meticulously brewed and blended those two cups of coffee with all her love and passion, only for you to throw it away onto the floor like it’s nothing! And then my son Pietro had to clean up the mess you made! Do you know how long it took for him to clean up for your sorry ass?” She spits out as she points at your apologetic form, your confidence quickly fading as you shrink to yourself in shame.
Before she could add more salt to your wound, a different voice butts into your conversation. “Ma, that’s enough! Don’t talk to our customers like that!” The same woman who turned you speechless that day, who you figured is Wanda, tells her mother in a hushed whisper. You awkwardly look away as she tries to calm her mother down, the two women muttering to each other for a good amount of time.
Once Wanda managed to calm Iryna down, despite a little bit of indignation coming from the other woman, she tilts her head up to look at you, her hand not leaving her mother's back. “I'm so sorry about my mother, she has a bit of a temper when people try to mess up her store,” Wanda explains, her alluring eyes holding an apologetic gaze.
“N-no, it's okay,” you stammer, still not used to be gazing at a woman who is most likely sent by the gods to bless and curse you, “I understand why she's mad, I shouldn't have made a mess, especially since you worked hard on making those drinks for me. I really am sorry for making a commotion in your very peaceful and cozy café, I'll be less clumsy next time.”
After your apology, Wanda parts her lips out of surprise, since she really didn't expect you to apologize to her. She then closes her mouth after a few seconds before lifting the corners of her lips to form a gentle smile, which is immediately making you almost lose your cool again. “Thank you, but it's all good, really. It's clear that you didn't mean to make a commotion. Plus, it was pretty funny to watch you floundering for whatever reason,” she giggles teasingly, causing your face to heat up out of embarrassment, “why did you get nervous?”
Just as always, you start to struggle finding a believable explanation. There's absolutely no way you're telling her that you got nervous by just gazing upon her beauty.
But before you can even think of a lie, a silver-haired man pokes his head from the kitchen to call out for her. “Sestra, get off your ass and help me with these orders!” The younger brunette rolls her eyes out of mild chagrin before bringing her gaze back to you, her friendly smile back in what seems like a millisecond. “A-anyway, I shouldn't keep you here at the cashier counter for so long. I’m sorry again for my mother's crankiness, I hope she didn't scare away a potential regular in our store,” she giggles as her nose scrunches up in delight, “I should get going, it was nice meeting you!”
Even when she finally turns around to leave, your eyes never stray from her figure, too starstruck by her beauty that you didn't notice Iryna glaring at you.
“I'd appreciate it if you finalize your order instead of ogling at my daughter,” the woman rasps, which effectively bring your eyes back to her face. “I um, I actually came here so that I could talk to her,” you mutter sheepishly, as to which Iryna raises her brow, intrigued. “Well, you already did, and now I don’t want you wasting my time and just finish your order.”
“I know, and— and I will, I just wanna— if it’s okay for you— to introduce myself to her,” you immediately stammer, not wanting to miss this opportunity of seeing the woman again, so much so that you didn’t realize how desperate you were starting to get. “Please?” You ask as your face forces a sweet smile, which didn’t help your case since all Iryna sees is a weird and awkward grimace.
Wanting to end this draining conversation as quick as possible, Iryna huffs before replying. “Well, she’s going away in a few days, so you shouldn’t get your hopes up. But fine, I’ll let you introduce yourself to her only on one condition: You have to buy something from our store every single day. Is that a deal?”
The proposition surprised you, which obviously made you ask: “What?” “Hey, if you’re coming into my establishment just to flirt with my daughter, you might as well buy something to keep our business up,” Iryna shrugs with a smirk on her face, as if daring you to even decline the offer that gets you what you really want. And with that smug look on her face, it made you finally think about what you were doing.
Should you really let this woman capitalize off of you and her daughter just for a few bucks? Are you gonna really let her, in some aspect, control what you will spend your money on, just to talk to a girl who you barely know and would probably reject you once you get to know her better?
The answer is yes.
