Jen

24 - she/her - wannabe screenwriter

[wandaschaosmagic]

MASTERLIST

Full access to all character archives!

Leave requests - going to do requests ASAP | series get new chapters every OTHER FRIDAY (unless I’m feeling generous) | comment if you want to be tagged | like & reblog! <3

Natasha Romanoff Archives

Wanda Maximoff Archives

Yelena Belova Archives (COMING SOON)

Kate Bishop Archives (COMING SOON)

Bucky Barnes Archives (COMING SOON)

Valentine’s Day Archives (‘26)

[wandaschaosmagic]

Finally getting back into writing!

I’ve started writing it (and no it’s not the much anticipated terms and conditions - honestly I’m kinda stuck on how to do the third chapter so I’m avoiding it 😭)

Hope you guys like baseball, because the next fic is exactly that!

And yes it’ll be they/them

[wandaschaosmagic]

Heyy how are you doing? Haven't seen you here in a while, decided to check in. Hope you're well!

- 🗡

I’m good! Just been busy. How have you been?

I’m starting to write chapter 3 of terms and conditions now, should be out maybe tomorrow or this weekend. (Hopefully) 😭

[wandaschaosmagic]

Missed Reservation

Pairing : congressman!buckybarnes x fem!historyteacher!reader

Warnings : only angst, talk about government (bleh), lives at risk (not Bucky’s or readers), alcohol anddd I think that’s it?

Word Count : 6.2k

Summary : He promised he’d leave the Capitol at 7, but what happens when a mandatory meeting is called?

Y/N : pretend it’s Valentine’s Day…this is my first Bucky fic and I love it?? Congressman Barnes 🥵 okay that’s all, enjoy!

Inspiration : https://open.spotify.com/track/3QaPy1KgI7nu9FJEQUgn6h

January and February have always been busy.

The first two months of a new year. A fresh start for most people. New resolutions. New calendars.

And for Congress?

It’s when everything that was promised in speeches has to start becoming real.

Especially for someone who sits on the Armed Services Committee, the Intelligence Committee, and Veterans’ Affairs.

Which is none other than your boyfriend, Bucky Barnes.

Between mental health program expansions and military funding allocations, he’s been up to his head in paperwork and meetings. Stacks of folders on the dining room table. Red tabs and sticky notes poking out like warning flags. His laptop glowing at two in the morning while you pretend to be asleep so he won’t feel guilty.

He always knew this wouldn’t be easy.

And that’s okay.

Because he’s fighting for things he believes in.

Increased funding for active-duty mental health services. You remember the night before he had to pitch it - tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, pacing your living room while rehearsing lines under his breath. He was nervous about talking openly about his own struggles. About admitting that sometimes the bravest thing he’d done wasn’t on a battlefield - it was walking into a therapist’s office.

You remember sitting cross-legged on the couch, listening to him practice. Watching his hands shake just slightly.

He got through enough of those stoic faces in that committee room to secure a second vote. That alone felt like a small miracle.

Then there was cybersecurity funding for the Pentagon.

He’s never been that great with anything electronic. You still have to reset the Wi-Fi router. But he understands what’s at stake. He understands that wars don’t only happen in deserts and oceans anymore. They happen behind screens. And if the Pentagon needs better protection, then he’s going to fight for it.

Being a veteran himself, he’s always felt like he carries something extra. A weight. A responsibility.

Which is why he continues pushing for expanded care access for veterans transitioning home. Housing support. Job placement programs. Counseling that doesn’t have a six-month waitlist.

He says it’s policy.

You know it’s personal.

Bucky has always been hardworking - balancing missions, balancing expectations, balancing ghosts.

But he’s never really had to balance all of it with a girlfriend.

Luckily for him, you’re understanding.

So while he’s in hearings, reviewing classified briefs, and negotiating defense budgets, you’re at your own job.

As a high school history teacher, you know a thing or two about Congress. About how slow it moves. About how necessary it is. About how frustrating it can be.

You teach your students about institutions. About the structure of government. About checks and balances and civic duty.

You believe in institutions.

You believe in service.

And you believe in him.

But that doesn’t make the yearning any easier.

Because believing in something doesn’t stop you from missing it.

—

The morning sun filters through the kitchen blinds, cutting thin golden lines across the countertops. It hits Bucky’s icy blue eyes and turns them almost steel gray. He squints slightly, clearly running on only a couple hours of sleep.

He’s already dressed in his suit. Crisp white shirt. Jacket laid over the back of a chair. His hair is gelled back neatly, though a stubborn strand threatens to fall loose near his temple. A travel mug full of black coffee waits on the counter, steam curling faintly into the air.

The maroon tie hangs untied around his collar, half tucked beneath it like he started and got distracted.

You roll your eyes fondly before stepping closer, taking the fabric between your fingers. You loop it through with practiced ease, smoothing the silk down his chest.

“Good morning,” you murmur, careful not to be too loud. The apartment still feels like it’s waking up.

A small, tired smile tugs at his lips. The kind that doesn’t reach his eyes fully, but it’s there. And that’s enough to make your heart speed up just a little.

Bucky’s hands slide to your hips, warm and steady. He pulls you closer, bending slightly so he’s level with you.

“Mornin’ to you too, doll.”

You lean up and press a kiss to his lips. He tastes like toothpaste and coffee and something warm and familiar that’s entirely him. It lingers for a second longer than it should for two people on a schedule.

“We’re still on for tonight, right?” you ask softly, finishing the knot and straightening it with care.

He nods immediately. There’s no hesitation.

Both of you have been waiting for this weekend away for weeks. A small hotel just outside the city. Two nights. No briefings. No grading. No early alarms.

“I’ll try to leave at seven,” he says, eyes dragging over you slowly.

You’re wearing a red blouse, buttoned high enough to be modest but fitted just enough to catch his attention. Black slacks. Heels that click softly against the tile.

The bags are already packed - placed carefully in your respective cars the night before. It had felt symbolic somehow. Planning ahead. Choosing each other in advance. So that after work, you could both drive straight to the hotel without excuses.

You nod and grab your own coffee. He reaches for your bag automatically, like he always does, and follows you out of your shared apartment just outside of D.C.

The hallway smells faintly like someone’s burnt toast. The elevator hums quietly.

You part ways in the parking lot with another quick kiss.

You drive twenty-five minutes to your school, ready to lecture about revolutions and amendments and the fragility of democracy.

He drives toward the Capitol, toward marble columns and long corridors and decisions that ripple farther than anyone ever sees.

Both of you planning to discuss history.

Or make it.

—

The school day is full of young couples gifting each other flowers, stuffed animals, and chocolate. Pink tissue paper peeks out of backpacks. Heart-shaped balloons hover awkwardly near classroom ceilings.

You’ve already had to tell three separate students to stop running in the hallway on their way to meet their significant other. One nearly crashed into you while clutching a bouquet that was far too big for a sophomore boy to be carrying.

“Walk,” you’d said, trying not to smile. “If you trip and ruin the moment, that’s on you.”

Lockers slam. Someone sprays entirely too much body mist in the hallway. The intercom crackles every fifteen minutes with a reminder about dismissal procedures.

And of course, the excuses.

“My dog ate it” has evolved into “my Wi-Fi glitched” and “Google Docs deleted it.” One student swears their little brother submitted the wrong file. Another insists they thought the assignment was due next week.

Besides all that, it’s been a good day.

The energy is light. Hopeful.

Bucky is still heavy on your mind when lunch rolls around. You sit at your desk, picking at a salad you barely taste, watching students trade chocolates like currency.

And you’re on his mind too.

Even as he stands in the House chamber, defending his position ahead of the floor votes scheduled for today.

Bucky’s days are always busy - morning briefings, staff meetings, press conferences. The rhythm of government doesn’t really slow down. It hums. Constantly.

So balancing you and the chaos inside his head?

Second nature.

He made a surprise reservation to a couples suite weeks ago, knowing he’d want this weekend with you. It overlooks the Potomac River - the water stretching wide and steady beneath winter light - tall buildings framing the skyline, streets below buzzing even after dark.

“A getaway without really getting away,” he’d said when he pitched the idea, leaning against your kitchen counter like he was presenting legislation.

And then, almost immediately, “I can cancel it if you don’t like it.”

He’d already been pulling up the hotel website on his phone, thumb hovering nervously over the cancellation policy.

You’d laughed and kissed him before he could spiral.

That was Monday.

And somehow this week has felt like the longest one imaginable. Each day stretching just a little too thin. Each night ending a little too late.

But it would be worth it.

It always is.

—

I’m here <3

The message pings Bucky’s phone just as he’s gathering his things. His coat is thrown over one shoulder, briefcase in hand, a stack of folders tucked under his arm.

The hallway outside his office is beginning to empty. Staffers wishing each other goodnight. The building settling into that strange in-between hour - not quite late, but late enough.

He smiles at your message. A real one. The kind that softens the sharp edges of the day.

He steps into the elevator and presses the button for the ground floor, already typing a reply.

Can’t wait to see you—

The doors begin to slide shut.

Then the phone rings.

Not the personal one he’s texting you from.

The one in his inside pocket.

The secure line.

The sound slices through the quiet of the elevator.

He answers immediately. “Barnes.”

There’s a pause.

His expression shifts almost instantly - confusion flickering first, then something darker. Focused. Controlled.

“Confirmed authentic?”

Another pause.

“How widespread?”

His jaw tightens, muscle feathering beneath the skin.

“Any indication adversaries have already accessed it?”

The response on the other end is not one he likes. It’s shown in the way his shoulders square. In the way the warmth from moments ago drains from his face.

“We’re holding a classified briefing in five.” They say.

The elevator dings. The doors slide open to the lobby.

He doesn’t step out.

Instead, he presses the button for the upper floor. The doors close again with a quiet finality.

With his free hand, he types quickly.

Emergency briefing. Going to SCIF. I’ll be late.

He hesitates for half a second before hitting send.

The elevator climbs.

—

You swipe the hotel room key, the light flashing green before you push the door open, luggage balanced in your other hand.

The entryway gives you a full view of the suite. Red roses sit on the coffee table in a tall glass vase, petals perfectly arranged like someone fluffed them just minutes ago. The king-sized bed is made with crisp white sheets, rose petals scattered carefully into the shape of a heart across the duvet. Two chocolates rest neatly on the pillows, centered like they were measured with a ruler.

It’s almost funny how intentional it all looks.

You step inside fully and let the door close behind you, the soft click echoing slightly in the quiet room. The carpet is plush under your heels. Warm lighting fills the space, giving everything a golden tint that makes it feel cozy instead of staged.

You set your bags down on the leather couch next to the coffee table and finally notice a small folded card tucked near the vase.

“Happy Valentine’s Day!

- Hotel Staff”

A soft smile pulls at your lips. It’s thoughtful. A little cliché. But thoughtful. You can already picture Bucky pretending to scoff at the rose petals while secretly being relieved that someone handled the romance details for him.

You wander further into the room, taking it in slowly. The windows stretch across the far wall, overlooking the Potomac River. The water reflects the late evening lights from the surrounding buildings, cars moving steadily along the streets below like lines of red and white.

“A getaway without really getting away,” he’d said.

Your chest tightens just slightly at the memory.

You turn toward the mini bar. A silver bucket of ice sits waiting on the counter, condensation beading along the metal. A bottle of white wine rests inside, already chilled. Two wine glasses stand beside it, polished and perfectly spaced.

Two glasses. Two chocolates. Two robes tucked in either the closet or in the bathroom, probably.

Your phone vibrates in your hand.

You don’t know why your stomach drops before you even look, but it does.

“Emergency briefing. Going to SCIF. I’ll be late.”

For a second, you just stare at it.

Of course.

Of course tonight.

You press your lips together and type anyway.

I understand. I love you.

It sends immediately.

Delivered.

Not read.

You know why. You’ve heard him explain it before. No phones allowed inside. Everything stays outside in a locker. Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility. Secure walls. No signals in or out.

Still, it doesn’t make the quiet feel any better.

There must’ve been a leak. Or a breach. Something serious enough to pull him back upstairs after he was already heading out. And you know those situations don’t get resolved quickly. They unravel. They get analyzed. They get debated.

You set your phone down on the counter and exhale slowly, glancing around the room again. The rose petals suddenly feel excessive. The wine feels premature.

You move toward the window instead, looking down at the city for a moment, letting the reality settle in.

Then you pick up the room service menu. Might as well eat while you wait.

—

Bucky hands his phone to the security officer outside the secure room without hesitation. The officer places it into a small metal locker and shuts the door.

The screen lights up briefly with your message.

Then it goes dark.

He presents his ID. It’s scanned and handed back. The heavy door buzzes and unlocks.

Inside, the room is stark and brightly lit. White walls. No windows. A long table in the center already surrounded by personnel flipping through binders and classified folders. Laptops connected to secured systems. A projector humming quietly at the front of the room.

There’s no wasted time.

An intelligence analyst stands and begins projecting the recovered messages onto the screen. Each slide change makes a sharp clicking sound, mechanical and loud in the enclosed space.

Encrypted messages pulled from a compromised channel.

Then the image changes again.

A classified U.S. military briefing document fills the screen.

Troop positions. Rotation schedules. Supply routes. Operational timelines.

Everything.

Everything someone would need to plan an attack.

Bucky feels his stomach drop as the implications settle in. If this document was exposed, even briefly, there’s a real chance foreign adversaries have already accessed it. Saved it. Shared it. Hoped they’d be able to act on it.

Defense officials begin outlining exposure windows and possible responses. Move the units immediately. Adjust timelines quietly. Advance extraction. Delay extraction to avoid tipping anyone off. Draft contingency statements in case the leak becomes public.

Every option carries risk. Move too fast and you confirm the breach. Move too slow and you gamble with lives.

His jaw tightens as he listens. His chest feels heavy, not from panic but from responsibility.

These are real people on those schedules. Real soldiers following those routes.

Extraction timelines may need to shift to keep them safe. Logistics will have to be reworked. Communications re-secured.

He signed up for this. He wanted to be in the room where decisions like this get made.

Now he has to do his job.

Even if you’re standing in a hotel suite overlooking the water, wine unopened, waiting for him to walk through a door he can’t get to yet.

—

You specifically said only one meal, since it’s just you. And Bucky can order if he’s hungry - if… no. When he gets here.

But maybe the phone line cut out. Or maybe the hotel just assumes Valentine’s means two, always two, no exceptions. Because you’re now staring at a rolling tray with two silver domes, two sets of silverware, two neatly folded napkins.

They’re presented beautifully. Almost ceremoniously.

The staff member who brought it up was warm and eager, wishing you a happy Valentine’s with a smile that made correcting them feel impossible. You almost said something. Almost explained.

But explaining would feel like admitting he might not show up at all.

So you let it go.

The second plate remains covered, the silver dome catching the warm lamplight. It sits there quietly, like it’s waiting too. Like it’s part of the room’s expectations.

It’s almost been an hour.

Bucky still isn’t here.

You exhale softly and pull your own plate closer, lifting the lid. Steam rises immediately, carrying the scent of butter and garlic and something rich.

You start with the Caesar salad. The croutons are crunchy but fresh, not the kind that shatter like rocks. The shaved parmesan melts slightly against the dressing. It’s balanced. Light. Clearly made with care.

You take a sip of the white wine you poured earlier while waiting on the food. It’s crisp, cold from the ice bucket. It pairs perfectly with the salad.

The second wine glass remains untouched beside the bucket. The ice shifts softly as it melts, a quiet clink every now and then filling the space in between your breaths.

You don’t rush. There’s no reason to. You take your time, chewing slowly, letting yourself enjoy it instead of spiraling.

When you lift the dome off the entrée, the filet mignon is cooked exactly how you ordered it. The outside seared perfectly, the inside warm and pink. It rests on a bed of truffle mashed potatoes, roasted asparagus lined neatly on the side.

You cut into it. The knife slides through effortlessly.

“It’s really good,” you murmur to the empty room, just to break the silence.

The fork clinks softly against porcelain. The potatoes are fluffy but still creamy, rich without being overwhelming. You savor each bite.

Across from you, the second plate stays covered. Untouched. Waiting.

When you finally finish, you push your plate back gently. Dessert sits between the two settings - one slice meant to be shared. You don’t uncover it.

You’ll wait.

—

“There’s going to be a floor vote tonight for emergency funding and authorization adjustments,” leadership announces.

The room hums with low conversation. Papers shuffle. Pens tap against the table.

Bucky barely hears it at first.

His mind drifts to you. Alone in the suite with two sets of slippers, the river flowing outside the window. On the night before Valentine’s, no less. The image of the rose petals flashes briefly in his mind, followed by the thought of you sitting there waiting.

They need to draft formal recommendations for the House of Representatives. The emergency authorization they can approve in SCIF allows immediate rerouting. But additional funding - reinforcements, logistical support, rapid extraction resources - that requires the House to sign off.

The next hour and a half is tense.

“If we fund this, what happens if this problem happens again?” one lawmaker asks, tone skeptical. “Are we setting a precedent for unlimited emergency expenditures?”

Bucky’s jaw tightens. The question feels clinical. Detached.

“Then we fund it then too,” he replies evenly, though there’s an edge beneath it. His eyes lock onto the man across the table. “You don’t gamble with lives because you’re afraid of the invoice.”

A few people shift in their seats.

Another voice cuts in. “Sending reinforcements could alert adversaries that we’re aware of the leak. That escalation alone could increase risk.”

Bucky exhales sharply through his nose, running a hand through his hair. It falls back into his eyes almost immediately.

“So we’re just going to leave them there?” he asks. His tone isn’t raised, but it’s firm. Controlled. “I know things have changed. I know strategy evolves. But when I served, we didn’t hesitate to back up our people.”

Silence lingers for a moment.

Then someone brings up optics. Public perception. Concerns about appearing reactive. Concerns about seeming “soft.”

Bucky almost laughs at that.

“So what if they find out?” he says, leaning forward slightly. “It’s lives we’re talking about. Like anyone else wouldn’t do this for their own.”

A few heads nod. Others avoid eye contact.

Gradually, the resistance softens. The arguments become more about logistics than principle. Numbers get adjusted. Language gets tightened.

Eventually, they agree to push forward with the emergency authorization adjustments. Troops can be rerouted immediately. Contingency support can begin mobilizing.

On the digital map projected at the front of the room, small red indicators representing units begin shifting away from the compromised area.

It’s subtle. Just little movements across a grid.

But it means something.

One small victory.

They’re safer than they were an hour ago.

Bucky leans back slightly and exhales, tension easing just a fraction.

For now.

Now comes the harder part - convincing the full House to approve the additional funding for reinforcements. Getting enough votes. Making the case again, this time to a chamber that wasn’t in this room, didn’t see the slides, didn’t hear the urgency in the analysts’ voices.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, beneath the strategy and the numbers and the responsibility, there’s still the image of you.

Waiting at a table set for two.

—

The water is nice.

The huge porcelain tub, filled almost to the brim, feels like a hug. The warmth seeps into your muscles, loosening the tension you didn’t even realize you were holding. You’ve been sitting here for a while, music playing softly from the speaker you connected to your phone. It was already set up near the TV, like the hotel anticipated this exact kind of night.

Soft instrumentals float through the bathroom, layering over you like another blanket of calm. It helps. A little. Even if the ache of missing your boyfriend hums quietly underneath it.

You at least wish he’d reply.

But you know how SCIF works. He’s told you enough horror stories about that windowless room, about the lockers, about the hours that disappear inside it.

You sink a little deeper into the soapy water until it brushes your shoulders, forcing your body to relax further. Steam curls along the ceiling. The brass hooks behind the bathroom door hold two plush robes.

Two pairs of slippers sit neatly beneath them.

Two of everything.

Hopefully he’ll still get to enjoy the weekend. Even if it just means catching up on sleep. Even if it’s just collapsing into the bed beside you at three in the morning.

You shake your head slightly, physically pushing away the tightening in your chest before it can grow into something heavier.

When you finally stand, the water swirls down the drain in a slow spiral. You wrap one of the heated towels around yourself immediately. The towel warmer hums softly on the wall, doing its job to shield you from the February chill that waits beyond the windows.

After drying off, you change into your pajamas and grab one of the robes, tying it securely around your waist. The slippers fit perfectly, soft under your aching feet after a long day in heels.

You pad back into the suite and sit on the couch, reaching for the remote.

The TV flickers on.

A bright message appears across the screen:

“Happy Valentine’s Day Bucky & Y/N!”

Of course it does.

—

Bucky’s shoes tap sharply against the tile as he walks toward the House Chamber, briefcase in one hand while he adjusts his tie with the other.

They finally reached a decision. Now comes the harder part - convincing everyone else.

All he needs is a majority.

That’s it.

“There’s about a hundred expected for the floor vote. Half are leaning yes,” a party whip says quietly as they walk alongside him.

He nods. Fewer people means a quicker vote.

Hopefully.

But it also means every single vote carries more weight than usual.

He thinks about the soldiers overseas. Young. The same age he was when he first deployed.

He remembers what it felt like - that uncertainty. Wondering if the people back home were making the right calls. Wondering if anyone truly understood what was at stake.

That’s why he’s staying.

Not because of politics. Not because he’d rather be anywhere else than with you.

But because it’s responsibility. Because it’s guilt. Because he knows exactly what it feels like to wait on someone else’s decision.

The doors to the House chamber open. He steps inside and finds his seat, placing his briefcase at his feet as he waits for the room to fill.

—

You finally reach for the chocolate from your pillow.

It’s shaped like a heart. Rich and smooth and just sweet enough.

The guilt hits when you swallow.

You can’t blame him. Not for being late. Not for handling something you can’t even ask about. It would be like you having to stay after school for an emergency faculty meeting.

Well. Maybe not exactly like that.

His job is a little more important than teaching high schoolers history they’ll probably forget a week after graduation.

You huff out a small laugh at that thought, red pen hovering over a test in front of you before you correct yourself.

Not red. Never red.

Red was too harsh, at least that’s what you thought.

Today you chose blue.

You glance at the ink and almost roll your eyes at yourself. It matches his eyes too closely.

“Figures,” you murmur, writing a neat 92% in the top right corner.

Your cursive is tidy but slightly looser than usual, the grip on your pen not as firm as it normally is.

Another glass of wine sits on the coffee table. The ice in the bucket has nearly melted completely. The TV plays an old romantic comedy from the seventies - soft film grain, exaggerated declarations of love.

You wonder if Bucky would know it.

You left the flower petals on the bed. The heart shape is still perfectly intact.

It feels like the bare minimum - not disturbing it. Like preserving the intention somehow makes the waiting less pathetic.

You’ve done everything. You ate. You bathed. You changed. You opened the wine. You even graded papers to pass the time.

The pen slips slightly in your fingers before you set it down entirely.

Your hands move to your hair as you lean back into the couch.

The silence presses in now. It squeezes your chest in a way that feels unfair.

Longing for someone who is already yours is a different kind of pain. It doesn’t come from absence. It comes from proximity - from knowing they want to be here just as badly as you want them to be.

It lingers at the edges until something in you threatens to crumble.

You swallow that down too.

Pick the pen back up.

Students handing each other flowers flashes through your mind. Pink carnations. Cheap bouquets from the grocery store. Awkward teenage confessions in hallways.

You smile faintly.

What you wouldn’t give for Bucky to walk through that door with flowers in his hand instead of a briefcase full of classified files.

—

“Members, earlier today we received an intelligence report that active units in Southwestern Asia may be compromised. Emergency authorization has allowed rerouting to begin, but additional funding and support are needed immediately to ensure their safety. This floor vote is to authorize those resources.”

The Chair’s voice carries across the chamber, steady and practiced as he looks out over the Representatives preparing to vote.

147.

That’s how many showed up.

Which means they need 74 yes votes.

Well - 73. Bucky already cast his.

The questions start almost immediately.

“Do they have sufficient fuel, food, and medical supplies for relocation?”

“Does this authorization apply to all units in the region, or only specific brigades?”

“How will oversight ensure the funds are used strictly for operational purposes?”

“Will additional presidential authorization be required for deployment adjustments?”

It’s procedural. Necessary.

But it’s slow.

Bucky exhales quietly, his vote already locked into the electronic panel in front of him. His fingers tap once against the desk before he stills them. He listens. Answers when directed. Clarifies language. Repeats numbers.

He checks his watch.

11:47 p.m.

If he’s lucky, they’ll close debate within the hour.

If he’s lucky, he’ll be out of the building by 12:45.

If he’s lucky, he’ll be at the hotel before two.

If he’s lucky.

He presses his lips together and forces his attention back to the chamber.

—

You’re tired.

The papers are stacked neatly, graded and organized. Lesson plans for next week are already typed and saved. You’ve exhausted every productive distraction available to you.

There’s nothing left to do.

The romantic comedies ended a while ago. The TV now cycles through late-night paid programming and the occasional rerun of George Lopez. The laughter track feels almost mocking in the quiet room.

12:39 a.m.

You glance at the clock again like maybe it’ll change faster if you look at it.

Bucky’s food is definitely cold by now. There isn’t a silver dome in the world that could’ve kept it warm this long. The untouched wine glass beside the bucket looks abandoned. The ice has melted completely.

Maybe it’s the cold plate across from you.

Maybe it’s the robe still hanging untouched on the hook.

Maybe it’s the way the rose petals are still perfectly shaped on the bed, like the room is frozen in expectation.

Whatever it is - it’s suddenly too much.

Your chest tightens without warning. Your throat follows.

You blink hard once.

Then again.

You weren’t planning on crying. That’s the frustrating part. You understand why he’s gone. You know this matters. You know he’s doing the right thing.

That doesn’t make the chair across from you feel any less empty.

Your breathing stutters slightly before you can steady it. You press the heel of your palm against your eye, annoyed when it comes away damp.

“Get it together,” you mutter softly to yourself.

But the tears come anyway - not loud, not dramatic. Just quiet. Slipping down before you can fully stop them.

It’s not anger.

It’s not even really sadness.

It’s the waiting.

The wanting.

The effort of being understanding when all you really want is him walking through the door.

Your shoulders shake once, just barely, and you cover your mouth to muffle the small sound that escapes you. The room feels too quiet for this.

You cry because you miss him.

You cry because you can’t even text him to say that.

You cry because loving someone whose job can pull them away at any second requires a strength you don’t always feel like you have at midnight.

After a few minutes, it slows. Not gone - just dulled.

You wipe your face carefully, staring at the dessert plate across from you.

And for a moment, you almost uncover it.

Just to prove you don’t need to wait.

—

It’s 1:28 am when Bucky finally leaves the Capitol.

The additional funding and support passed. Ninety-two votes.

He’s smiling - actually smiling - as he walks down the marble steps. And for the first time in a while, it’s because he’s a Congressman.

Not because of you. Not because of something private or personal. But because he did his job, and he did it well.

There’s no guarantee the vote will save anyone, and there’s no medals waiting for him. Just a decision that might help - fuel in a tank, medical supplies on a transport, reinforcements arriving in time.

And tonight that feels like enough.

So for a few fleeting seconds, he lets that feeling of accomplishment settle in his chest.

Then he checks his phone.

No new messages.

Not from you.

And that’s the only reason he looked.

The last thing sitting there is from hours ago - before SCIF swallowed him whole.

His smile fades.

He unlocks his car with a sharp beep, climbs inside, and tosses his briefcase into the passenger seat without the usual care. The garage is nearly empty now, the echo of his door shutting louder than it should be.

He types out a message.

Deletes it.

Types another.

Deletes that too.

What is he supposed to say? Sorry I disappeared? Sorry national security came first? Sorry you were alone when I promised I’d be there?

None of it sounds right over a screen.

He exhales sharply through his nose and tries again.

On my way now. I love you.

He sends it before he can overthink it, pulling out of the garage without waiting for a response.

—

Part of you wants to leave.

What’s the point of waiting in a couples suite if it’s just you?

You stare at the city through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the Potomac stretched out below like spilled silver. The moonlight hits it just right, makes it sparkle in a way that feels almost intentional. Like it’s trying to romanticize something that doesn’t feel very romantic right now.

You rack your brain, trying to think of something you did to deserve this cosmic joke. You returned your shopping cart last week. You tipped well. You even let someone merge in front of you in traffic.

Mother Nature couldn’t possibly have beef with you.

A small, humorless laugh escaped you as you finish the last of the wine, setting the glass beside you.

The music still hums softly from your phone - some indie band you’ve loved since college. It feels younger than you do right now.

The clock reads 2:03 a.m. when there’s a knock at the door.

You startle.

Then realize that you haven’t actively checked your phone in a while. You already know who it is.

Your slippers drag across the carpet. You don’t bother with the peephole.

When you open the door, Bucky is standing there, hand half-raised to knock again. Shoulders slightly slumped. Tie loosened. Hair messy like he’s run his hands through it too many times. There are dark circles under his eyes that weren’t there yesterday morning.

“Hey, doll,” he says softly.

He’s holding white tulips against his chest - different from the roses already sitting on the coffee table. Those were for Valentine’s Day.

These are for an apology.

A bottle of white wine is tucked between his fingers. Replacement for the one you just finished.

“Bucky,” you breathe. Not angry. Not relieved. Just… tired.

His free hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing gently over your cheekbone like he needs to confirm you’re real. You stare at him for a second too long before stepping aside to let him in.

He toes off his dress shoes and lines them next to your heels. Sets the wine beside the empty bottle. Places the tulips next to the roses.

Two pairs of shoes. Two bouquets. Two glasses.

Everything in pairs.

Like the night was designed for two people and just stalled out halfway through. Only picking up again only when Bucky entered the room.

“Where were you?” you ask quietly, sitting back down on the couch that’s been yours all evening.

His eyes land on the tray first. Then the rose petals on the bed. Then back to you.

His jaw tightens.

“I—” He clears his throat. “I can’t get into it. You know that. But it had to be handled fast.”

You nod. Of course you know that.

Rules are rules. Classified is classified. It still stings.

“I understand,” you say, even though the words feel heavy in your mouth. “Hope everything’s okay.”

He misses the way your eyes flicker - not jealousy exactly, not anger. Just something closer to feeling…second.

“Me too,” he replies, shrugging off his coat.

He sits beside you and takes your hand. You don’t pull away.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. The kind of sorry he doesn’t offer lightly.

“I know.”

Your tone is clipped without meaning to be.

“I love you.”

You let that sit for a moment before answering. “I know.” You swallow. “I love you too. But sometimes I hate the government.”

That earns a tired, almost amused smile from him.

He doesn’t disagree.

—

You sleep, if it can be called that. It’s not peaceful, you’re not wrapped in each other like the movies suggest.

It’s more like collapsing, your body crashing into the mattress as the rose petals scatter onto the floor like discarded confetti.

Bucky showers while you stare at the ceiling. When he comes back into the room, you close your eyes and pretend to be asleep so he won’t apologize again.

He watches you for a moment before climbing into bed beside you.

—

In the morning, steam fills the bathroom as you shower.

Bucky sits on the edge of the bed, feeling like you’re farther away than the small hotel room should allow.

He made it here, he did what he could in the early morning hour while both of you were half asleep. But still…something seems unsettled.

His phone buzzes.

He checks it immediately.

Just wanted to let you know, because I know how your brain works, they’re safe.

No additional details. No locations. No elaboration.

He knows who it’s about.

Relief washes through him slowly. No injuries. No casualties. The vote mattered.

An exhale of relief escapes his mouth, it worked.

For a moment, he considers knocking on the bathroom door and showing you the message. Letting you see that last night had a reason. That the silence wasn’t meaningless.

Proof.

But he hesitates.

Because it won’t give you back the hours you spent alone, drinking the wine meant for both of you. Or the way you looked at the door every time footsteps passed in the hallway.

It won’t erase the distance that crept in sometime between midnight and 2 a.m.

So he locks his phone and slips it into his pocket.

Maybe later.

Maybe when it doesn’t feel like he’s defending himself.

He doesn’t fully understand the weight of it. He knows you’re upset. He knows he was late.

What he doesn’t know is that you stood by the window at one point and genuinely considered leaving. Or that your feelings had grown so heavy the only way you could cope was by crying over your students’ tests.

And that hurts more than a missed reservation ever could.

Because it isn’t about one night.

It’s about the slow accumulation of small absences.

And he’s starting to feel the space they’ve built.

Taglist : @idkbeautiful

[wandaschaosmagic]

Hiii. Just saw you were asking for valentine's day requests... may I preeeeeeetty please request Wanda x fem!reader? Civilian au. Both Wanda and Reader are suuuuper busy lately which forces then to spend valentine's day apart but then Wanda comes back home a few days later and makes it up for it? If you add angsty angst into the mix, it's a bonus. Lol. Also, make it super cold weather (is summer here and I'm melting) thaaank you 🫶

Just Another Wednesday

Paring : tattooartist!wanda x fem!baker!reader

Warnings : angst then fluff, mentions of blood (from tattoos) and I think that’s it?

Word Count : 6.9k

A/N : this was so much fun to write! It was my first time writing angst (I think) so I hope you enjoy. Also it’s my longest fic yet. I might have to revisit this pairing because it’s so cute 😭

February 14th doesn’t announce itself.

It slips in the way Wednesdays usually do - unassuming, unremarkable, a day that doesn’t ask for attention and doesn’t wait to be noticed. It arrives suddenly, without ceremony, already in motion before you have time to register it.

The only real difference is that this Wednesday happens to be a holiday.

Valentine’s Day.

Though, if you’re honest, it feels like it’s been Valentine’s Day for weeks now. Maybe longer. The moment the New Year passed, the city started bleeding red and pink and white - storefronts dressed up overnight, heart-shaped everything crowding shelves like it was urgent, like it couldn’t wait.

Menus changed early, too. Special editions. Limited-time items. Coordinated color palettes. Which meant you’ve been making the same pastries on repeat, day after day, long before the fourteenth ever arrived.

Conversation heart cookies were the worst of it.

You iced every single one by hand, even after your wrist started to ache, even after the words stopped feeling cute and started feeling like a chant you couldn’t escape. Be mine. Always. Forever. Call me. XO. The phrases lodged themselves somewhere in your brain, repeating long after you’d gone home, long after you’d washed the sugar from under your nails. You caught yourself hoping - quietly, selfishly - that Valentine’s Day would come and go fast, that once it was over, they’d finally stop.

Then there were the heart-shaped donuts. Raspberry-filled ones, bleeding red when you sliced them open. Others with words iced carefully across the tops. Some dipped in pink glaze, some drowned in sprinkles. Trays and trays of them, lined up like they meant something more than sugar and timing.

And the strawberry pies. Heart-shaped, too. Never single-serve. Always made to be shared. Meant for two. You pinched the dough closed by muscle memory now, mixed the filling without thinking, even as the repetition wore thin. The extra pie that never sold sat heavier than it should have.

It was overkill. Completely, undeniably too much.

Too many hearts. Too much insistence.

And it hadn’t always felt this way.

It just does now.

Because now, you have a girlfriend.

And now, you’ll be swamped with work.

Yet again.

Knowing you’ll both be busy today is something you accepted days ago. It stopped being a surprise the moment the calendar flipped closer to the fourteenth. Holidays are always the worst for bakeries and tattoo parlors - too much demand, too little time, everyone else desperate to mark the day as special.

You learned a long time ago not to fight it.

Still, the thought tries to cling as you pull on your work clothes, as if it wants to follow you out the door. You let out a quiet sigh and shake it off. There isn’t room for it this early in the morning.

Walking into the living room, though, is when it catches.

Wanda.

Your Wanda.

She’s sprawled across the dark leather couch, legs tucked awkwardly beneath her, sketchbook open on her chest like she fell asleep mid-thought. Charcoal smudges her fingertips, faint streaks along the side of her hand, proof she worked until her body finally gave out.

A soft smile pulls at your lips, your chest tightening in a way that feels familiar and dangerous.

She always says you need the sleep more than she needs the bed. The first time she said it, so casually, like it was obvious, your heart cracked just a little. You never told her. You didn’t know how without making it heavier than she already sounded.

You lean down and press a kiss to her temple, the same way you always do. Her nose scrunches instinctively at the touch, but she doesn’t wake. She just shifts slightly, fingers curling tighter around the sketchbook, like she’s afraid it might disappear if she lets go.

You straighten slowly.

The note goes where it always does - by the coffee pot, tucked beneath her usual mug. You don’t have to think about what to write. Your hand knows the words by now.

It’s one you’ve written a hundred times.

One you’ll probably write a hundred more.

Busy day. I’ll be home later than usual. I love you.

You pause for half a second after, pen hovering, then set it down anyway.

Something in your chest aches as you grab your keys and step out the front door, locking it quietly behind you - careful not to wake her, even as the distance starts to settle in.

—

The door unlocks with a familiar click, and the bell above it chimes softly - an announcement meant for customers, not for you. You’ve beaten the sun again, the sky still dim and undecided, and you can’t help thinking it’s almost a race. How much of the day you can get ahead of before it catches up to you.