To be fair, the food here is really good, and I get why Yelena really likes this place. Plus, I can just give the food I bought to her as some sort of apology for not getting her a coffee four mornings ago, so it’s not like it isn’t worth it, you justify in your head before looking back up at the woman with determination in your eyes.
”Deal.”
Your fingers tap against the table as you wait for your coffee, your mind telling you to not look around the café in hopes that you would find the brunette woman that’s been lingering in your mind for the past week. Just as you agreed on, you came into the store everyday to buy something to eat before you go to work. You’ve had some doubts whether spending a few bucks on coffee and breakfast was worth it when you could make your own, but those worries immediately get silenced whenever you see Wanda smiling brightly at you, obviously happy that they gained another loyal customer.
It’s a miracle that you get to talk to her once in a while, even though it’s only when she brings your order to your table. You two have only talked about simple yet meaningful topics, like her talent for making delicious coffee and pastries (which always makes her get all shy), her occasional gigs where she sings as she plays the guitar in the café, and her dream of attending a culinary class once she has enough money in her savings, which you never forget to give her your support whenever it’s brought up. What’s not good, however, is that you haven’t really asked her out, always getting cold feet whenever you look at her with those emerald eyes of hers. You’ve never been good with getting any woman that you’re attracted to, how different will your current situation be?
A figure carrying a tray enters your peripheral vision as it walks towards your table, causing your eyes to fully look at it with eagerness. Your excitement dies down when you see that it’s not the owner’s daughter that greets you, but rather the owner’s son, Pietro. Your eyes widen when he smirks mischievously, seemingly noticing how you got your hopes up.
”Oh, thank you,” you mutter politely, not wanting to show how bummed you are at him giving you your breakfast. Unfortunately, he can see right through your act.
He doesn’t respond, only circling around your table as he maintains eye contact and grins. Halfway through his circling, he walks straight before facing the old lady that’s sitting at a table a few meters away from you. He stops in front of her with a friendly smile and placing the tray onto the table. Oh.
After saying the common niceties you hear from a server, he turns around and walks back toward your table, his polite smile slowly shifting into that annoying and smug grin that he has, which seems like it’s only reserved for you.
“You looked a bit bummed for a second there. Were you expecting someone else?” He teases, moving to take a seat across from you.
You roll your eyes before looking away, feeling a mix of embarrassment and irritation. “No, I just… thought that you have my order,” you reply, only for the silver-haired man to chuckle. “So if I did actually have your order, you wouldn’t have been sulking a few seconds ago?”
“… Yes.” He scoffs at your obvious lie. He then leans forward to be closer before murmuring lowly so that only you can hear it.
”Look, let’s be real here, you’re painfully obvious. You’re not slick, alright? You like my sister, Ma and I know that,” he comes clean, not without forgetting a bit of sass in his tone. You slump your shoulders in defeat as he rests his arms against the table.
”Is that why you’re here? To tell me to back off from your sister?” You mumble dejectedly, only for him to shake his head. “Nope, I’m here to tell the opposite.”
Your brows raise in surprise, which encourages him to continue. “I’m not supposed to tell you this, but she broke up with her ex almost a year ago for being a dick to her friends, and I want her to find someone new to meet. Someone that’ll treat her and her friends better, and I’m assuming that you will be that ‘someone’. You will treat her better right? I barely know anything about you to even know that you will.” He raises his brow for confirmation, in which you quickly nod. “Of course, of course I will, I won’t do anything to hurt her. And even if I do, I’ll make sure to be better,” you reply earnestly.
Pietro doesn’t reply immediately. Instead, he’s taking his sweet time scrutinizing you with his glaring, trying to see any hints of you lying. You start to think that their mother’s ability to intimidate you is hereditary.
Finally, after an awfully long silence between the two of you, he straightens his posture as his glare fades away, seemingly convinced at your words. “Alright, good, because if you break her heart, I’ll waterboard you using a pot of scalding hot coffee. Coffeeboarding, if you will.” He jests, although all you can do is nervously laugh along at his “joke” of a threat, since you’re super certain that it’s really not a joke.