You flip the lights on, one row at a time, and shrug out of your jacket. The bakery wakes slowly, like it always does. Your feet carry you toward the coffee pot first, steps unhurried. You know better than to rush. The day will take everything out of you regardless. Why waste the quiet before the bulk of the city is even conscious?

You tie your apron tight at your waist, cinching the knot so it won’t slip later. It’s supposed to be white - plain, standard, forgettable - but lately it never stays that way. Glaze, icing, food-safe dye bleed into the fabric until the color dulls, turning pinkish, then red. Evidence of weeks spent preparing for a day that insists on being felt.

The display case is empty.

Anything left from yesterday was taken home - boxed up for families, for lovers, for people who would sit down together and split something sweet at the end of the night. You pause there longer than necessary, hands resting on the glass.

You could take something for Wanda. You think that every morning. Something small, maybe. Leave it by the coffee pot at home, like a quiet offering.

But the thought never lasts.

You always shake it off, already imagining it forgotten on the counter, untouched. Or worse - uneaten not because she didn’t want it, but because she didn’t have time. The idea of it sitting there, waiting to be cherished, makes your chest ache in a way you’ve learned not to dwell on.

Wanda’s schedule has never lined up with yours. It’s always felt like the sun and the moon - existing in the same sky, passing close enough to notice, but never lingering. You leave home early. She gets back late. Opposite ends of the same clock, both doing what you love, both paying the price for it.

It isn’t because of the holiday. Not really. Valentine’s Day just adds pressure to jobs that already demand too much. Bakers are asked to create romance by the dozen. Tattoo artists are paid to stencil love into skin.

This - whatever this feeling is between you - exists outside of that.

It’s quiet. Not tense, exactly. Just hollow, like something meant to be full has been left unattended.

And it’s been like this for a while now.

You don’t press it.

Neither does she.

But you both know - without ever saying it - that love isn’t supposed to feel like this. It isn’t meant to hurt so steadily, so quietly.

Other people need you. Clients. Customers. Coworkers. So you both keep moving, working through the ache, through the emptiness of missed hours and shared spaces that never quite overlap. You tell yourselves it’s temporary. That it’s enough.

For now.

—

Wanda wakes up at 9:58 a.m., her body deciding she’s had enough sleep without asking her opinion.

She yawns, arms stretching above her head, and her sketchbook slips from her chest and hits the floor with a soft thud. She ignores it, blinking toward the clock instead.

“Great,” she mutters, voice still rough with sleep.

She missed you again.

The thought comes easily, without drama. It’s familiar. Expected.

Wanda starts the coffee pot before stepping into the shower, steam filling the bathroom as the machine hums to life in the kitchen. She doesn’t see the note - not yet.

At that same moment, you’re elbows deep in dough, fingers pressing and folding as muscle memory takes over.

The process is repetitive. Comforting, almost. Mixing. Kneading. Letting it rise. Rolling it out, cutting the shapes, turning circles into hearts. Letting them rest. Frying. Decorating.

It’s busy - it always is around this time. People stopping in before long shifts or early lunches. Couples lingering in front of the display case, pointing, smiling, choosing pastries together.

Others call ahead, wanting to surprise their significant other with a dozen donuts instead of flowers.

It’s sweet. Genuinely.

But it doesn’t satisfy you.

Back at the apartment, Wanda pours herself a cup of coffee, grabbing her usual mug from the cabinet. Her eyes land on the bright yellow sticky note tucked beneath it.

She reads it, lips pressing into something that almost resembles a smile.

But she already knew that part - that you’d be home later than normal. You always are.

She reaches for her phone, hesitates only a second before replying to your words.

Got your note, I’ll be late too. Don’t wait up.

Another pause.

Then she adds,

I love you too.

She isn’t sure why she replies, she knows you’re busy. Maybe because you put the effort into leaving a note. Maybe because it still feels expected. Maybe because she’s tired - tired of passing each other like strangers, of living on opposite ends of the clock, of loving someone she rarely gets to see.

But she still means it, and that scares her more than if she didn’t at all.

Your phone buzzes twice while you’re working, the second notification coming a little later than the first. You notice it - of course you do - but your hands are coated in icing, movements rushed as another tray waits behind you.

You’ll check it later.

And that hurts Wanda almost as much as the delayed message hurts you when you finally read it.

—

The tattoo parlor smells like smoke mixed with antiseptic - two scents that shouldn’t belong together, but somehow do.

Wanda gets there early, a full hour before the shop opens. She moves through the space on autopilot, cleaning her station with the same careful efficiency you use at yours. Wiping down surfaces. Lining up tools. Making sure everything is exactly where it should be.

Control, in small, manageable pieces.

The shop is running Valentine’s Day flash specials. Flat rates. Pre-drawn designs. Walk-ins only.

She already knows what’s waiting for her.

Sheets of paper covered in hearts and roses, initials and dates written in looping script. Tiny symbols of permanence, meant to be decided on a whim. Promises people are sure they can keep.

There’s a couple’s deal too - come in together, leave with matching tattoos. A discount for love made visible, inked into skin side by side.

Wanda doesn’t look at those for long.

Half-Priced Heartbreakers is the other promotion. The one meant for people who hate the holiday. Broken hearts split clean down the middle. Daggers. Knives. Words like love hurts etched in bold, unforgiving lines.

It’s the opposite of what Valentine’s Day is supposed to be.

But Wanda can’t bring herself to blame them.

—

The stencil is on, the placement good enough for the client.

Wanda doesn’t comment on it beyond that. It doesn’t need to be perfect - it just needs to be where they asked. She’s done this design four times already today.

A barbed wire heart.

Protected.

Hurting.

She doesn’t think while she tattoos. Not really. She lets the heavy rock music bleed through the shop, lets the steady pulse of the machine fill the space where her thoughts would normally sit. The vibration travels up her wrist, familiar enough to be grounding.

It’s supposed to help.

It isn’t working.

Her mind drifts anyway - to you, to whatever you might be doing at this exact moment. If you’ve seen her message. If you replied and she missed it. Her phone is on silent, tucked beneath her jacket on the table in the corner, out of sight and out of reach. She told herself it was so she wouldn’t get distracted.

She doesn’t know who she was lying to.

Her chipped black nail polish stands out starkly against the white paper towel as she wipes away excess ink and blood. The red blooms and smears, familiar in a way that makes her chest tighten. It reminds her of your apron by the end of the month - stained with food dye, never quite white anymore.

Different messes. The same color.

The lines are perfect. They always are.

Her hand never shakes, even as it aches - even as every muscle in her fingers wants something else entirely. Wants the weight of your hand in hers. Wants the warmth she hasn’t felt properly in weeks.

You’re the same way, she thinks.

Careful with the piping bag, steady as you draw hearts or write soft words onto the blank canvas of a sugar cookie. Precise. Gentle. Creating something meant to be loved by someone else.

Her eyes flick to the clock mounted above the mirror, counting down minutes she doesn’t feel like she owns anymore. She wonders how much longer she’ll be here.

Or how much longer it will be before she sees you again.

Lately, she only sees you when you’re unconscious - your body curled into her pillow, breathing slow and even. She watches you for a moment longer than she should, memorizing the way you look when you aren’t exhausted.

She never wakes you.

She can’t.

Wanda hasn’t been able to show you that she loves you the way she wants to lately.

Not in big ways. Not in the ways people expect.

So she lets you take her side of the bed, even when she gets home late enough that it’s barely warm anymore. She curls up on the couch instead, telling herself it’s easier than waking you, easier than seeing how tired you look.

She replaces the sugar in the jar before it runs out, even though she knows you’ll notice anyway. She does it quietly, without saying a word.

She doodles little notes in the margins of her sketchbook and sticks them to the fridge - crooked hearts, half-formed flowers, reminders written in her careful handwriting. When you spot one, a soft smile finds its way to your face before you even realize it’s there.

And you’re the same.

You always pull a blanket over her when she falls asleep somewhere she didn’t mean to - the couch, the chair, sometimes the bed itself when she finally makes it there. You never wake her. You just tuck it in around her shoulders and leave.

You save leftovers she can eat when she gets home at one in the morning, or pack them up so she can take them to work the next day. You label the containers even though she knows which ones are hers.

You leave notes every morning, the same ones, written a hundred different ways. Reminding her that you love her. That you’re still here. Even if you can’t see each other the way you want to.

Something about all of it makes Wanda’s grip tighten around the machine.

Just once. Hard. The vibration stutters for a fraction of a second before she forces her hand to relax again, breath steadying as she continues the line.

She knows the feeling building in her chest - the ache, the pressure, the quiet panic of it - is worse than any tattoo she’s ever given.

And like ink, she can’t erase it.

—

You finally read the message hours later, when the bakery isn’t as chaotic. It’s late afternoon now - only a handful of hours until closing. The rush has thinned to a trickle.

You wipe your hands on your apron and unlock your phone.

You stare at the second text longer than the first.

I love you too.

The words stare back at you as your thumbs hover over the screen.

Still at work?

Of course she is. It’s only four.

You sigh and delete the message before you can think too hard about it.

Partners come in to pick up orders they placed the week before, happy smiles on their faces as you hand them neatly tied boxes. They thank you. Tell you how perfect everything looks. How their significant other is going to love it.

You nod and smile back, practiced and warm.

There’s only one box left in the display case. A white one with red twine, labeled for a guy named Peter. He’d said he was going to give it to his girlfriend. Sounded nervous when he ordered it.

You glance at the clock.

4:58 p.m.

Two minutes until closing.

You wait a little longer than you need to. But when the minute hand shifts again, you know he either forgot… or they broke up.

Your shoulders sink as you look at the untouched box.

You picture him standing awkwardly at a door somewhere, rehearsing what to say. Or maybe not standing anywhere at all. Maybe he changed his mind.

You swallow.

It’s almost the same thing, isn’t it?

Trying to do something nice. Trying to keep something soft alive.

The only difference is that you still have time.

You could still save yours.

He doesn’t get that chance.

—

At the same time, a couple sits in Wanda’s chair, their voices low but sharp enough that every word carries.

They’re arguing in hushed hisses.

About placement. About size. About whether they even want to get the tattoos at all.

“It’s permanent,” one of them says.

“That’s the point,” the other shoots back.

Wanda keeps her eyes on the sketch in front of her, but she hears everything.

She thinks about you. About the fights you’ve had - quiet, restrained, never loud enough to shatter anything. Just enough to bruise.

In some ways, she almost wishes you would yell.

Say something reckless. Something honest. Something that proves there’s still heat behind all this distance.

Because lately, the silence feels worse.

Actions used to be enough. The notes. The food. The blanket pulled over her shoulders.

Now she wants you standing in front of her, saying everything you’ve been swallowing.

But Wanda knows that might break something she doesn’t know how to fix.

So she doesn’t press.

She doesn’t interrupt the couple.

She just… lets it be.

—

You close up shop, locking the door behind you.

Your hands ache. Stiff. Sore.

They always do after twelve hours of constant movement - kneading, lifting, piping, wiping. It feels like the bones themselves are tired.

Wanda’s hands ache too, you know that. But she’s not far enough into her shift to notice it yet.

Sometimes it feels like you both have the same job - just in different fonts.

Especially today.

You create sweetness for couples trying to celebrate something. She marks their skin with something permanent. You both shape symbols of love for other people, all day long.

You shake the thought off as you start the walk home.

It’s nice out. Not too cold. Not too many hills. Just a lot of people.

A lot of couples.

Hands linked. Shoulders brushing. Laughter spilling into the sidewalk.

The tattoo parlor sits on the other side of town, only two streets away from your bakery.

But you go home instead.

You fix yourself something simple for dinner. Take a long shower. Let the hot water loosen your wrists and quiet your thoughts for a few minutes.

It doesn’t last.

—

It’s 7 p.m. when Wanda finally gets a break.

She stretches, rolling her shoulders and massaging her wrists, fingers flexing open and closed. Even with the machine turned off, her hand still feels like it’s vibrating.

A coworker brought a box of sweets. Left them on the counter in the back.

For a second, Wanda half hopes - half dreads - that they’re from your bakery.

They’re not.

The relief hits first. Quick and sharp.

Then the disappointment settles in behind it.

She misses your baking. The way you balance sweetness. The way you never overdo the icing.

She takes a bite of one anyway.

Too doughy. Too much sugar. The icing sits heavy on her tongue, leaving behind something faintly bitter.

She throws the rest of the cookie away.

Wanda checks the time.

You’re probably home by now.

She still has three more hours on shift. And after that, she needs to sketch out designs for upcoming clients.

A tired sigh leaves her chest.

She imagines going home early. Laying beside you while she works instead.

But she doesn’t trust herself.

Not to get distracted. Not to start something that turns into a fight. Not to say something she can’t take back.

So she shakes the thought away and heads back to her station.

—

10 p.m.

You’ve been tossing since the moment you laid down.

The room is quiet, but your brain won’t be.

Stupid, you think.

But it’s not your brain keeping you awake.

It’s your heart.

You stare at the ceiling for another minute before exhaling sharply.

“Fuck it.”

You throw the covers off and sit up.

Sweatpants. Hoodie. Keys already in your hand before you can talk yourself out of it.

—

“Yeah, goodnight,” Wanda says, her voice hoarse as she waves to her coworker. The door shuts behind him with a hollow thud, the lock clicking into place.

The shop feels bigger when it’s empty.

Her phone connects to the speakers automatically, soft music filling the quiet space. Nothing heavy now - just something low and steady. The tablet waits on the counter, a blank canvas for tomorrow’s design. She sits down, rolling her shoulders once before getting to work.

The neon outside hums faintly through the glass.

Not even twenty minutes pass before her phone pings.

The sound cuts cleanly through the music.

There’s a flicker of hope before she even looks.

Always hoping.

She flips the phone over.

It’s you.

I’m outside. Open up.

Her heart stutters.

Wanda turns toward the window, and there you are - bundled in a hoodie, hands shoved into your pockets, hood up against the cold. The sidewalk glows faint pink from the neon sign above the shop.

She’s unlocking the door before she thinks about it.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, stepping aside to let you in. “You’re going to get sick.”

You don’t answer at first. You just step inside, the warmth swallowing you as she shuts the door behind you.

It’s quiet. Her playlist hums softly in the background - you recognize it. One she made on a night she couldn’t sleep.

“We have to talk,” you say after a moment.

Wanda’s brows pull together. “Now?”

A short breath leaves you, almost a laugh. Almost a scoff. “Yes. Now. Right now.”

Her arms cross over her chest, leather jacket creaking softly with the movement. Defensive. Guarded.

“About what?”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no humor in it. “You know what.”

Her face shifts.

She does know.

You both sit down. Not too close. The chairs angled toward each other - open enough for conversation, distant enough to retreat if needed.

“I, uh…” You clear your throat. Your hands are shaking a little. “I miss you. And I hate it.”

Wanda inhales to respond, but you lift a hand.

“Let me finish. Please.”

She nods once.

“I hate waking up alone knowing you’re in the living room on that shitty couch. I hate that the only time we talk is through sticky notes and text messages. It feels like we’re too busy for each other.” Your voice tightens. “And I know you feel it too.”

Wanda’s hands clench in her lap. You can’t tell if it’s pain or anger.

Why would she be angry?

Everything you said is true. It’s what you’ve both been circling for weeks.

She exhales slowly, running a hand through her dark auburn hair - under the neon glow it looks almost wine-red, the light catching in it like something burning low.

If she agrees, it feels like defeat.

If she disagrees, it becomes a lie.

So she settles on the only thing left.

“You’re right,” Wanda says quietly, fingers fiddling with the rings on her hand. “We’re both busy. We haven’t… done anything except exist in the same house.”

Your face shifts - something fragile flickering across it.

The question slips out before you can stop it.

“Do you even still love me?”

It’s barely audible.

So soft Wanda thinks she misheard.

“What?” Her voice cracks.

Your arms fold over your chest like you’re trying to hold your heart inside your body. “Do you love me? Is this—” You gesture weakly between you. “Is this love? Should we even be together?”

The words hang there. Heavy. Irreversible.

You’ve both thought it.

Neither of you have ever said it out loud.

“Are you really asking me that?” Wanda’s tone sharpens, not loud yet - but edged.

You let out a hollow laugh. “Yeah. I am. We barely talk, Wanda. I barely see you. We haven’t been home at the same time for more than four hours in weeks. I tried changing my schedule - I did. It didn’t help. It feels like you’re here but you’re not.”

“You’re blaming me?” It doesn’t sound like a question.

You open your mouth, but she’s already standing.

“It’s my fault? Are you kidding me right now?”

“I understand a relationship is a two-person job—”

“Do you?” she snaps, stepping closer, pointing at your chest. “Do you understand? Because I feel like it’s my fault all the time. Like I can’t even do what I love - work here - without thinking you resent me for it.”

Your face falls.

You hadn’t seen it like that.

But she keeps going, voice rising now.

“You can work ungodly hours at your bakery and that’s fine. But when I do it, it’s a problem? Why?”

You stand too, frustration finally boiling over.

“Because I miss you and you’re right in front of me!” you shout. “That’s not how it’s supposed to be!”

The words echo in the empty shop.

Wanda’s mouth opens. Closes.

She misses you too. So badly it feels like something physical.

But you’re already turning toward the door.

“Wait, Y/N—” She reaches out, fingers brushing your sleeve.

The glass door shuts between you.

And suddenly there’s a barrier where there wasn’t one before.

—

You walk without knowing where you’re headed, just needing distance from the shop, from the neon sign still buzzing in your ears, from the way your voice broke when you said you missed her and meant it more than you’ve meant anything in weeks.

Your breath comes out in thin clouds that disappear too quickly, and the snow beneath your boots crunches steadily, rhythmically, like it’s keeping time with your heartbeat.

It feels unfair in a way you can’t quite explain. Not unfair because she doesn’t love you - you know she does - but unfair because loving each other hasn’t been enough lately.

You hear the door open behind you a minute later. You don’t turn around. You don’t have to. You can feel her there.

She doesn’t call your name. She doesn’t try to grab your hand.

She just follows.

Not too close. Not too far. Close enough that if you stopped walking she would run into you. Far enough that you can pretend you’re still alone.

The walk home feels longer than usual, your anger cooling into something heavier with every block. By the time you reach the apartment building your fingers are numb and your throat burns from everything you didn’t say.

You go straight to the bedroom and close the door behind you. Not a slam. Just a quiet click.