His laughter finally dies down as he looks at you with a pleading smile. “So yeah, ask her out. I approve the idea of you two dating, you’d look cute together.” He flashes his charming smile, but you shake your head apologetically. “Sorry Pietro, as much as I’d love to, I don’t think I can.”
With that, his grin turns into a frown. “What? Why not?”
“Because, I obviously don’t have the confidence to talk to a woman. Plus, I don’t think she likes me like that. I’m just a customer to her, just like I am to you,” you huff dejectedly, pessimism taking over your body. Pietro shakes his head in disappointment in response.
”Don’t say that, Y/N.”
”It’s true—”
”No it’s not—”
“You can’t be sure of that.”
Pietro slumps against his seat at your insistence. He’s starting to feel that begging a customer to flirt with her sister isn’t all that worth it to argue about. But before he can even accept his defeat, a thought pops up in his mind. He straightens his posture again.
”You do know that it doesn’t take too long for someone to make coffee and heat up a croissant, right?” He asks, his confidence re-emerging, as to which you reply, “What does that have to do with anything?”
”It means that she’s taking her sweet, sweet time in there, making your coffee and that chocolate croissant real special just for you,” he points out while he uses a lovey-dovey tone in his voice, which doesn’t help him from convincing you.
”She’s probably just prioritizing other people’s orders first.”
“I guess you have a point,” he huffs at your possibly true justification, but he doesn’t waver, “but… have you ever seen me or any of our other employees bring your food to you?”
That catches your attention. Apparently, you yourself haven’t noticed that, since you’re too busy not making a complete fool of yourself when talking to her. And from the look on your face, Pietro knows that he’s got you now.
”Wait, are you telling me that you didn’t catch onto that until now? Even the fact that she sits down with you, and only you, every time to talk? You do know that we’re not required to have a five-minute chat with every single one of our customers, right?” He asks, a combination of amusement and genuine concern in his expression.
As much as you want to reply some sort of irritated retort, your brain is too busy processing what’s apparently been right in your face. How didn’t I realize that? Does that mean— No, no, that can’t be true, she just enjoys my company as a friend if that’s the case. Pietro’s just bullshitting… but maybe he’s not? Look at him, he looks so confident. So confident, in fact, that he could probably tell me that a gambling addiction is good for every kid to have and I’ll believe him. You ponder in your head while Pietro just patiently watches you.
”Sorry it took too long,” another voice enters, which you quickly recognize that it’s Wanda’s. “N-no, no, it’s alright, I’m not really busy right now,” you reply softly, looking at her with a warm smile. And with your gentle expression, her heart flutters
Wanda snaps back to reality, realizing that she’s still working. ”Is my brother bothering you?” She asks as she sets up your coffee and a plate of chocolate croissant on your table.
”When has he not?”
She chuckles softly at your reply while the other twin scoffs. “I suppose that’s a good point,” she grins as she straightens up, clutching the tray while tucking it between her arms and waist. “I wish I could’ve arrived earlier so that I could shoo him away before he could even say something remotely annoying,” she taunts with a cheeky grin. She decides not to mention that the reason she took too long was because she took another try at drizzling the chocolate syrup on the pastry in front of you, wanting it to be perfect.
”Okay, so rude,” Pietro scoffs, which only made you and Wanda giggle. “I was just talking to her about this bar called ‘The F-4’ that has drinks so fucking fantastic, I might consider being an alcoholic.”
”Pietro—” Wanda scolds him, but her brother doesn’t take it seriously.
”What? Sue me, Wanda, but you can’t deny and tell me that place isn’t fire,” He groans before turning his head to look back at you. “My sister here,” He points at her with his thumb, “She won’t admit it, but she can’t get enough of how they made a Cosmopolitan in that place. She could drink that thing for ages and she’d still want more.” You chuckle at the image that his words planted in your head.
”I mean, yeah, that place is great,” Wanda huffs, and Pietro grins at his sister’s defeat. “It is great, especially when you have a date, you can bring them there and have fun, you know?” Pietro raises a brow at you, and your eyes widen at his implication of taking his sister to that bar. You only give him a small glare and a subtle disagreeing shake of your head as a response. As a result, you don't notice the small frown that appears on Wanda's lips for a split second.