You toe off your boots, pull your sweater over your head, and crawl into bed without bothering to turn on the lamp.

For one selfish moment, you hope she’ll sleep on the couch.

The handle turns anyway.

You exhale sharply into your pillow.

She doesn’t speak right away. You hear her moving around the room, changing clothes, setting her rings on the nightstand. The small, ordinary sounds of her existence. The things you missed even when you were angry.

The mattress dips behind you.

Her body presses gently against your back, tentative at first, like she’s testing whether you’ll push her away.

You stiffen.

“It’s just me,” she murmurs, her voice low and worn thin. “I don’t wanna fight anymore. I just want to sleep next to you.”

The honesty in that hurts more than the shouting did.

You stay quiet, but you don’t move away.

Her arm slides around your waist slowly, carefully, giving you space to stop her if you want to. You don’t. Her fingers thread through yours, and when she squeezes lightly, it feels less like a demand and more like a question.

“Just hear me out,” she says softly. “Please.”

There’s a long pause before she continues, like she’s choosing each word deliberately.

“You were right tonight. About missing each other. About it not feeling like we’re… here.” Her thumb rubs over your knuckles absentmindedly. “I didn’t realize how bad it got. I just kept telling myself it was temporary. Busy season. Long hours. It would fix itself.”

Her breath warms the back of your neck when she exhales.

“But it didn’t,” she admits. “And I don’t want to lose you because I was too stubborn to notice.”

Your chest tightens.

“I can change my schedule,” she continues quietly. “I can leave earlier. I can draw at home instead of staying late. I’ll make the time. We’ll make the time. I don’t want our relationship to be sticky notes and ‘see you tomorrow.’”

Her voice cracks just slightly.

“I love you. I’m not going anywhere. Just… give me the chance to prove that.”

The silence afterward feels thick and fragile, like if you speak too quickly it might shatter.

You stare at the wall, thinking about the way she followed you without saying a word, about the way her hand hasn’t let go of yours.

You could stay guarded.

You could tell her you’re still hurt.

Instead, your fingers tighten around hers.

“Okay,” you whisper.

It isn’t loud. It isn’t dramatic.

But she exhales like you just handed her something priceless.

Her forehead rests between your shoulders, and for the first time in weeks, you fall asleep with her breathing steady behind you.

—

The next few days don’t transform everything overnight, but they soften the sharp edges.

Wanda comes home at ten. Every night.

The first time she walks through the door earlier than usual, you glance at the clock twice just to be sure. She shrugs off her jacket and smiles at you like it’s nothing special, like she hasn’t just shifted her whole routine.

She settles beside you on the couch, tablet balanced on her knee, and begins sketching while you lean into her shoulder. She doesn’t comment on the way you fit against her. She just adjusts her arm so it rests more comfortably around you.

You watch her draw more than you watch whatever’s playing on the television. The crease between her brows deepens when she’s focused, and sometimes she chews lightly on her bottom lip when a line isn’t cooperating. There’s a quiet joy in her when something finally clicks - a small, satisfied hum you wouldn’t notice if you weren’t paying attention.

You are.

She’s awake when you leave for work now, even if she swears she’ll go back to sleep afterward. Coffee waits for you on the counter. You leave half a muffin or a test batch cookie beside her tablet, pretending it’s casual.

She always hums when she takes a bite.

It does something to you every time.

The texts come easier too. Not desperate. Not checking in to make sure the other person hasn’t drifted away.

Just small pieces of your day shared because you want to.

A picture of flour on your apron.

A complaint about a client who wanted a dragon the size of a coin.

A simple miss you.

It’s not perfect. You still get busy. You still miss each other sometimes.

But it doesn’t feel like you’re losing ground anymore.

It feels like you’re standing on it together.

—

The weekend sneaks up on you both, and somehow you both end up calling out of work within minutes of each other. You hear her in the kitchen making an excuse about “family stuff,” and when she hangs up, she walks into the living room to find you staring at your phone with the same guilty expression.

For a second you just look at each other.

Then you both start laughing.

It feels like relief.

The day is spent watching movies, talking, trying to learn how to exist together again.

And then it’s nearly three in the morning when the idea comes to you.

“I want one,” you say suddenly.

Wanda looks up from where she’s half-curled on the couch. “One what?”

“A tattoo.”

Her eyes narrow slightly, amused and suspicious. “Right now?”

You shrug, even though your heart is racing. “Why not?”

The shop is quiet when you get there. The overhead lights cast everything in a steady glow, and the familiar smell of disinfectant and ink wraps around you. It feels different at this time - quieter, heavier, like the walls are listening.

“Are you sure?” she asks again, more serious now. “It’s permanent.”

You let out a slow, shaky exhale, trying to steady yourself. This isn’t just ink. It isn’t just a tiny heart.

It’s commitment.

To the relationship.

To her.

To the fragile, stubborn bond you both almost let slip through your fingers.

“I know,” you say softly, the words laced with trust.

Her gloved thumb brushes over your wrist, pressing gently where your pulse beats. It jumps under her touch and she notices, the corner of her mouth lifting.

She doesn’t reach for a stencil. She just picks up the marker and begins to freehand it, adjusting the curve slightly to fit the natural bend of your wrist.

The heart is small. Clean. Positioned exactly where she always holds you.

“You could’ve used a stencil,” you tease quietly.

She rolls her eyes without looking up. “Do you want me to stop?”

You laugh softly. “No. I trust you.”

That makes her glance up.

The machine buzzes to life and she stretches your skin carefully with her thumb pressed into your palm.

“Ready?” she asks.

You nod.

The needle meets your skin, sharp and hot at first, but manageable. You keep your eyes on her face instead of the pain. The bright LED lights catch every angle of her features - the sharp line of her jaw, the faint crease between her brows when she focuses.

Sometimes she bites her lip in concentration. Other times she smiles slightly, knowing you’re watching her like she’s the only thing in the room worth seeing.

“Am I making you nervous, Maximoff?” you ask lightly as she finishes the first pass, her hand gentle as she wipes your skin with a paper towel.

Her eyes flick up to yours, green bright under the lights, and she smiles. “Just a tad,” she admits. “It’s not every day I get to tattoo my girlfriend.”

The word lands warm and steady in your chest.

Girlfriend.

You smile without meaning to, because you know this matters to both of you. This small heart sitting over your pulse is more than decoration - it’s something she’ll trace with her thumb once it’s healed, something you’ll see every time your sleeves are pushed back and your hands are covered in flour and sugar and sweetness. It’s going to live there, quiet and constant.

She’ll be on your mind even more than she already is.

Wanda finishes the linework and leans back slightly, studying it with a critical eye before nodding to herself. “So,” she says, and there’s the faintest hint of nerves in her voice now, “what do you think?”

You look down as she wipes away the foamy cleaner, revealing the finished heart in clean, deliberate lines. For a second you just stare at it, at how perfectly it sits against your skin, at how something so small can feel so significant.

A smile spreads across your face before you can stop it.

“It’s perfect,” you tell her, looking from your wrist back up to her.

Her shoulders ease at that, and she reaches for the saniderm, carefully placing it over the tattoo and smoothing it down with practiced hands. She presses along the edges to make sure it seals, her thumb lingering for a moment longer than necessary.

“Leave it on while it heals,” she murmurs, more to herself than to you.

When she finishes, she pulls off her gloves and cleans her station, movements automatic, but her eyes keep flicking back to you like she needs to make sure you’re still there.

You’re still in the chair, sitting a little taller than her now that she’s on the stool in front of you.

And there’s something about the way she looks up at you - the softer green in her eyes under the harsh lights, the faint smudge of ink on her wrist, the vulnerability she tries and fails to hide - that makes your chest tighten.

You reach for her without thinking.

Your hands slide into her hair, fingers curling gently as you pull her toward you, and her mouth meets yours in a kiss that isn’t rushed or desperate but certain. It says everything you didn’t manage to say during the shared day. It says I’m here. It says I’m choosing you.

Her hands settle on your thighs, warm and steady, drawing you closer as if she’s afraid you might disappear again.

When you pull back, you’re both a little breathless, foreheads resting together, her breath still warm against your lips.

“Next time,” you murmur, voice low but sure, “I’m giving you a tattoo.”

Her lips curve against yours.

“We’ll see,” she whispers.

And somehow, it feels like a promise.

—

Flour is everywhere - dusting the counters, the tile, the edge of the stove - clinging stubbornly to Wanda’s black shirt and tangled at the ends of her hair. It’s on her cheek, too, faint and careless, like she forgot it lingers.

You, somehow, are untouched.

Well. Mostly. It’s only your apron that’s taken the hit, tied snug around your waist like a shield of competence.

The cookies sit in the oven, nearly done, the sweet smell of butter and sugar filling the kitchen and curling into every corner of the apartment. It feels warmer in here than it did at the shop. Softer. The light above the stove is dim and golden, not harsh and clinical, not humming overhead like it’s judging you.

“You’re a mess,” you say, but there’s no bite to it. Just fondness. Just warmth.

Wanda laughs, the sound bright and unguarded, as she attempts to rinse flour from her hands in the sink, only succeeding in turning it into paste along her fingers. “I am not,” she argues weakly, flicking a bit of water in your direction.

You look at her - really look at her - flour-dusted and flushed and standing in your shared kitchen at some ungodly hour of the night, and the sight hits you square in the chest.

“Jesus,” you murmur under your breath.

It slips out like a curse but sounds more like reverence.

If she hears you, she doesn’t call attention to it. But the faint pink that creeps up her neck and the way her eyes linger on you for a second too long tells you she heard it just fine.

The oven timer chimes, breaking the moment, and you move first, slipping on mitts and pulling the tray out carefully. The cookies are golden at the edges, soft in the center, and the cherry jam pooled in the thumbprints glistens under the light - each one shaped into a heart, the two indents meeting at the bottom.

You feel her step closer before she even reaches for one.

Your hand finds hers instinctively, fingers wrapping around her wrist in a gentle squeeze. “Hot,” you remind her softly.

She huffs but lets you guide her hand down, dramatic about it.

You set the tray down to cool, though you both know it’s a suggestion more than a rule. And sure enough, when your back is turned to grab a plate, there’s the faint sound of movement - quick and sneaky - followed by a sharp inhale.

“Wanda,” you warn without looking.

“I’m fine,” she insists through a mouthful, already chewing.

By the time they’re cool enough to eat properly - or by the time her tongue stops burning, whichever comes first - she hums in approval, thumb brushing over the corner of her mouth to catch a bit of spilled jam before slipping it between her lips.

“These are really good,” she says, softer now, more sincere than teasing.

Warmth blooms low in your stomach at the praise, spreading outward until you feel almost light with it.

It isn’t grand. There are no elaborate speeches, no bouquets of flowers, no sweeping declarations. Just flour on the floor, a wrapped tattoo on your wrist, cherry jam hearts slowly disappearing one by one.

Just this.

A new start built in small things. In shared kitchens and soft laughter. In the way the tray slowly empties as you both enjoy the cookies you made together. In staying up too late and talking about nothing until the sky begins to pale and early morning light slips through the blinds in thin, golden lines.

You lean into her side, and she lets you, her arm settling around your waist like it belongs there.

It’s home.

It’s love.

It’s everything in between.

And it rests, steady and certain, in the hands of your Wanda.

[wandaschaosmagic]

Hiii, it was a long day so i just now read Learning how you love, and when i say i love every singline line, i mean ittt

God it is so perfect, they way you capture Natasha and her quiet adoration and love (which i personally prefer as well)- it is so so so right

Thank SO much for writing this, you can tell you take your time and effort when you write and i really have the best time reading your stuff

Hope you have a great Valentine's! (from a person who doesn't care for it, but will tresure this fic)

- 🗡

YAY I’m so glad you love it! That means so much you have no idea. I hope you have a great one too - if nothing else get some candy lol

[wandaschaosmagic]

For the Valentine prompts how would we feel about Nat x GN!r having their first Valentine's as a couple?

Maybe R doesn't care for it but Nat very surprisingly (and tbh out of character) decides to give into the holiday (imagine how content she would have to feel with someone for that to happen) and they just have a nice time overall

If it doesn't sound good feel completely free to ignore :)

- 🗡

Learning How You Love

Pairing : Natasha x gn!reader

Warnings : mentions of alcohol, insinuated spicy time (nothing explicit) anddddd besides that just fluff (I think)

Word Count : 3.5k

A/N : this was so much fun to write! Thank you so much dagger and I hope you love it, let me know what you thought pleaseeee 😌

The days leading up to Valentine’s Day pass quietly, that sudden way time has of slipping through your fingers - there before you realize it’s already arrived.

No plans discussed.

No conversations had.

No expectations set.

Just Natasha’s gaze lingering a little longer than usual, like she’s waiting for something to happen on its own.

Her fingers brush against teddy bears clutching stitched hearts, against roses already wrapped in plastic and ribbon, prepared for hands she doesn’t recognize. Ready to be given away.

New York has always loved the holiday.

Ads flood every magazine. Every billboard. Every third commercial while the TV hums in the background.

Pink and red promise romance on a preselected date, devotion packaged neatly, affection scheduled and sold.

She catches herself imagining.

What you’d do.

Where you’d take her.

What she’d wear.

The look on your face when you see her.

Carefully - never too much, never too obvious, never desperate - she starts asking questions. Casual ones. Light ones. The kind that don’t give anything away.

What do people usually do?

Does it matter where they go?

You answer honestly every time, choosing your words with care, keeping your tone neutral, detached. Letting her form her own opinion. Letting the day be whatever it needs to be for her.

But truthfully? You’ve always thought Valentine’s Day was too much. Too loud. Too performative. Why wait for a calendar to tell you when it’s time to show someone you love them?

Why make it public? Why make it a spectacle?

So Natasha plans - because she doesn’t know you dislike it.

Pinterest boards.

Google searches.

Quiet conversations with everyone you’re close to on the team, asking what she should do, what you’d enjoy, what would matter.

Everything is going smoothly until…

Peter is in the middle of explaining his meticulously crafted Valentine’s Day agenda, eager and earnest as he talks about chocolate, and reservations at a restaurant he’s been told is life-changing.

You, Natasha, Tony, and Pepper listen while he walks through every detail like it’s a mission briefing.

“Yeah, that’s great, kid,” Tony says eventually, lifting a hand to stop him before he can spiral further. “But have you actually asked her?”

Peter blinks at him. Once. Twice.

“Asked her…?”

You laugh. Pepper smiles and shakes her head fondly.

Natasha looks…confused. Thoughtful. Like this is information she didn’t realize she was missing. She’s never done Valentine’s Day. Not once.

“Ask her to be your Valentine,” Pepper says gently, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Peter’s brows knit together, head tilting. “I’m supposed to ask my girlfriend - who I’ve been dating for months already - to be my Valentine?”

“Yes,” you say, still not entirely understanding it yourself. “Something about… making them feel like they have a choice.”

Crap.

Natasha hasn’t asked you yet.

And suddenly, that feels important.

Something both she and Peter realize at the exact same time.

—

The question catches you off guard.

Peter left barely three minutes ago - half-pulling on his suit as he went, already talking a mile a minute before he leapt straight out of the tower window, shouting something about asking her right now.

Natasha doesn’t wait.

Wanting to ask too, she pulls you aside into the kitchen. Her hand is still wrapped around your arm when your back hits the door, the soft thud knocking the breath from your lungs.

“Hey?”

The word slips out with a surprised huff, more breath than sound.

She doesn’t apologize. She just looks at you.

Her expression is open in a way it rarely is - vulnerable, searching your face with that familiar intensity, like she’s memorizing every reaction before you even give it.

“So,” Natasha starts, then pauses. “Valentine’s Day.”

It sounds like a statement.

It might be a question.

You nod slowly, still trying to catch up.

“Have you… done that before?” she asks. Her fingers worry at the sleeve of your shirt, tracing the fabric where her hand hasn’t let go yet. “Like - with someone else?”

That’s new.

You’re used to her cautious curiosity about the holiday, the offhand questions, the teasing hypotheticals - but she’s never asked if you’ve actually participated before.

Blinking, you stare at her for a moment. “Uh… I don’t really care for it,” you admit honestly.

Sure, you’ve bought the chalky sweetheart candies with the dumb little sayings on them - because those are objectively great - but you’ve never really given them to someone.

Not seriously.

Not meaningfully.

And now here you are - eight months into a relationship with Natasha Romanoff. Your first Valentine’s Day together. Her first Valentine’s Day in a relationship at all.

She hums quietly, absorbing your answer, turning it over in her head. Then she looks back up at you.

“But don’t you think it’s… sweet?” she asks. “All the romance. The special treatment.” She shrugs, like she’s trying to downplay it even as her eyes give her away. “We could just - try it once. See what it’s like?”

See what the holiday you dread every year is like.

That’s what really throws you.

There’s hope in her expression, bright and careful at the same time. Like she’s already bracing herself for disappointment even as she asks.

You want to make her happy.

You also don’t want to betray yourself entirely.

So you land somewhere vague.

“I dunno,” you say, your hand coming up to rub the back of your neck.

Natasha sighs - but instead of pulling away, she steps closer. Her arms slide around your neck, guiding your hands down to her hips like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Come on,” she says softly. “It’s one day.” Her lips twitch with a smile. “We’ll have a stupid heart-shaped dinner, exchange some corny gifts, and then have really good sex. What’s the harm?”

Her fingers slip into your hair, slow and deliberate, and just like that your shoulders relax. The edge of your annoyance dulls, replaced by the familiar pull of her warmth.

And… she’s not wrong.

Your teeth catch your bottom lip, holding it there for a second before you let it go. “How interested are you?” you ask. “Like, really?”

She tilts her head, pretending to think about it. Or maybe she actually is.

“I’m curious,” she says finally. “Okay? Really curious.” Her lips brush along your jaw, a kiss pressed there just because she wants to. “I wanna experience it. With you.” She lingers, then murmurs, “So… can we?”

Your resolve slips. Just a little.

“Maybe,” you grumble.

Her eyes widen instantly - surprise and hope colliding in a way that makes your chest ache.

“Really?” she asks. “You’d do that with me?”

You nod before you can stop yourself.

She smiles and kisses you properly this time, soft but certain.

“It’ll be perfect,” Natasha says when she pulls back, voice warm and convinced. “A special occasion where we can just focus on each other.” She pecks your lips again. “With flowers. Chocolate.” A pause. “Maybe even some lingerie…”

She steps back and winks, leaving you to process that mental image entirely on your own.

“See?” she laughs. “That got your attention.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling.