“Oh? Who's the lucky girl?” Wanda asks as she puts up a mischievous smile, quelling down the small fire of jealousy in her heart.
“I-it's nobody! Pietro’s just on another one of his bullshit again. Also, don't make that face, you look like him and that's not a compliment,” you reply as your face heats up in embarrassment. The twins only chuckle as you hide your face with your hand.
“Well, either way,” Wanda pauses as she places a hand just behind your shoulder, making you tense up yet still have the willpower to look up at her enchanting emerald eyes, “I’m sure that they're gonna have fun wherever you take them.”
You take a moment to blink before speaking. “Even when I take them to a landfill?”
Wanda giggles in response, making your heart flutter at the sound. “Maybe.”
“It's always fun whenever you're around, no matter what place you end up on.”
Even though the three of you share a moment of silence after she said that, it's for three different reasons. For Wanda, it's to send you the sweetest smile someone has ever given you, her cheeks a little red while her eyes twinkle with appreciation for the person she's talking to. For you, it's to use every brainpower to not fall unconscious because from her heartfelt words. And for Pietro, it’s to watch at how your interaction unravels, biting the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing and interrupting the scene happening before him.
You start to replay his words in your head. Is he telling the truth? Does she really like me back? She was flirting, right? No employee casually says that to a customer, and no friend says those words with that look in their eyes. Should I actually try and go for it? God, it’s gonna be so embarrassing if I do… but I can just invite her as friends first. Yeah, that’s a good idea. Okay, you can do this—
”Wan—”
”Wanda! Pietro! Stop bothering your customers and get back to work!” Iryna scolds her kids, her Sokovian accent slipping out. Pietro then briskly stands up, his sister stepping aside as he fixes the chair he once occupied.
”Anyways, we should get going, we don’t want your breakfast to get cold.” Wanda gives you a tight-lipped, bashful smile. “Were you gonna say something, Y/N?” Pietro asks with an insinuating tone, making Wanda look at you with furrowed brows. The small amount of confidence you once had completely vanishes as they stare at you, making you shake your head out of anxiety.
”N-no, no, it’s nothing important,” you reply as you wave your hand in dismissal, ignoring the disappointed glare the silver-haired man gives you. “You should get back to work, wouldn’t want to keep your mom waiting,” you grin at the small attempt of lightening the mood.
After the twins wave goodbye to you (not without Pietro shaking his head at you), you slump against your chair. Reaching for the perfectly decorated chocolate croissant (courtesy of a certain brunette), you take a bite big enough for the chocolate filling, sweet enough that it’s not overwhelming to your taste buds but actually makes you want to get more of it. Along with the decent amount of chocolate drizzle and the croissant that’s been heated up to the perfect temperature, making it crispy on the outside yet fluffy on the inside, the three creates a beautiful harmony as you continue chewing, savoring every flavor it brings. As much as it brings you comfort, it also brings you a sense of realization. She really did take her sweet, sweet time.
”God, I’m a coward.”
”Jesus, the reason why I never went back in this café was because I already have you as my personal delivery woman,” Yelena dramatically groans as she lets you pull her by her wrist, leading her to your now-favorite establishment.
”Oh, come on, it’s Saturday, it’s not like you’re busy anyway,” you reply at the petulant blonde. Your steps are more determined as ever as you get closer and closer to the café. “Besides, you owe me a favor for giving me a job I didn’t ask for.”
”And you decided to use your one and only favor to drag me along as a… what was it again? Right, as a moral support when you ask out an employee,” she rolls her eyes as she recalls your words yesterday during your lunch break.
”Hey, don’t belittle her as just an employee, Lena. She’s a really great friend and a really good baker,” you chastise the other woman.
Your tone only makes her scoff. “I’m not belittling her, I’m belittling you!” She continues after hearing you scoff in disbelief. “You’re telling me that you, a woman with a stable job in her mid-20s is scared of asking out a nice lady? That’s pathetic.”