“You may hate Valentine’s Day,” Natasha says, softer now, “but you don’t hate me.”

And that’s the truest thing she’s said all day.

—

The day comes before you realize it has.

And Natasha - well, she’s been counting down the minutes ever since you reluctantly agreed, pretending she hasn’t while absolutely doing it anyway.

Her free time when you are busy is spent planning.

It’s meticulous and deliberate, the same way Natasha goes about missions. A plan. A backup plan. A backup for the backup plan.

Every detail accounted for, every outcome anticipated. Options prepared in case something goes wrong - because something always does.

She tells herself it’s just a holiday. One day. Harmless.

But Natasha doesn’t know how to do anything halfway. Not when it matters. And this matters more than she’s willing to admit.

She wants it to be perfect. Not loud. Not obvious. Just…right.

Something soft enough not to scare you off, but meaningful enough that you understand what she’s trying to say without her having to say it out loud.

Even so, morning arrives quietly.

You make coffee together, the familiar routine unfolding without ceremony. You ask how she slept. She asks the same. You hand over her signature mug with careful hands, mumbling that it’s hot - like it always is.

She smiles like she’s heard it a hundred times and hopes she’ll hear it a hundred more.

It’s normal.

And you thank the heavens for that.

After the mission debrief wraps up, the rest of the day is suddenly… empty. No assignments. No emergencies. No expectations pulling you in different directions.

Natasha doesn’t waste the opportunity.

She tugs you out of the tower, murmuring something about wanting to go to her favorite bookstore down the street. The one with the older owner and shelves that never quite look organized.

Her hand slips into yours like it belongs there.

So right it makes your chest ache, goosebumps racing up your arms for no good reason at all.

The antique shop is quiet when you step inside, the two of you becoming the fourth and fifth people in the space. Voices stay low. Footsteps soft. Everything feels unhurried.

It smells of old books, the air thick with paper and dust. And the floor creaks in certain spots - by the poetry section and art history aisle. Books are stacked atop one another, leaning in uneven towers, too many for the shelves and somehow still not enough.

Your fingers stay laced together as you wander through the aisles, gently tugging each other this way and that. Fingertips trail along worn book spines with affection, lingering only when something catches interest - pulled free from the shelf if it earns a second look.

You carry the bag when you leave, the weight of old pages and new stories resting against your side. Your other hand never leaves Natasha’s.

Next comes the market.

You pick out ingredients for the dish you’re making tonight, moving easily around one another. Garlic and tomatoes end up resting on top of the worn books, the combination oddly perfect - proof of a few hours spent together in the city, unremarkable and everything all at once.

Natasha adds perfect strawberries and chocolate that’s far too expensive to the basket with the rest of the ingredients, claiming it’s for dessert. She lingers over the wine section, choosing carefully, deliberately - wanting it to be just right.

—

The walk back is slower. Intentional.

You look at each other more. Talk a little longer. Someone leads the other down the wrong street, neither of you noticing - or caring - until it’s far too late to call it a shortcut.

When you reach your shared apartment, you open the door for her.

Liho, Natasha’s cat - well, technically your shared cat - greets you both with a single meow before darting away back into the shadows, blending seamlessly like a living void.

You both change first. Natasha takes her time, so you start on the meal. The kitchen gradually fills with warmth - the scent of chicken sizzling in the pan, pasta bubbling away on the other burner.

Your sleeves are rolled up and cuffed just below your elbows, careful to keep your clothes clean as you add the tomatoes, stirring with a focus you don’t actually feel.

Natasha appears in the doorway in a black cocktail dress.

She pauses there, smiling up at you, one hand lifting to tuck her hair behind her ear like she’s suddenly shy.

You stop what you’re doing, wine glasses forgotten in your hands.

“Wow,” you say, honest and a little stunned. “You look incredible.”

“You don’t look too bad yourself,” she replies, a faint blush dusting her cheeks. She smooths her dress down before taking her seat at the table. The candles are already lit, casting the room in a softer glow - more romantic, more inviting.

Liho purrs as she circles Natasha’s bare legs, black fur brushing against her skin, warm and familiar.

You smile as you set the wine glasses down on the cloth-covered table, then grab the bottle of and pop the cork, pouring an even amount of the dark red liquid into each glass.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” you tell her, offering an easy smile before turning back to the stove.

Natasha swirls the wine in her glass, letting the air mix with it.

“It smells amazing,” she says before taking a sip.

“Hopefully it tastes even better,” you mumble, more to yourself than to her. It’s a dish you’ve never made before - something you saved for a moment that felt important.

Valentine’s Day seemed fitting enough.

Natasha’s footsteps are quiet as she moves closer, peering over your shoulder, a pleased expression settling on her face.

“Looks good too,” she murmurs, inches from your ear.

You don’t jump like you usually do when she does that. Trust - and repetition - have made you almost immune.

As you stir the food and reach into the fridge, Natasha sneaks a bite. She hums softly in approval.

“It’s not finished yet,” you scold, only half-hearted. “But I’m guessing that sound means it’s good?”

She nods, smiling.

—

Plates clink gently as you set them on the table, piled high with pasta and chicken. You ask if it’s good - once, twice, five times - until Natasha reaches out, placing her hand over your arm and leaning in to whisper that it’s the best thing you’ve ever made for her.

You nod, satisfied. As long as she’s happy.

Wine loosens you both as the evening settles in. Candles burn lower. The city hums with the last lingering hours of the holiday beyond the windows.

But inside, it’s just you and her. Alone - but together.

Conversation softens, fading in and out. Gazes linger longer than necessary, neither of you looking away. Legs brush beneath the table, Natasha’s foot hooking gently around your ankle, like she’s making sure you’re still there.

It’s not loud.

Not grand.

Not public.

It’s yours.

And that’s more than enough for both of you.

—

After dinner, once the plates are clean - you washed and Natasha dried, her hip bumping yours with every utensil exchanged, an assembly line that’s been in motion for as long as you’ve lived together - you both disappear to retrieve the presents you’d hidden.

You hid yours in the office. The closet that mostly holds old files. It’s been sitting there for a couple of days now - minus the one gift you picked up this morning while Natasha was stuck in a meeting.

Who knows where Natasha hid hers.

You settle onto the couch in the living room, lights dimmed low. Liho meows at random intervals, for no apparent reason, before melting back into the shadows.

Natasha looks nervous again.

She’s thinking about how intimate this is. How vulnerable she’s being with what she chose. You offer her a small smile, meant to relax her, but it only seems to make her more flustered - butterflies climbing into her chest.

You take her hand, rubbing your thumb gently over her knuckles.

“It’s okay,” you say softly. “I bet I’ll love everything.”

She exhales, smiling, and accepts the first gift from you with her free hand.

It’s chocolate.

Not just any kind.

Russian chocolates - the kind Natasha mentioned offhandedly months ago, telling you how she missed them. How she used to buy them in Moscow, sneaking out of the Red Room to watch ballet and stop by the little shop afterward.

“You remembered,” she whispers.

They’re creamier, less sweet, richer than American chocolate. She opens the package immediately, fingers careful as she breaks off a piece and eats it.

“Mmm,” she hums, savoring the taste.

Natasha breaks off another piece, holding it up to your lips.

“Try it.”

You do. Wafers inside - crunchy, soft - perfect with the chocolate.

“Good?” she asks, suddenly nervous, like she’s handing you a piece of herself.

You nod immediately.

“Very good.”

Her smile lingers as you reach for the second gift.

Flowers.

A small bouquet - red roses paired with baby’s breath and eucalyptus. Wrapped in crinkled newspaper, tied with twine.

Natasha takes it carefully, bringing it to her nose. She can tell right away it’s homemade - the slightly lopsided bow, the newspaper, the lack of plastic. Her eyes crinkle as she smiles, noticing the card tucked inside.

“Do I read it first?” she murmurs, still half-buried in petals.

You laugh and nod.

She pulls the card free - and pauses. Her fingers brush one of the flowers again. Her brows furrow as she feels the texture.

Plastic.

“Did you—”

Her words stop when she sees you nodding.

“Yeah. I know,” you say, nodding toward the card. “Read it.”

She does.

Once.

Twice.

Her throat tightens.

“Dear my Natasha,

I know this day isn’t all that special to me.

But you are.

Days come and go.

Flowers wither.

Chocolate gets eaten.

Cards get thrown away.

But there’s a flower in here that won’t die.

Keep it.

It represents my love for you.

xoxo

— Y/N”

She doesn’t speak right away. Can’t. The lump in her throat won’t let her.

“I—” Natasha grips your hand, pulling it closer. Pulling you closer. “I love you.”

You smile, pressing a kiss to her temple.

“I love you.”

The next gift comes in a small jewelry box.

Natasha opens it slowly.

Inside is a compass pendant on a delicate silver chain - understated, not flashy. Something meant to last.

“I know you already know where you’re going,” you say, voice thick. “I just thought… it fit.”

Natasha’s life has always been directed by someone else - the Red Room, missions, SHIELD, the Avengers.

The choice she makes - every day - is you.

She doesn’t cry.

She just holds the pendant, absorbing the weight of it.

“Can you put it on?” she finally asks, voice quiet.

She lifts her hair. You fasten the clasp, fingers brushing her skin, and press a kiss to the back of her neck.

—

Natasha hands you a letter after a few quiet moments.

You take it carefully, like it’s something fragile, something meant only for you. You recognize her handwriting immediately - neat, deliberate, every line exactly where it’s supposed to be.

“For you,

You don’t like this day.

I do.

But I don’t need the day.

I just need you.

Thank you for choosing me - always - even when you don’t have to.

— N”

Your chest tightens as you finish reading.

The paper is folded with the kind of precision that makes it obvious she refolded it more than once, just to get it right.

“You don’t have to thank me,” you say softly, looking up at her. “You know that.”

Natasha shrugs, lips tilting into something small and fond. “I still want to.”

Before you can say anything else, she presses another gift into your hands.

A jewelry box.

Smaller than the one you gave her.

The velvet feels cool and soft beneath your fingers as you open it.

Inside is a ring. A simple silver band.

You lift it out slowly, turning it between your fingers, taking in the understated elegance of it.

“It’s beautiful,” you whisper, and you mean more than just the way it looks.

Natasha gently takes the ring from you, tilting it so you can see the inside of the band. Engraved along the metal are words you don’t immediately recognize.

Я выбираю тебя.

“What does that mean?” you ask quietly, your thumb brushing over the engraving.

Her voice is steady when she answers. “I choose you.”

Your heart stutters. You look up at her, and she’s already watching you - open, unguarded, waiting.

“You don’t have to wear it all the time,” she starts, almost hesitant—

But you’re already sliding the ring onto your finger.

It fits perfectly.

Her expression softens, something warm and real breaking through her composure.

Then she hands you another box.

Larger this time. The kind clothes usually come in.

You hesitate, then open it.

Inside is a lingerie set.

Black. Elegant. Minimal. Very Natasha.

Your breath catches.

Slowly, you lift the fabric, feeling how smooth it is between your fingers. You can already picture it on her - how it would sit against her skin, how carefully she must’ve chosen it. Not flashy. Not performative. Just… intentional.

“For me?” you ask, quieter now.

She nods once. “I wanted something you’d like seeing. Something I’d feel good wearing.”

Then, softer: “That one’s for later. If you want.”

Not expectation.

An invitation.

Trust, laid bare.

—

Later, she’s curled against you, her head resting on your chest. One of her hands moves lazily across your stomach, tracing slow, absent-minded shapes - hearts, mostly.

Every time her fingers pass over a certain spot, goosebumps rise along your skin.

If she notices, she doesn’t say anything.

She just keeps going.

“It wasn’t too bad, right?” Natasha asks after a while, glancing up at you.

You smile, brushing your nose against her hair. “No,” you murmur. “It wasn’t that bad.”

She hums, satisfied, and settles back against you - content to stay right there. Enjoying the warmth. The quiet. The day, for what it was.

“Maybe,” you say carefully, “we could do this again next year.”

She smiles, her fingers still drawing hearts against your skin, and nods.

This time, it feels like a promise.

[wandaschaosmagic]

Valentine’s Day Archives

Still accepting requests! | This file will be updated as more information becomes available.

One Shots

File Name: Just Another Wednesday

Subjects: tattooartist!wanda x fem!baker!reader

Overview:

“I’m gonna be late.”

“Me too.”

Valentine’s Days are always busy. The only difference is your girlfriend’s schedule is equally as packed.

File Name: Learning How You Love

Subjects: natasha x gn!reader

Overview:

Valentine’s Day isn’t for everyone, and that’s okay. It only matters if you try.

File Name: Missed Reservation

Subjects: congressman!bucky x fem!historyteacher!reader

Overview:

He promised he’d be there at 7. But he gets stuck at the Capitol on the night before Valentine’s Day.

[wandaschaosmagic]

Built to Last the Winter

Pairing : Natasha x labtech!reader x Jeff the land shark (platonic, he’s the son)

Warnings : Just fluff - you don’t have to read this, but it’s set in the same universe <3

Word Count : 3.4k

Summary : The first snowfall of the year, and the team has the perfect snow day.

A/N : Had to write this because it snowed and I love labtech!reader and my man Jeff. Hope you enjoy! ⛄️

Masterlist

The common room is alive with banter, the low hum of the coffee maker mixing with the crackle of the fire. It’s a slow, relaxing morning - until there’s a squeak, followed by the rapid patter of feet across the hardwood floors.

“Guys!” Peter gasps as he slides into the room. “It’s snowing!”

Everyone turns toward the windows, and sure enough, snow has begun to fall. Just a little, but enough that the flurries stand out against the pale morning sky.

Tony groans, covering his face with one hand before he starts grumbling. “I’m too old for this.”

“You’re telling me,” Steve says. “I was frozen for seventy years. I think I’ve seen enough cold to last a lifetime.”

Beside you, Natasha stifles a laugh, hiding her smile behind her coffee cup.

You can’t help but smile at the sight. Her being relaxed - truly relaxed - always feels precious. Someone who’s constantly ready to run, fight, and take down enemies, sitting here so carefree? Yeah. It’s the best thing you’ve ever witnessed.

She catches your stare out of the corner of her eye, arching a perfect brow in question.

Still smiling, you shake your head and lift your own mug, taking a slow sip.

Natasha’s wearing a soft sweater, her body already halfway tucked beneath the blanket, legs folded beneath her. She insists she always gets cold in the winter - despite being Russian.

The sound of the team’s playful banter fades as her hand finds yours, tugging it gently under the blanket with her.

Not because she’s embarrassed. Never.

She just wants you closer. Always closer.

Wanda’s voice cuts through the haze, her tone decisive. “I think we should have a snow day.”

“Yeah, because that worked out so well last time,” Sam says dryly.

Bucky, now standing by the window and watching the snow fall, chuckles at the memory. “Stark got a concussion.”

“Okay, we agreed we weren’t going to talk about that,” Tony groans, sinking deeper into his plush chair like it might save him from further humiliation.

You glance at Natasha, trying to gauge her interest.

She meets your gaze, smiling softly, her hand still laced with yours. “Yeah,” she says easily. “We’re in.”

“Sweet!” Peter cheers, fist-bumping the air. “Okay, Y/N - you’re on my team. Nerds have to stick together.”

You nod, laughing.

-

Everyone splits off to their rooms to get dressed for the inevitable snowball fight. The teams are already set - apparently it’s “not fair” if the super soldiers end up on the same side.

You help Natasha with her beanie, making sure her red locks are tucked neatly beneath it. In return, she adjusts your scarf, wrapping it snugly around your neck before gently using it to tilt your face toward hers.

“You look cute,” she says bluntly, green eyes steady on yours.

You blush instantly, warmth flooding your neck and cheeks as the compliment sinks in - pink and red blooming across your skin.

And this time, you can’t blame it on the cold.

You recover enough to return the favor.

“You should wear one of these more often,” you mumble, carefully fixing her beanie again, your touch light.

Always careful with her.

She smiles at that, soft and almost shy, then nods.

-

The first team consists of Yelena, Natasha, Tony, Bucky, and Wanda.

“Assassins have to stick together,” Yelena had said, before casually strolling over to their side.

Clint, Peter, Sam, Steve - and you - end up on the other team.

You all take time building snow forts, stacking uneven walls of packed snow to use as cover - something solid to hide behind.

FRIDAY is just about to start the game when the compound doors slide open and Jeff the Land Shark stomps out onto the snow.

“Who was going to tell me it was snowing?” he demands, narrowing his beady eyes as his vocal recognition collar blinks with every word.

One thing about Jeff: he loves snow.

Maybe a little too much.

“I’m sorry, Jeff,” you apologize immediately. “We got so caught up in everything, I forgot.”

Jeff huffs, and if he was able, he’d definitely be crossing his arms. “I had to find out from DUM-E. He threw a snowball at my tank.”

Tony doubles over, clutching his stomach. “Ah. I love my bots.”

You quickly change Jeff into his snow gear while he grumbles the entire time - slipping him into a yellow-and-black puffer jacket, a matching scarf, earmuffs, and ski goggles.

“Perfect,” you say, stepping back to admire your work.

Jeff glares up at you. “I feel like a marshmallow.”

Fair. Even more so when he waddles back toward the door, the jacket making every step stiff and exaggerated.

You attempt to suppress a laugh so as to not be sent another glare.

-

The snow was cold even through the gloves you all were wearing - clumps of it sticking to the cotton, seeping through the fabric, wetting hands.

But it was okay. It was perfectly fine. Because everyone was having fun.

Bucky forms the perfect snowball. It flies through the air at full speed, and at the last second Steve lifts his shield, blocking it from hitting him square in the face.

The snowball splats against the vibranium, clinging there for a moment before melting and sliding down to the snow-covered ground.

“I still think the shield is cheating,” Tony quips from behind the snow fort, packing snowballs for his team.

Jeff chomps down on a snowball Wanda flings across the yard with her magic, his sharp teeth crunching through the ice.

On the other side of the field, Peter uses his webs to scoop up his team’s pre-made snowballs and launch them straight at Yelena.

Natasha moves through the snow like it’s second nature - because, let’s be real, it is - gliding silently across the white terrain. One second Sam is laughing, the next she’s there, nailing him square in the back of the head.

You laugh, having seen the whole thing, just as Natasha’s fierce green eyes snap to you.

Uh oh.

You barely have time to think before you turn and run.

Natasha always gets a bit… competitive when it comes to simple things like snowball fights. For example, last year she gave Tony a concussion.

Yeah. Pretty hardcore competitiveness.

You leap through the chaos, dodging incoming snowballs, and dive behind Clint, who’s firing with his bow like this is an actual battlefield.

“What’s up, kid?” he asks, eyes trained on the opposing team’s snow fort as he grabs another handful of snow.

You let out a nervous chuckle, glancing over your shoulder. No sign of Natasha - which somehow makes it worse.

“Um, so… I think I’m next on the hit list.”

He snorts, only pausing his repetitive grab-and-fire motion to look at you.

“And you came here? To me?”

You nod.

“Well, good luck,” Clint says, already turning back. “She forgets all relationships exist when there’s competition involved. Ask Tony, he’ll te—”

A snowball slams into the side of his face, nearly knocking his beanie clean off.

You don’t wait. You bolt toward Steve, desperately trying to use his shield as cover.

Nearby, Jeff slides across the snow on his stomach and takes Yelena out at the ankles. His vocal recognition collar lights up, bursting into recorded laughter as the assassin goes down hard, cursing loudly in Russian.

“You’ll pay for that, shark-dog!”

-

You hide behind a tree, your jacket brushing against the rough bark at your back. The sounds of the fight are distant out here - muffled laughter, the occasional shout - far enough away that it almost feels like another world.

Your spot beside Steve was compromised when Tony melted your team’s snow fort with his repulsors, exposing everyone at once.

Now, you’re on your own. Hiding from Natasha.

Your breath fogs in front of you with every exhale.

You’re not built for things like this. You’re a lab assistant, for goodness’ sake. You don’t have extensive S.H.I.E.L.D. training or super strength - you’re just… you.

At least, that’s what you’re telling yourself when Natasha suddenly pins you against the tree, your hair damp from the snowball she pulled from God-knows-where.

“Gotcha,” she laughs, one hand gripping your coat as she presses you back against the trunk.

You smile despite yourself. Sure, you technically lost - but is this really losing?

“You did,” you say softly, looking at her. Her eyes crinkle at the corners, a sight reserved almost exclusively for you.

She steps closer, her chest brushing yours. “So,” she murmurs, “what’s my prize?”

You blink. You hadn’t thought about a prize.

Honestly, you hadn’t thought much at all.

Clearing your throat, you meet her gaze. “What would you like as compensation?”

Natasha loops her arms around your neck, easy and familiar. Your hands settle at her hips - a position you’ve only found yourselves in a handful of times.

“Kiss me,” she mumbles, her words turning to fog as they brush against your face.

You nod and lean in, kissing her softly.

Her lips are cold against yours. So is her nose.

You let her take control.

Like always.

Your back hits the tree again, but this time a cascade of snow drops from the branches above, spilling over both of you mid-kiss.

You pull apart with startled laughs, suddenly freezing and soaked.

“Holy shit,” Natasha laughs, shaking her head as snow tumbles off her beanie. “Well. That happened.”

You sputter out a laugh of your own, the cold stealing any chance of a coherent response.

And at that time…

Jeff waddles over, his ski goggles abandoned somewhere behind him. “Oh, if it isn’t you two,” he says knowingly. “If I had eyebrows, I’d be moving them.” He tries anyway. It somehow proves his point.

He looks between your flushed faces and the disturbed snow around you, nodding once before turning away.

“C’mon, lovebirds,” he calls. “We’re making Frosty!”

-

Steve, Bucky, and Sam take charge of the base, laughing as they wrestle with the massive snowball, rolling it through the fresh powder until it grows heavy and solid - something sturdy enough to hold everything together.

Nearby, Clint and Tony argue the entire time they shape the middle, packing snow onto snow until it forms a lopsided but acceptable second tier.

You and Peter handle the head, kneeling in the snow as you pat it into shape, hands numb and clumsy from the cold. Peter chatters the whole time, throwing out ideas and jokes as you smooth over the rough edges, doing your best to make it round.

Off to the side, Jeff, Wanda, Natasha, and Yelena return with supplies, their arms full and footsteps crunching loudly as they approach.

One by one, the pieces are dropped into a growing pile at your feet: five smooth rocks - two for the eyes, three for the buttons - one slightly crooked carrot, one of Tony’s top hats (why does he even have that?), two straight sticks for arms, and a bent one that looks perfect for a crooked smile.

When it’s finally time, you slip off your scarf and wrap it gently around the snowman’s neck, tucking it into place.

It feels finished then - complete in the quiet, simple way moments like this always are.

Jeff stares at the snowman.

He doesn’t circle it.

He doesn’t inspect it.

He just stares, beady eyes blinking slowly.

“…Why is it not saying happy birthday?” he asks.

Everyone freezes.

Tony squints. “Whose birthday would it even be?”

Jeff doesn’t answer. He just waddles away.

Right toward Steve’s shield, propped against a nearby bench.

Oh no.

He grabs the leather straps between his teeth and starts dragging it up the hill, his progress slow and determined.

“What the hell is he doing?” Clint asks, watching Jeff inch his way upward.

Natasha sighs, already putting it together. “He said, let’s make Frosty,” she reminds you.

Realization dawns on you. “He thought it would actually be Frosty. Like… happy birthday and everything.”

Jeff reaches the top, hops onto the shield like a sled, and launches himself downhill - shrieking with joy as the vibranium cuts cleanly through the snow.

The speed is horrifying.

The intent is clear.

“This is for emotional closure!” Jeff yells.

He slams straight into the base of the snowman.

Snow explodes everywhere - rocks scatter, the carrot goes flying, and Tony’s top hat flips through the air in slow motion.

The entire structure collapses in seconds.

Silence.

Snow drifts lazily back to the ground.

Jeff sits proudly in the wreckage, tail wagging, shield still beneath him.

“…Happy birthday,” he says, satisfied.

Peter is the first to speak. “We worked on that for, like… forty minutes.”

Tony stares at the destruction. Then at Steve. “You’re never getting that shield back, by the way.”

Steve sighs, rubbing his face. “I knew this was a mistake.”

Natasha presses her face into your shoulder, shaking with laughter.

Yelena nods approvingly. “Respect.”

-

You all pile inside, peeling off wet jackets and snow-covered boots by the door. The hallway quickly becomes a mess of discarded layers - jackets, hoodies, damp beanies, scarves tossed wherever they land.

“I declare a national pajama day,” Tony announces, trudging toward his room.

Clint nods in agreement and follows him down the hall.

Soon enough, everyone disappears into their respective rooms to change.

A knock on your door startles you, pajamas already on.

“Come in,” you call, helping Jeff wiggle into his shark printed onesie - courtesy of Sam and his online shopping.

“Hey,” Natasha says as she steps inside.

She’s wearing a green henley, sleeves pushed up just enough to expose her wrists, her hair pulled back loosely with the rest falling over her shoulders. Comfortable. Familiar.

You look up at her and smile. “Hi.”

“Are you guys gonna kiss again?” Jeff asks bluntly, tilting his head from his spot on the bed.

Natasha walks over and bends down until her face is level with his. “Are you jealous, malen’kaya akula (little shark)?”

He huffs, glancing between you and Natasha’s looming frame. “Maybe…”

She smirks and presses a big kiss to his forehead. Jeff’s eyes flutter closed at the contact.

The land shark hums contentedly, clearly pleased to be included.

Natasha straightens, crossing her arms. “Better?”

Jeff nods enthusiastically as he hops off the bed. “Much better. I will now go torment Clint. If you need me.”

He waddles out, pointedly giving you privacy.

You laugh once he’s gone, shaking your head. “He really does need to be the center of attention.”

She hums in agreement as she wanders toward your closet. “Very different from you.”

Of course she’d notice. Natasha always notices - always watches, studies. The thought sends a quiet shiver down your spine.

“Anyway,” she says, turning back toward you, “I have a question.” She holds out one of your gray hoodies, fingers hooked through the fabric. “Can I borrow this?”

You squint slightly, eyeing both the hoodie and the mischievous smile that comes with it. “You mean borrow as in… permanently acquire?”

“Maybe.”

Her wearing your clothes. Carrying a piece of you. Smelling like clean laundry or your soap - or just… you.

The thought settles warm and dizzy in your chest.

“Yeah,” you say immediately.

-

The kitchen smells like cocoa and sugar, warm and rich, fogging up the windows as steam curls toward the ceiling. Outside, snow keeps falling in lazy sheets, but in here everything is soft and golden.

Mugs are lined up across the counter - mismatched, oversized, chipped in places - each one waiting its turn. Some of them have faded logos, some are novelty mugs that probably shouldn’t still exist. None of them match. It feels right.

Steve handles the milk at the stove, focused in that quiet, steady way he’s known for. Wanda stands beside him, stirring the pot with gentle precision, wrist loose, eyes soft. The spoon taps lightly against the metal every few seconds.

You’re stationed at the toppings, because apparently that’s where you “excel.”

AKA Y/N’s hot chocolate station.

Jeff sits on the counter near you, tail swinging back and forth, watching everything with intense focus. Like if he looks away for even a second, someone will mess it up.

Peter appears first, already changed into dinosaur pajamas, still flushed from the cold and grinning like he hasn’t stopped smiling all day. He stops short when he sees the counter.

“…Is that marshmallow fluff?”

Natasha follows close behind him, black sweatpants and your gray hoodie pulled over her head. The sleeves hang too long over her hands, fabric bunching at her wrists. She leans against the counter beside you, easy and familiar, hip brushing yours like it’s second nature.

The scene makes your chest ache pleasantly, like you want to memorize it.

Tony trails in next, wearing an I ❤️ Science shirt and already reaching for the chocolate syrup like this is a foregone conclusion. Yelena arrives wrapped in a fluffy robe, expression unimpressed but posture very much settled in for the long haul. Clint brings up the rear, entirely swallowed by a unicorn Snuggie, hood pulled up like he’s committing to the bit.

By the time you finish setting everything out, the counter is crowded. Marshmallows spill from their bag. Whipped cream sweats slightly at the edges. Cinnamon, sprinkles, chocolate chips - everything within arm’s reach.

That’s when the rest of the team realizes what you’ve started.

The kitchen fills fast. Too many voices. Too much movement. Someone laughs loudly. Someone bumps into someone else. It’s chaotic in that familiar, lived-in way.

Peter nearly wipes out when Sam barrels in behind him, skidding to a stop just short of face-planting into the marshmallow fluff. He freezes, wide-eyed.

“Saved it,” Sam says proudly.

Tony treats his mug like a science experiment, carefully drizzling chocolate syrup over whipped cream with surgical precision. He leans back to admire his work.

“Call me Picasso,” he smirks.

Jeff hauls himself farther onto the counter and commits a crime against whipped cream.

You turn just in time to see him shove the nozzle directly into his mouth and inhale - half air, half sugar.

“Jeff—”

He swallows, pleased. Completely unrepentant.

People start building their drinks around you. Yelena definitely adds alcohol. Steve pauses, considers his options like it’s a tactical decision, then adds cinnamon. Bucky keeps it simple - just cocoa, no extras.

Wanda gets double chocolate and cinnamon.

Natasha doesn’t hesitate. She steps closer, peers into your mug, and nods once.

“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” she says. “I trust you.”

Something warm settles in your chest, and it has nothing to do with the drink.

When the mugs are full, the chaos eases into something softer. People linger instead of rushing off. Someone laughs quietly. Someone bumps an elbow and apologizes even though it’s unnecessary.

Someone tries to balance a marshmallow on Jeff’s nose.

He freezes completely.

“Do not rush this,” he warns.

The marshmallow drops.

Jeff gasps.

“Betrayal.”

Laughter fills the kitchen again - low and easy now. Natasha bumps your shoulder gently, hoodie sleeve brushing your arm. Outside, the snow keeps falling like it has all the time in the world.

You sit right beside Natasha on the couch, knees touching. The team argues briefly about movie choices. Frozen is suggested. Ice Age wins by a landslide.

Jeff snuggles in next to you, his onesie keeping him extra toasty.

Natasha smiles into her mug and leans into you, her shoulder fitting perfectly beneath your chin like it was always meant to be there.

-

During the movie, you drape a blanket over yourself and Natasha. She immediately steals half of it, tugging it closer and pressing her feet against your thigh.

“Your feet are freezing,” you whisper, careful not to interrupt the movie.

Peter and Clint are sprawled on the floor with Jeff, popcorn scattered between them as Scrat fights for his acorn on screen.

The fire warms the room, but she’s still cold.

“That’s why they’re pressed against you,” she murmurs back. “You’re warm.”

You smile and lift her calves into your lap without thinking. Your hands rest there naturally, warming her through the fabric. Her fuzzy socks brush against your stomach, and she relaxes into it like she’s been waiting.

Everyone laughs at something Sid says.

“He has a lower IQ than Jeff,” Tony mutters from beneath at least three blankets.

Jeff’s head snaps toward him, offended.

“My IQ is fine,” he declares, before eating half the popcorn in one bite.

The movie continues. Jeff migrates from lap to lap, claiming it’s to “see the movie from all angles.”

He eventually settles in Natasha’s lap, her feet still resting on yours.

Warmth fills the compound. Laughter. Quiet jokes. The sound of Diego and Manny arguing from the TV speakers. The fire crackling softly as Bucky and Sam drift off to sleep.

It’s home.

It always will be.

Even with a little snow outside.

[wandaschaosmagic]

Also I’m thinking of writing a fic about professor romanoff x younger professor reader after I’m done with Terms and Conditions.

Would you read it?

Yes

No

Maybe

Voting ended onJan 26

[wandaschaosmagic]

Am I doing research on literature rn for you all? Yes, yes I am. Call me dedicated 😌

[wandaschaosmagic]

I would die to see Natasha lowkey enjoying (even if it's pretend) married life and someone caring about her just because they want to, not as a means to an end (because that's probably the only version she's experienced, both as an agent in the Red Room and SHIELD); she would absolutely mentally scold herself and be taken aback at those feelings because love (and affection) is for children, right? My poor emotional stunted girl will do good to have an emotional and loving partner (like R)

Of course you don't have to put it in the chapters I'm just yapping (and would like to hear your opinions, if you have them, on the subject)

- dagger

Funny you mention that… 🫢

But yea I feel like she’d catch herself doing things like playing with her wedding ring (ahem chap 2) or simply staring at R for too long, and then say “it’s just a mission, this isn’t real.” But she wants nothing more than to make it real.

I will say since this is pre avengers we’re gonna be dealing with a very closed off Natasha and honestly it’s gonna hurt. Since before she had a team - a family - she was more closed off. Maybe R is her turning point instead of the avengers.

But yea that’s all I got without giving away too much hehe

[wandaschaosmagic]

Just got around to the 2nd chapter or Terms and Conditions, just as wonderful as the first

Can't wait to see r and Nat acting as a couple, im getting giddy just thinking about it!

- 🗡

AHH I’m so glad you liked it! I think I’m gonna post the new chapter next Friday - so in a week! So stay tuned and if you have any requests lmk <3

[wandaschaosmagic]

Terms and Conditions

Chapter Two - In The Details

Pairing : shieldagent!natasha x shieldagent!gn!reader

Warnings : third person POV, stalking for mission

Word Count : 4.3k

Summary : Now “married” and living together, Natasha and Y/N prepare to infiltrate a closed circle of wealth and influence - where every habit matters, every glance is noted, and trust is the most dangerous currency of all.

A/N : you guys!!! 500+ notes on the first chapter are you kidding?! And so many of you wanted to be tagged for this? Like I’m just mind blown honestly. Thank you so much and I hope you enjoy this second chapter! Comment if you wanna be tagged <3

Previous Chapter | Series Log | Masterlist

Natasha wakes up before Y/N. Which isn’t surprising in the slightest.

The smell of coffee fills the house. Well - their house.

Their.

Wife.

Marriage.

Words that sit heavy in Y/N’s chest, waiting to be said wrong. Waiting to be hesitated over. Waiting to give them away.

They shove the thought aside. Too early for that kind of spiral.

Y/N pads into the kitchen, rubbing at their eyes, sleep still clings stubbornly to their limbs. The oversized shirt hangs loose on their frame, fabric worn thin and soft from years of use. The floor creaks faintly beneath their steps.

Natasha’s eyes are already on them.

Not openly. Not obviously. Just enough to register presence, movement, threat. A habit. One she doesn’t bother correcting.

She looks away the moment Y/N notices.

“Morning,” Natasha says, tone flat, attention returning to the laptop like Y/N is just another variable entering the room.

She sits at the kitchen island, posture straight despite the early hour. Hair pulled back into a loose braid that’s already begun to slip, tank top clinging to muscle earned and maintained. The laptop screen glows faintly against her sharp focus. A mug of black coffee rests at her side, untouched but ready.

“Mornin’,” Y/N replies, voice rough with sleep.

There’s another mug by the coffee pot.

Same shape. Same color. Same faint chip near the handle.

A set.

Intentional or not, it feels like a test.

Y/N takes it anyway.

They pour the coffee slowly, too slowly, eyes fixed on the dark liquid as it fills the cup. The sound of it feels amplified in the quiet. Every movement feels watched - even when Natasha very pointedly does not look.

“So uh…” Y/N clears their throat. “How’d you sleep?”

Natasha doesn’t look up. “Decent.”

A beat.

“You?”

Obligation. Nothing more.

“Good.” Y/N adds sugar. One spoonful. Then another.

Natasha’s eyes flick to their hands - quick, instinctive. She stops herself almost immediately, gaze snapping back to the screen like she never noticed at all.

But she did. The detail now filed away, whether she means to or not.

Y/N adds creamer next. Too much. They don’t correct it.

“Maybe a little nervous,” they say, staring into the mug like it might offer guidance.

“Nervous?” Natasha asks.

She finally looks up.

Just long enough.

The eye contact is brief, assessing, unreadable. Green eyes sharp, guarded, giving nothing away. Then she looks back down, fingers resuming their steady, precise typing.

“About the mission,” Y/N explains quickly. “Undercover’s fine. It’s just…we haven’t really worked together like this before.”

A pause.

Not hesitation - calculation.

“That’s true,” Natasha says. “We’ll adapt.”

Her fingers don’t stop moving. “Ideally, it won’t last long.”

Y/N stills.

Their stomach sinks, slow and unpleasant.

That’s not what they meant.

They didn’t mean the mission.

They glance at Natasha without meaning to, eyes lingering longer than they should. She looks perfectly at ease, comfortable in the space in a way Y/N feels like they’re borrowing. Like she belongs here - and Y/N is just occupying it temporarily.

Domestic. Controlled. Untouchable.

Natasha doesn’t return the look.

Doesn’t need to.

Y/N coughs and lifts the mug, taking a sip too fast. The heat scalds their tongue and they hiss quietly, turning away.