”I know, I know, I’m just— I’m nervous, okay?” You confess through a heavy sigh, “What if she rejects me? That would make things weird between us. That would also mean that all those stuff I bought in their café just to talk to her isn’t worth it.”
Yelena only tuts at your pessimistic perspective before placing a hand on your shoulder. “Look, rejection’s a part of our lives. Rather than running away from it, be the bigger person and accept that not everything goes your way, and that’s okay.”
Your brows shoot up in surprise at the onslaught of motivational words coming out of your usually-brusque friend’s mouth, but you don’t interrupt her, since that’s the reason why you brought her here.
Yelena reaches her free hand to firmly hold your hand. ”The situation’s only gonna get weird if one of you makes it weird. The only thing you can do is be calm and politely respect her decision.”
You try to nod at her wise words, only for your head to be held still by her hands, which are now cupping your cheeks, slightly squishing them.
”Let me ask you this: Did you enjoy the times you got to talk to her when you go to visit her?”
You nod.
”Then all the money you spent for her were worth it, you know why? Because not only did you make a friend, you also supported her work, and if I were in her shoes, I would be super grateful to have met you.” She explains, making you perk up a small smile through puckered lips at her full support for you.
”You’re an amazing person, Y/N. If she says no, then that’s her loss. You can do it.” Yelena softly adds, her lips forming a warm smile.
As you thank her for the pep talk she gave you, you don’t notice the woman that was the subject of your conversation watching the two of you. The two of you also don’t notice the brief flash of defeat on her usually-bright green eyes once you spot her. “So she did have a date,” she thinks to herself as she watches you lightly jog towards her with a smile.
”Wanda, hey!” You greet her with a small wave once you were standing a few feet away from her. You frown slightly in confusion when you notice the lack of a certain garment. “You’re not wearing your apron, are you not on-duty today?”
The brunette bashfully looks down at herself, instinctively dusting off the beige trench coat with her hands. “Oh, yeah. Victor invited me to join him and our friends to go to Canada for a vacation.”
As if on cue, the universe answers your unasked curiosity when a tall, lean-figured man walks up and intertwines his hand with Wanda. Oh.
”Wanda, darling, are you all set?” The man asks with a prominent British accent, making him sound all prim and proper.
The other woman turns her head to look at him, a soft and warm smile graces her features as she stares at him. “Yep, I’m all set. I was just saying goodbye to my family.”
Once she realizes that you’re still awkwardly standing in front of them, she immediately turns to look at you.
”Oh, right! Y/N, this is Victor, my boyfriend. Victor, this is Y/N, my friend and our very loyal customer.”
The man, Victor, reaches for your hand to greet you politely after Wanda’s introduction. You could only give them a tight-lipped smile in return, not wanting to show the immense amount of disappointment you’re feeling.
”I shouldn’t keep you here for too long, I know you all have a flight to catch,” you manage to reply seconds after Victor lets go of your hand.
”Wow, I just introduced you two to each other and now you’re eager for us to leave. Do you secretly hate us?” Wanda playfully asks, her hand flat against her chest as if she was physically hurt by your words. You retort with a scoff.
”Oh definitely. I’m so happy that you’re gonna be gone for a while! Oh, I can’t wait to hang out with your annoying brother everyday!” You reply with a fake enthusiastic tone in your voice, as to which Wanda giggles at your obvious sarcasm. You can’t help but laugh along with her melodic voice. Your laughter dies down once one of Wanda’s friends call her from one of the cars parked outside the establishment.
”But seriously, you two have fun out there, and stay safe!”
From your earnest reminder, the couple can’t help but smile gratefully, but you’re too focused at the alluring woman standing before you.
You, Pietro, and Iryna wave goodbye to the brunette as the car where she’s in drives away. Once the vehicle disappeared from your line of sight, you let out a sigh as your shoulders slump in defeat. Pietro and Yelena, despite being strangers to each other, share a pitying look at one another before placing a hand on both sides of your shoulders.
If you were to wallow over rejection and/or heartbreak, where will you go and what will you do? Will it be:
A. A bar, where you could drink all your sorrows until you pass out;
B. In your own room, where you could cry in peace as you watch a cheesy rom-com, wishing it was you experiencing the happy ending the main characters get to have; or
C. In a café, sluggishly eating an almost-stale chocolate croissant at the table in the utmost corner of the area, not minding the concerned stares the employees and other customers give you.
Despite being in the same café where the notable realization happened, which was that the woman who caught your heart and attention without any effort was already taken, you still come back every day at the same time as before. You only come back because as much as hate to admit it to Iryna, their food has gotten you hooked, which actually made you the most loyal customer since you’ve visited for approximately five months now— Pietro’s words, not yours. You definitely don’t come back with the small hope of seeing a certain brunette again to give you perfectly-crafted pastries that always made your days special. Of course not, that would be pathetic.
But judging by your state, aren’t you already pathetic-looking?
Ever since Wanda’s absence, Pietro has taken the role of his sister, making every one of your breakfast orders with precision and skill he acquired after years of helping out their mother in her business. You appreciate the effort he always puts in every one of them and the fact that he always takes a few minutes off his time to chat and take your mind off of a certain someone. You love Pietro, he’s a great friend, but it would probably kill him if you admitted that you prefer every piece of Wanda’s scrumptious concoctions more than his.
Unbeknownst to your sorry ass, the older twin can see through your tight-lipped smiles, trying your best to always look polite whenever he arrives to your table. He doesn’t dwell on it that much, since he knows how it sucks to be rejected by almost every woman he flirts with. Rather than adding salt onto your wounded heart, he decides that he’d let you take your time in moving on rather than copying Yelena’s approach, which is to give you the good ol’ tough love pep talk. It’s good to have a balance, he thinks. You shouldn’t be pressured too hard or else everything might actually get even worse.
But around a month ago, he started to have some doubts if that was a good idea to handle things.
He shakes his head as he looks away from your unassuming figure, focusing on scooping ice in the freezer box in front of him. As he prepares another customer’s coffee, he bites the inside of his right cheek on impulse, contemplating whether or not he should go forward with a different strategy. Doubts and anxiety hinder his decision-making, but as he enters the kitchen, hidden from every customer’s curious gaze, his mind is finally set.
”I know you said that you love baking, but I think that this is overkill, sestra. You might as well sleep on the table at this point.” Wanda only huffs in response, not taking her focus away from the dough she’s thoroughly kneading.
Per the woman’s request, she’s been cooped up in the kitchen preparing batches of pastries after coming back from Canada just two months ago. She also asked her family not to tell anyone else about her return, still not ready to show herself to the public, wanting some time for herself while still being able to work. Although as much as her family respects her decision, they're pretty certain that it kills her to be stuck in the kitchen without socializing with her friends, too stuck in her own thoughts to even break the cycle of wanting isolation and craving someone's company.
“You need to take a break—” “Piet, I'm fine,” Wanda interjects, although neither one of the twins believe the words that came out of her mouth.
”God, you are stubborn,” Pietro scoffs. “You’re gonna burn yourself out one day, you know that? And when that time comes, who’s gonna help Mama when I start on my new job?”
Wanda mentally curses herself as she remembers. Right, Pietro got accepted to work in Oscorp and would be starting his very first shift next week. But what else is she supposed to do to move on from Victor?
”Come on, sestra, your friends are worried about you. Some of them even asked me if you’re okay since you barely respond to their messages.” Pietro walked closer to his sister, his voice laced with concern. “If you really want to fully move on from that cheating douchebag, you need to talk to people that care about you.”
He then placed a hand on her shoulder, making Wanda look up at him. Her eyes shined of uncertainty, and his heart broke at the sight. It reminded him of the times when she would look up at him for answers when they were little, her green eyes shining as the brimming tears reflect the light emitted by the kitchen lights.
Pietro uttered a soft “come here” before engulfing her in a warm hug, pressing his lips on her temple to give a semblance of comfort. Wanda gratefully accepts the gesture, and they both stay in that position for a moment, both relishing the feeling of love, care, and support.