“Yeah,” they say, voice strained. “Quick is good.”

It isn’t.

Natasha’s fingers pause for half a second.

Not concern. Not sympathy.

Recognition.

Then she resumes her task.

Neither of them mentions it.

The kitchen settles back into silence - thick, deliberate, full of everything they aren’t saying.

And that’s exactly how Natasha prefers it.

-

The highlighter skids across the page, squeaking faintly as it leaves neon yellow in its wake. A single sentence - important, apparently - now glowing like it’s screaming to be remembered.

Y/N’s fingers tighten around the marker. Their brows knit together, a shallow crease forming between them as they lean closer, eyes scanning the paragraph again as if repetition might make it stick.

It doesn’t.

The Art History book sits heavy on the coffee table, thick enough to feel like a challenge rather than a resource. Its spine is already bent from overuse, pages warped slightly where sticky notes spill out in every direction - pink, green, orange - each one marking something Fury decided they needed to know immediately. Margins are crowded with hurried notes, half-formed thoughts, underlined words that still don’t mean much.

They knew nothing about art.

So of course, Fury picked a cover that revolved entirely around it.

Art Curator. Private sector. Someone who selects pieces, researches historical context, verifies authenticity, plans exhibitions, speaks convincingly about meaning and technique and influence. Someone who belongs in the quiet galleries and donor dinners - not someone who still counts exits the second they walk into a room.

Y/N drags a hand through their hair, fingers snagging slightly as they exhale. Their knee bounces, restless.

How are they supposed to remember all of this?

Some of it’s easy. Everyone knows the big ones - Mona Lisa, Starry Night, Girl with a Pearl Earring, The Scream. Cultural shorthand. Safe answers.

But beyond that?

It’s dates and movements and names that blur together. Oil versus tempera. Baroque versus Rococo. Artists who influenced artists who influenced other artists, all stacked on top of each other like a house of cards.

And the books scattered around them - three, four, maybe five - can only teach so much in so little time.

“Why do I have to be the Art Curator?” Y/N mutters, mostly to the room. Mostly to the universe.

Natasha’s quiet laugh cuts through the hum of the brewing coffee pot.

Y/N looks up.

She’s at the kitchen island again, laptop open, posture straight, one leg hooked around the stool rung. Her eyes lift briefly from the screen to glance back at Y/N, expression unreadable except for the faintest hint of amusement.

“You’re less murderous," Natasha says lightly.

Y/N pinches the bridge of their nose, inhaling slowly. “What does that even mean?”

Natasha hums, considering, eyes already drifting back to her work. “Just repeating what Fury told us.”

That tracks.

They’ve both been at this for hours. The sun has shifted across the windows, light changing angles on the walls. Empty mugs sit abandoned on various surfaces. Another pot of coffee gurgles to life, the smell rich and sharp in the air.

“Come look,” Natasha says suddenly.

That’s it. No explanation. No invitation.

Y/N doesn’t hesitate. They’re grateful for the excuse to stop pretending any of this is sinking in.

They cross the room and slide onto the stool beside her, leaning forward instinctively to get a better look at the laptop screen.

Too close.

Natasha’s head snaps just slightly in their direction. Not enough to be obvious - but enough to be felt.

Y/N freezes. “Sorry,” they murmur, scooting back to their original spot.

Satisfied, Natasha taps a key.

The screen shifts to a dossier list - SHIELD encrypted, layered security, the kind of interface that screams classified. Names scroll down the side. Faces. Money. Influence.

Y/N squints at the screen. “Very illegal,” they mutter. “Very bad. A very money-hungry league.”

Natasha ignores the commentary.

The first file opens.

A man in his mid-fifties fills the screen. Bushy eyebrows, expressive face, a politician’s smile polished to perfection. Campaign photo, recent.

“This is Governor Gideon Marlowe,” Natasha says. “Three terms. Twelve years.”

Y/N hums thoughtfully.

In New York, governors can stay as long as they’re elected. Twelve years means people trust him. Or think they do.

Y/N studies the image. “Why does he remind me of the Lorax?” They ask, pointing vaguely at the mustache.

Natasha doesn’t laugh.

Doesn’t smile.

But the corner of her mouth twitches - just barely - before she smooths it away and continues.

She taps another key.

Additional information fills the screen. Single. No children. Charismatic. Generous public donor. Promises made, promises broken - always in time for election season.

They exhale softly. “Figures.”

Natasha moves on.

“Harvey and Vivian LeClair,” she says as the next file opens.

Two faces appear side by side.

Harvey is round-faced, approachable. The kind of man who looks like he’d clap you on the shoulder and ask how your day’s been - and mean it. Vivian, on the other hand, looks sharp enough to cut glass. Piercing eyes. Perfect posture. Earrings that probably cost more than Y/N’s entire wardrobe. Her smile is immaculate.

“She’s always two steps ahead,” Natasha says, pointing to Vivian. “We need to be careful around her.”

“He seems like an easy in,” Y/N notes, eyes on Harvey. “Like he’d actually listen.”

Natasha nods once. “If we could get him alone. Vivian hovers. Like a vulture.”

Clack.

The next face appears.

Judge Elena Carrington.

Federal. Imposing. Her ebony skin stretched over a powerful frame, gaze steady and unyielding. Someone who looks like they command a room without raising their voice.

Y/N tilts their head. “She’s pretty.”

Natasha shoots them a look - sharp, warning - before turning back to the screen.

“Forty-eight,” she says flatly. “Offshore accounts under a fake foundation. Blackmail. Accepts bribes to dismiss cases.”

Y/N winces. “Okay. Maybe not pretty. Just a pretty bad person.”

Another key press.

A new couple fills the screen.

“Dante and Serena Voss,” Natasha says. “Your primary targets.”

Dante looks charming, open. Serena stands slightly behind him, expression closed, observant.

“Art benefactors,” Natasha continues. “Public sponsors. Private details. Bribes. Hush money.”

Clack.

Another face.

“Marcus Fenwick,” Natasha says. “Event sponsor.”

Late forties. Comb-over hair. Piercing brown eyes. A smile that doesn’t quite reach them.

“He sells forgeries abroad,” Natasha finishes, “under the guise of supporting emerging artists.”

Y/N leans back slightly, exhaling.

So many faces. So many lies.

And somehow, they’re supposed to walk into this world and belong.

-

“Tomorrow, we start.” Natasha states. “You have two weeks until the next gala.”

Y/N pauses mid-sentence, pen hovering above the page. Their personal copy of gathered intel sprawls across the page in half-print, half-cursive scrawl - messy in places, precise in others. The cap of the pen rests between their lips, a nerves thing more than habit.

They nod once, biting down on the plastic a little harder than necessary.

That’s enough.

Natasha looks away, satisfied with the confirmation. Her gaze flicks to the coffee pot. Empty. Then to the clock on the stove. Late.

“We should eat.”

It isn’t a suggestion.

She orders without asking what Y/N wants. Takeout - because it’s fast, because it doesn’t require planning, because it doesn’t invite conversation or eye contact. Something neutral.

Chinese.

Y/N doesn’t argue.

Part of them is grateful. The other part knows better than to press on small choices when it comes to Natasha. Control is her comfort. Letting her have it is easier. Safer.

When the food arrives, the bags sit on the counter longer than they should, heat slowly leaking through the paper.

Neither of them moves right away.

The laptop stays open. Y/N’s journal gets pushed aside, just enough to make room. Natasha opens a container and picks at the food absently, eyes scanning lines of older intel like she’s already moved on from the meal entirely.

Y/N eats slower, more deliberately.

The soft taps of chopsticks against plastic is the only steady sound in the room - Y/N’s doing.

“Vivian prefers red wine,” Natasha says without looking up.

A pause.

“Marcus thinks Monte is overrated.”

Another beat.

“Gideon maintains preexisting seating arrangements.”

Y/N nods along, committing it all to memory. They don’t interrupt. Don’t ask follow-ups. They know better.

Natasha slides a container of lo mein across the table toward them. Nearly empty.

Y/N swallows and takes it.

It isn’t kindness.

It’s logistics.

The food gets cold before they realize it. Containers are folded shut, stacked, and shoved into the fridge without ceremony.

Natasha wipes the table clean - once, precise, efficient. Y/N gathers their journal, fingers brushing over dog-eared pages and highlighted notes.

Their hands brush.

Barely.

Both of them freeze.

Y/N jerks their hand back immediately, chest tightening, like the contact alone stole too much air from the room. Too close. Too much.

“We’ll talk about your role more tomorrow,” Natasha says, already nodding to herself.

Y/N looks up from the pages - but she’s already done. Turning away. Retreating upstairs, footsteps measured, controlled, final.

The house settled into quiet.

Y/N exhaled slowly and looks back down at the pages.

Then at the Art History book still abandoned on the coffee table, still thick and still waiting.

It’s going to be a long night.

-

Y/N drops to one knee, fingers looping the laces of their running shoe. The hardwood floor is cool beneath them. Natasha stands directly in front of them, blocking the morning light from the window.

”So,” Natasha says quietly.

She tilts the phone in her hand, angling the screen more toward their eyeline. A satellite map. A familiar path traced in faint blue.

”He takes this route every morning,” she continues. Her finger drags once across the glass, precise. “Same pace. Same time. You’ll cross him here.”

Y/N tightens the knot, gives it a sharp tug.

”Make him notice your presence,” Natasha says. “Nothing obvious. A nod. Eye contact. Familiarity without invitation.” Her finger taps the screen once. “Do not engage. Not yet.”

Y/N switches knees, the motion fluid, tying the other shoe.

”Wait a couple of days,” she adds. “You’ll feel when the moment’s right. Then you introduce yourself. Your job. Mention me - casually.” Her gaze flicks from the phone to Y/N’s face.

Dante Voss.

Their primary target. Their entry point into a web of charity galas, offshore accounts, shell foundations that smile pretty and bleed cities dry.

”And once he starts talking,” Natasha finishes, pocketing the phone, "that's our way in. Got it?”

Y/N straightens, stretching their ankle once before standing. “Yeah. Got it.” A beat. “Become running acquaintances. Then friends.”

They look at her, mouth tipping into something easy. “Low-risk. Easy enough.”

Natasha doesn’t smile back.

She's dressed down - dark jeans, a green henley, sleeves pushed to her forearms. Her hair is natural today, curls loose, unstyled. She looks civilian. Human. Like she could belong anywhere.

That’s what makes her dangerous.

Her eyes drop, just briefly, to where Y/N had been kneeling.

One knee.

The posture doesn’t escape her. Neither does the weight of the cover they're wearing.

Married.

She shakes her head once, sharp, like dismissing a thought she doesn’t want to finish and reaches for her purse.

“I'll be watching Vivian,” she says, already moving. “From a distance. A boutique near the Country Club. She likes to pretend she’s unpredictable.”

Y/N grabs their water bottle. “You always overplan this much?”

Natasha snorts softly, reaching for her car keys.

Every move she makes is deliberate. Calculated. She knows where her hands will land before they get there. Knows the outcome before she commits to the action.

“Yes,” she says flatly. “Now go. He’ll be there in—“ She checks her watch. “Eighteen minutes. If he keeps pace.”

She slips her SHIELD-issued sidearm beneath her waistband, the cold metal pressing briefly into her lower back before disappearing under fabric.

Y/N opens the front door, the morning air already waiting.

They pause, glance back over their shoulder. “Okay. Be safe.”

Natasha meets their eyes.

“You too.”

It’s nothing. Just the words, returned out of habit.

Still - something in Y/N’s chest flips anyway.

They jog down the sidewalk, footsteps fading.

-

Natasha’s fingers drum lightly against the steering wheel, sunglasses perched low on her nose. She's parked across the street from the boutique, engine off, radio low enough to pass for background noise.

Her eyes stay forward.

Vivian LeClair enters the shop with Judge Elena Carrington at her side. Natasha tracks them through the windshield, peripheral vision doing the real work.

Vivian moves like the space belongs to her. She rifles through dresses, barely glancing before handing them off. Clerks orbit her instinctively - no searching, no waiting. She’s learned that people will rush to fill silence if you act like you’re already bored.

Elena is different.

Hands folded. Posture closed. Her gaze flicks - doors, windows, reflections. She clocks exits without thinking about it. Natasha notes the tension in her shoulders.

Uncomfortable in public.

Or uncomfortable alone with Vivian.

Hard to say.

Natasha waits. She’s good at it. Always has been.

What she’s not used to is the idea of someone waiting for her back at the house.

Home.

The word settles wrong.

Her thumb brushes the wedding band without thinking, spinning it once, like it’s always been there. Like muscle memory.

Vivian leans in, murmurs something. Elena nods but doesn’t close the distance, replying from where she stands.

Vivian thinks it’s friendship.

Elena thinks it’s leverage.

Both are useful.

Neither is equal.

They don’t buy anything - not today. Or not here.

Natasha watches them leave, eyes ahead, expression neutral.

She waits exactly five minutes.

Then she starts the car and drives home.

-

Y/N is already in the kitchen when Natasha gets back, still wearing their running shoes, a glass of water sweating in their hand. They don’t turn right away - just glance toward the door as it opens, clocking the sound before the movement.

Natasha slips inside and closes it behind her, quiet. The sidearm comes out first, muscle memory, and disappears into the kitchen drawer beside the cutlery. Hidden in plain sight.

“So,” Y/N says, draining the rest of the water and setting the glass in the sink, “how’d it go with you?”

Sweat clings to their temple, darkening a curl of hair that refuses to behave. Their eyes track Natasha automatically, cataloging posture, tension, anything off. A habit.

She shrugs out of her jacket. “Decent. They’re not friends. Acquaintances at best.” A pause as she replays it. “Elena doesn’t like Vivian. Or she doesn’t like being seen with her.”

Y/N nods, already there with her. “Probably both,” they say. “Vivian’s a liability. Loud, visible. Bad for Elena’s image.”

“Exactly.”

A beat settles between them - not uncomfortable, just loaded.

“Dante was where you said he’d be,” Y/N adds, running a hand through their hair, pushing it back from their face. “Stopped at the light on Ninth. On the phone. I think it was Serena - something about a get-together.”

Natasha’s eyes lift. “The gala?”

”Maybe.” They shrug. “It was quick. The street crossing light went off before I could hear more.”

That earns a nod. Natasha pulls a folder closer, fingers already moving as she logs the detail. Time, place, possible contact. Everything matters, even when it doesn’t.

They don’t say anything else. They don’t need to.

-

The next day, Natasha is at the Country Club before noon.

Governor Gideon Marlowe plays golf every Thursday with Harvey LeClair. Same tee time. Same course. Same rhythm. Predictable men are dangerous in their own way.

She blends easily - neutral colors, fitted polo, visor pulled low. Her swing is clean, efficient. No wasted motion. No flair. Good enough not to draw attention, good enough to belong.

Gideon arrives in a blacked-out SUV.

He leaves in Harvey’s car.

That’s the first thing she notes.

Natasha adjusts her hat and steps out of her own vehicle a moment later, keeping distance as she follows on foot. Far enough to be accidental. Close enough to hear.

Harvey is loud. He always is. She can clock his voice from twenty feet out without trying, booming across the green as if volume equals authority. He slaps a hand on Gideon’s shoulder, says something about the caddie - something unkind, meant to land as humor.

Harvey laughs at his own joke.

Gideon smiles on cue.

It’s a performance. One-sided. And Gideon is the audience.

Golf, Natasha realizes, isn’t about the game for them, it’s theater. Optics. Proof of proximity. The same way Elena stands beside Vivian in public, the same way alliances are mistaken for affection.

They walk the course instead of riding carts, talking more than playing. Harvey lines up a shot - bad stance, worse angle. Anyone could see it.

Gideon doesn’t correct him.

The club connects. The ball slices hard to the right, skidding into the rough.

Harvey curses.

Gideon smiles.

Natasha files it away.

Public failure is poison to men like Harvey. And Gideon let it happen. Let him look foolish. Why?

Because it costs him nothing.

Because this relationship isn’t built on respect - it’s built on convenience.

And convenience fractures easily.

Natasha steps up to her own ball, sets her feet, and swings.

The contact is solid. Clean. The ball arcs through the air and lands square on the green.

She watches it settle, then nods once to herself.

Not bad at all.

-

The third day, Natasha follows Marcus Fenwick to a private members’ club.

It’s the kind of place that doesn’t advertise itself. No sign out front. No windows meant to invite you in. Just a discreet brass plaque and a door that opens only if you already belong. Natasha belongs well enough.

Her wedding band glimmers as she accepts the martini she orders, the low light catching the metal at just the right angle. She makes sure it’s visible. Always an accident. Never a mistake.

Marcus is seated behind her, exactly where she expects him to be - deep in a leather chair that has molded itself to his shape over time. The same chair. Always the same chair. The air smells like cigars and expensive alcohol, layered and stale in a way that speaks of tradition rather than neglect.

There’s no music.

That’s important.

Just quiet conversation, murmured and careful, the sound of money talking to money without raising its voice.

Staff greet him by name. Mr. Fenwick rolls off their tongues easily, practiced, familiar. Someone places his drink in front of him without asking - then adds, almost as an afterthought, if he’d like the usual today.

He smiles at that.

Marcus stays for exactly an hour.

Not wandering.

Not lingering.

Not killing time.

He’s available.

One person approaches, shakes his hand, and sits. They lean in just enough to speak quietly, eyes flicking around the room every few minutes - not panicked, just aware. The conversation is brief. Efficient. When it ends, they stand, shake again, and leave without ceremony.

Deals are confirmed here.

Not discussed.

Marcus doesn’t mind being watched. It’s expected. He doesn’t flinch under glances, doesn’t shift when eyes pass over him. He isn’t paranoid - he’s careful. Patient. The kind of man who understands that stillness is its own form of control.

Like a snake that doesn’t bother striking until it's already too late to move.

Natasha finishes her drink, rises, and leaves before he does.

-

Also on the third day, Dante runs into Y/N.

Literally.

It’s a collision of shoulders and momentum, a mess of reflexive apologies as they both stumble back half a step. Dante’s hands come up instinctively, gripping Y/N’s arm to steady them - and himself.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he says quickly, eyes scanning them with sharp efficiency. Not just politeness. Assessment.

“No, it's okay.” Y/N laughs, tapping the earbud still in place. “Partly my fault too.”

Dante smiles and lets go, charm snapping neatly into place as if it’s been waiting for permission. “I haven’t seen you around,” he says. Then, correcting himself, “Well. Only the last couple of days.”