Once Wanda pulls away with a sigh, Pietro gently pats her shoulders with a small smile. “Come on, you’re taking the day off,” the man instructs, causing Wanda’s eyes to widen, her lips parting as she prepares to refuse, only for Pietro to interrupt with a tut.
”That wasn’t a suggestion, that was an order. Ma and Pa wanted you to take a break from working.”
”Well, what the hell am I supposed to do for the rest of the day?”
After taking the last sip of your coffee, you place the empty cup and the used utensils back onto the tray to tidy up the table before you leave. You then get up from your seat and grab your bag before you go about your day like clockwork.
But before you could even reach for the door handle, a hand wraps around your wrist. Their grip wasn’t tight or anything. It was gentle, yet prominent enough for you to look back in confusion.
And what you saw was a woman who you never thought you would actually see again, let alone feel her touch like this.
Neither of you speak nor make any movement. Your lips slightly parted in surprise and bewilderment, while her eyes were so wide that you were concerned it would pop out of place. So many thoughts are running through your mind right now.
Why is she here? I thought she went to Canada with her boyfriend? Did she just get back today? Why is she holding my arm? Are her hands always this soft?
Instead of voicing out your questions, you only utter a single word.
”Wanda?”
”I— Y/N, hey,” the woman sputters. Just like you, she’s surprised why she just chased after you. Pietro said that it’ll be good to catch up with her friends, but she didn’t have to feel a sliver of panic when she saw that you were just about to leave.
”H-hey, how are you? It’s been a while since we last talked.” You try your best to keep your composure. You forgot how you get so easily nervous around this gorgeous woman.
Wanda only lets out a nervous giggle. “Yeah, yeah, it has.”
An awkward silence fills the conversation, which led to the two of you noticing that she’s still holding your wrist. But instead of letting go, Wanda’s hold tightens a bit, signaling a newfound source of determination.
”I actually wanted to… catch up with you. Piet said that you were free today?”
”O-oh, yeah, I am. But I was planning to get some groceries, but I guess that could wait.” You let out a small smile, which only made Wanda gulp nervously.
”N-no, no, I shouldn’t be on your way of your errands—”
”Hey, hey, it’s fine,” you reassure her, waving your hand that wasn’t captured by Wanda’s comforting hold. “Besides, I really wanna know how you’ve been. Maybe we can talk while I shop for groceries?”
Just at the mere image of talking to you while strolling through multiple aisles with carefree smiles on your faces, Wanda blurts out: ”What, like a grocery date?”
Both yours and Wanda’s cheeks redden once her words were fully processed.
”If… if you want it to be,” you mumble sheepishly as you finally take a risk of kinda asking her out.
Wanda lets out a relieved sigh as a gleeful smile envelops her face. “Yeah… yeah, I’d like that,” she nods eagerly, the red in her cheeks only getting darker, making yours do the same. A giddy smile creeps up on your face no matter how hard you try to keep your composure.
Just as you’re opening the door for her, she slides her hand down to hold yours, pretending that she doesn’t notice your hand tensing up for a second before squeezing hers.
Once the door chime rings, alerting yours and Wanda’s departure, Iryna walks up beside her son, who was watching the two of you with a smug grin.
”Was that Wanda? Did she finally take our word to take a break?” Iryna asks as she squints at the glass door, trying to confirm if that was her daughter leaving the café.
”Yep, and guess what, Ma? Y/N finally got to ask the girl out!” Pietro looks at his mother with victory gleaming in his eyes. “They call that ‘killing two birds with one stone’, yeah?” He raises his eyebrows twice proudly, which makes his mother scoff in endearment.
”As much as I feel relieved to finally settle those problems, I’m gonna miss bribing that woman to buy something from us against her will.”
Pietro chuckles at Iryna’s comment as she feigned sorrow. His wide smile softens as he looks back at the two retreating figures, amicably talking to one another with bright smiles on their faces.
”Don’t worry, Ma. I’m sure she still has a reason to come back here.”
thank u so much for reading!!😻 let me know what you thought in the comments😸 (did someone catch the small fantastic 4 jokes i made,,,🥲)
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