It’s not a question.

Not an opinion.

A statement.

He’s observant - even when he’s running. His schedule is consistent, his routine predictable, but he accounts for variables. New ones especially.

Good, Natasha was right.

“Yeah,” Y/N says, pulling the earbud out. “I just moved a couple streets over. With my wife.”

Their heart kicks harder than it should. They swallow it down.

“Wife?” Dante repeats, eyebrows lifting. “You look a little young to be married.”

Y/N laughs, nodding easily. “Fair. But when you know…you know.”

It’s the first thing that comes to mind. Simple. Earnest. Something Dante might recognize.

For a moment, he looks surprised - caught on guard by the sincerity. Then he nods, a slow smile forming as understanding settles in.

“Trust me,” he says, exhaling softly, “I know exactly what you mean.”

It’s not bitterness in his sigh. It’s satisfaction. Contentment. Pride, even. Whatever he has with Serena, he believes in it.

A beat passes.

“So,” Dante asks, head tilting slightly, curiosity unfiltered, “what made you two move here?”

He doesn’t mean it lightly. He never does. Dante would rather know too much than not enough.

Y/N tells him they’re an Art Curator. That New York means opportunity. Connections. Exposure. A bigger field.

He buys it.

Quickly.

Almost too quickly.

Dante smiles and volunteers his own story without being asked - how he and Serena are in the art business too. How they donate to local charities. How much they care about underprivileged kids having access to creative outlets.

LeClair’s organization.

Y/N already knows every word of it. They praise it anyway.

”You should come by sometime,” Dante says suddenly. “Tea. Lunch. Something easy. You can meet the missus. Bring yours as well.”

There it is again.

A breath catches, just for a second.

He laughs, glancing at his watch. “Almost forgot - Dante. And my wife’s Serena. Voss.”

They shake hands. Firm. Confident.

“Natasha is my wife,” Y/N says smoothly, using Natasha’s alias. “And I’m Y/N Rushman.”

”Nice to meet you,” Dante says, releasing their hand. “I have to run - but let me give you my number.”

They exchange contacts. Dante unaware that Y/N’s phone is routed through a secure SHIELD line.

When he jogs off, leaving Y/N alone on the sidewalk, they pull out their phone and type a message.

Good to go.

Sent to Natasha.

Now all that’s left is the hard part.

Making a good first impression.

As a couple.

In public.

Taglist:

@esposadejoyhuerta @pennepasta22 @maddsdotorg @julieromanoff @sayfinty @wandslov @toe19 @marvelogic @truthindreams @dumbnerdsworld @htaylorsversion @ivyromanoff @cps531 @fawnesq

[wandaschaosmagic]

Shadows of War

Chapter Two - Silent Hope

Pairing : Natasha x f!soldier!reader & Wanda x f!soldier!reader

Warnings : third person POV, gunshots, death, blood & injury, panic/anxiety, guilt & self-blame, gunshot wound description, smoke inhalation (choking/gagging), restraints (zipties), guns pointed at original characters, re-injury, hoods/sensory deprivation, and abduction

Word Count : 3.9k

Summary : With the asset dead, Y/N is forced to think fast, pushing her team toward safety with only hope to guide them. That hope doesn’t last long. They’re taken in an instant - suddenly, violently, and without warning.

A/N : I promise next chapter will introduce Natasha and Wanda. It’ll be a good long one for ya. I just wanted the backstory to be full fledged as possible because it’s very important to the story. Much love and I hope you enjoy!

Previous Chapter | Series Log | Masterlist

The crack of the sniper rifle is swallowed whole by the crowd, dissolving into the noise of conversation, footsteps, life continuing as if nothing has happened. No one flinches. No one notices. The world refuses to stop.

Y/N drops to her knees beside him.

One hand fumbles for his pulse, already knowing what she’s going to find. The other presses down hard, uselessly, desperately, trying to keep something inside that’s already gone. Her hands are soaked - Youssef’s blood, warm and slick, clinging to her skin like glue. It doesn’t smear away when she shifts. It only spreads.

A stain that will mark more than her skin.

This moment will live longer than he ever gets to now. It will follow her in flashes and fragments - metallic smells, heat, the weight of his body - paid for with the life of a man who was more than an asset. A husband. A father.

Not just to her. To everyone who will see his lifeless form.

“Shit,” Lucas mutters, standing over them, his teeth worrying at his lower lip, eyes darting like he doesn’t know where to look or what to do.

Then someone on the pier notices.

The body.

The blood.

A scream rips through the air, sharp and raw, and it’s like a match dropped into gasoline.

All hell breaks loose.

Y/N takes a hard kick to the ribs as someone barrels past her, panic-driven and blind, desperate to get away from something they don’t understand. The air fills with shouting, crying, bodies colliding. Citizens clutch their loved ones, arms locked tight as they’re dragged into the surge, swallowed by a sea of frantic movement - everyone pushing, everyone running, no one looking back.

Logan gets hit by a couple hauling a kid between them, knocked sideways and swept away like a buoy in rough water. Chloe is shoved toward the exit, fighting against the current, her eyes frantic as she tries to claw her way back to the team. Lucas dives for cover behind a crate just before the stampede crashes through, boots pounding the pier like thunder.

They lose sight of each other.

The mission outfits are working against them now. They blend in with others, familiar forms lost in the chaos. Y/N drags herself away from the body, crawling until she reaches the railing. She hauls herself upright, breath sharp, ribs screaming, now standing across from where Youssef fell.

Her grip tightens around the wood. Blood smears beneath her palms, leaving stark crimson handprints against the pale grain.

She turns toward the crowd, scanning desperately, but all she sees is a blur of heads and fabric - shemaghs and keffiyehs whipping in the wind, faces indistinguishable, familiar shapes lost among strangers.

They’re gone.

The thought locks her jaw in place.

Her fingers - still slick, still red - reach for her earpiece. Her voice comes out steady despite the noise, despite the chaos roaring around her. “Sound off.”

“Troy,” comes the first response. “Rooftop. Eyes out. Looking for the sniper.”

Lucas fumbles with his walkie, breathless. “Uh—Lucas. Behind some crates on the pier. Not injured.”

“Chloe. Pier railing, your three o’clock.” Her voice is strained, rushed.

“Damon,” he says after a beat. “East of the pier. Got overrun.” A heavy sigh crackles through the comms. “But I’m okay.”

Then—

Nothing.

A pause stretches too long.

Static.

Silence.

Y/N’s brows knit together, her thumb already pressing the comms again. Logan’s name is on the tip of her tongue. She needs to know where he is. If he’s hurt. If he’s breathing.

And then a hand grabs her arm.

She jerks back instinctively, heart slamming, only to find Logan crouched beside her, close enough that she can hear him over the screaming crowd.

“Hey,” he says, loud but steady. “Are you alright?”

She nods once, sharp and controlled. “Why didn’t you answer me?”

He guides her down with him, eyes scanning as he speaks. “My earpiece fell out. Don’t know where.” His gaze flicks back to her. “The others?”

“They checked in.” She presses the earpiece again, voice turning cold, professional, final.

“Asset KIA. Abort mission.”

—

Logan and Y/N stick together.

Close enough that they don’t need to look to know where the other is. Close enough that one step out of line would be felt immediately. They watch each other’s backs without speaking, bodies angled just right, awareness split and shared.

They move with the crowd, swallowed among civilians, heads down, shoulders hunched - another pair trying to get out alive.

They won’t shoot again unless they want chaos, she thinks, calculating the risk and choosing to take it anyway.

Their eyes never stop moving. Their ears stay open, filtering through the noise for anything that doesn’t belong.

A footstep out of rhythm.

A breath too close.

The subtle click of a safety being eased off.

Any sign that someone is nearer than they should be. Or that they’re already in someone’s sights, a finger tightening around a trigger they can’t see.

The alleyway narrows, forcing them into single file. The whitewashed walls on either side reflect too much light, bleaching everything, making it harder to disappear. They hug the edges instead, slipping into the strips of shadow where the sun doesn’t quite reach, where outlines blur.

Berettas drawn.

Pulled tight to their chests.

Standard.

Ready.

Practiced.

They move quietly, steps quick and deliberate, boots barely scuffing the ground as they head toward the rally point.

Elsewhere, Chloe stays embedded with a knot of civilians, her posture loose, unremarkable. She moves with them, lets them shield her, uses a separate alley as her route - same destination, different path.

Troy remains on the roof.

Two minutes pass.

Then five.

The sniper never reappears.

He exhales sharply, frustration contained, and slings his rifle, replacing it with an automatic. His vantage shifts from hunter to guide. He calls out softly, gesturing people away from dead ends, nudging them toward safer routes without drawing attention.

In a corner, a kid crouches alone, eyes wide, silent with shock. Troy scoops him up without hesitation, tucks him close, and carries him back to a group searching frantically.

Chloe and Troy cross paths - the location exchanged in a whisper, before falling into step beside each other. They nod once and keep moving.

They don’t talk about the missed shot.

Or the ambush that slipped past them.

They don’t talk at all.

On the far side of the village, Lucas and Damon move together, steps mirrored, spacing perfect. Every movement is deliberate, confident.

Lucas’s nerves show in his hands, tightening and loosening around the grip of his pistol. Damon notices, of course - but he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t count the repetitions. He just covers him, instinctively.

Like they’ve trained.

Like muscle memory.

The comms stay silent.

Stay quiet.

Stay moving.

Stay unseen.

Guilt creeps in around the edges of Y/N’s thoughts, thick as fog. If I had been faster—

Blood floods her mind, drowning out the present. Warm. Sticky. Too much.

She shakes her head sharply, refusing to let the thought finish. Refusing to let it slow her down. She keeps moving through the alley, Logan tight at her six, his presence steady and solid behind her.

The village goes unnaturally still.

Not peaceful.

Expectant.

Like the air itself is holding its breath.

Y/N lifts her hand, fist raised beside her head.

Logan stops instantly.

A second later, he hears it too.

Footsteps.

Too close.

They’re nearby - inside the building they’re pressed against, judging by the sound. A door creaks open. Voices murmur. Y/N pulls them back, guiding Logan into a narrow side alley just as the door swings wider.

They flatten against the wall, hidden.

Her heart hammers against her ribs. She holds her breath, every muscle locked. Seconds stretch. A minute. Then another.

She leans forward just enough to peek.

Clear.

She signals once.

And they move again.

—

The metal is cold in Y/N’s hands.

Grounding. Heavy. Solid in a way everything else suddenly isn’t.

The chill bleeds through the blood still smeared across her palms, seeping into the cracked layer. It smells metallic, sharp - iron and something wrong. She flexes her fingers around the grip once, twice.

A mistake.

That’s all it took.

The cost?

Someone else’s life.

The smell of sun-baked clay rises as they move, mixing with the spices drifting in from the market nearby - cumin, cardamom, something sweet underneath it all. The combination turns her stomach. She breathes through her mouth, and keeps her focus forward.

Their footsteps are careful, whispering against the dry cracks of dirt. Summer has stolen the rain, and the narrow alley never catches enough sun to warm it. Silt clings to their boots, like the silent hope that the rest of the team is okay.

Twenty-five minutes to the rally point.

Twenty, if nothing goes wrong.

She counts her steps. Keeps the numbers steady in her head. Anything to stop herself from replaying the shot.

—

It happens fast.

Too fast.

Years of training collapse into a single second of hesitation. A single wrong angle. Y/N fires, instinct overriding thought.

The body drops.

But not before the shot rings out.

Logan goes down with a grunt, low and broken, the sound dragged raw from his throat. Dehydration cracks it, makes it uglier than it should be.

They’d been moving for forty-five minutes. Close. Too close to let their guard slip. And still, someone came from behind him - close enough to press the muzzle forward and pull the trigger.

“Jesus,” she whispers, already dropping beside him.

Her hands are steady as she checks his leg. The bullet punched clean through his calf, tearing muscle, shredding vessels on its way out. Blood pours freely, dark and fast. His khakis are soaked through in seconds, clinging heavy to his skin.

Y/N doesn’t hesitate. She yanks her linen shirt over her head, rips it down the seam with brutal efficiency. The fabric tears easily. She knots it tight just below his knee, pulling until the bleeding slows.

Logan hisses, the sound sharp and involuntary, his jaw clenching so hard she can see the muscle jump.

“Hey,” she says, firm, anchoring. She looks at his face - pale, slick with sweat, eyes glassy at the edges. The adrenaline is already dropping. “Hey. Stay with me.”

Definite muscle damage.

Possible nick to a smaller artery.

But he’ll survive.

She forces that thought to stick.

Logan looks up at her, dark hair plastered to his forehead, breathing uneven but controlled.

Her hand comes to his shoulder, fingers curling into his shirt. Solid. Present. “C’mon,” she says. “Get up. We gotta move.”

He’s heavy when he leans into her, most of his weight settling against her side. His shirt sticks to her bare arms, sweat and dust and blood mixing. The tank top beneath does little to keep the chill off her skin.

They move.

Slow. Careful.

His left boot drags, catching in the cracks of dried clay with each step, his calf screaming every time his weight shifts. She adjusts her stance, compensates without thinking, bearing more of him than she should.

“Five minutes,” Y/N says, mostly to herself. A promise. A plan. “We walk for five, then I check your leg.”

So she doesn’t panic.

So he knows she won’t.

Logan nods once, teeth clenched, forcing himself forward.

And they keep moving.

—

Chloe stops short.

Troy nearly collides with her back, boots scraping as he catches himself at the last second.

She doesn’t turn right away. Her brows knit together, head tilting slightly as she listens past her own breathing, past the distant noise of the village.

“What is it?” Troy asks, chest rising and falling hard.

She shakes her head once, uncertain. “I thought I heard a gunshot. Maybe two.”

His expression tightens as he scans their surroundings. White walls hem them in on both sides, smooth and blinding in the fading sunlight, the alleyways branching and twisting like a maze designed to trap them. Too many corners. Too many places to disappear.

Or to die.

After a moment, he exhales. “Probably an echo,” he says, forcing calm into his voice. “Everything’s chaos right now.” He gestures forward. “Everyone’s fine. We’ve gotta keep moving.”

Chloe hesitates, eyes lingering on the direction the sound might have come from.

Then she nods.

Reluctantly, she turns and leads them onward, away from the noise, toward the rally point - away from the gunshots she can’t shake from her head.

—

Logan’s blood mixes with Youssef’s on Y/N’s hands.

Layered. Dark. Indistinguishable now.

It coats her fingers, seeps into the lines of her palms, merges the two lives together in a way she doesn’t want to think about. The bleeding hasn’t stopped, but it’s slowing - just enough to matter.

She tears the remaining fabric of her shirt and wraps it tight, pressing down hard. “Sorry,” she murmurs, more apology than reassurance. “We’re almost there.” She doesn’t know if she’s trying to comfort him or herself.

Logan nods, bracing his forearm against the wall to keep himself upright. His breathing is controlled, but the pain is catching up fast, pulling the color from his face.

“Got you something,” he mutters, voice strained. He lifts a trembling hand, pointing weakly at the pack slung over Y/N’s shoulder. “Small pocket.”

She shifts him carefully and unzips it.

Inside sits a compact diversionary device.

Her lips twitch despite everything. “You could’ve told me about this sooner, y’know?” A quiet, breathless laugh slips out as she shakes her head. She zips the pouch closed and hauls Logan back up. “Maybe later we can blow stuff up.”

A tired smile crosses his face at that.

Later turns into three minutes.

Logan presses himself into the shadow of the wall, lighter clenched in one hand, the device in the other. His knuckles are white, grip tight.

Y/N takes them, and moves fast.

She darts through the alley in a sharp series of turns, memorizing each corner without thinking. She flicks the lighter, arms the delay, drops it into the dirt without hesitation, and sprints back.

The flash will be bright. The bang loud. Smoke thick enough to draw attention.

They’ll investigate.

She slides back under Logan’s arm, already preparing to move - and only then does she notice it.

A thin, dark trail behind them.

Blood.

Logan’s blood.

Leading straight to their backs.

Her jaw tightens.

Here’s to hoping the distraction works.

—

Damon and Lucas are the first to reach the dried-out creek bed. The basin itself is empty, cracked earth webbing beneath their boots, but a narrow vein of water still cuts through the center - slow, shallow, stubborn. It moves quietly, brushing against stones smoothed down by years of runoff.

They settle in along the bank without a word. Knees bent. Backs low. Heads on a constant swivel. Eyes sharp, cutting through shadow and white stone alike. Every alley mouth, every rooftop edge, every place someone could be watching.

The air is still, heavy with dust and heat that hasn’t decided to leave yet.

The sun hangs low, bleeding orange into the horizon. Maybe an hour of daylight left. Less if the terrain swallows it early.

After that, they move on. With or without the others.

They both hate it. But it’s orders. Procedure. You don’t linger. You don’t wait forever. You don’t get sentimental over rally points.

Every minute that passes feels like a quiet failure. Lucas keeps replaying the comms drop, wondering if he could’ve rerouted faster, tried again sooner. Damon stares at the far end of the creek, hating himself for not warning Y/N earlier - knowing seconds matter, knowing he was too slow.

Lucas notices the silence. He taps Damon’s shoulder, firm but familiar, and holds out his water. Damon hesitates, then takes it. The bottle is warm. His throat is dry enough that it almost hurts.

“They’re okay,” Lucas says quietly. Steady. Certain. Like a promise.

Damon nods, even though they both know it’s not one Lucas can keep. He swallows - can’t tell if it’s the water or the knot in his chest - then hands the bottle back.

Before either of them can spiral further, movement catches their attention.

Two figures emerge from the maze of white buildings, shapes resolving as they draw closer.

Chloe and Troy.

Alive. Upright. Unhurt.

Lucas lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. The tension eases, just a fraction. They watch the pair approach, pistols still low but ready, eyes never leaving the surrounding rooftops.

“Are you alright?” Damon asks as they reach them, already scanning for blood, limps, anything off.

Chloe shakes her head and drops into a squat. “We’re fine. But I could’ve sworn I heard a gunshot. Maybe two.”

Damon and Lucas exchange a look. The same thought lands between them, heavy and immediate.

Y/N. Logan.

Troy - ever the optimist - rests a hand on Chloe’s shoulder. “They’re alright, they’ve survived worse.” He says easily.

The words barely have time to settle before the sharp crack of a compact diversionary device snaps through the air. Not close enough to be dangerous. Close enough to be unmistakable.

Troy’s smile widens, relief cutting through his face as he looks between the others.

“See?” he says. “They’re safe.”

—

Y/N is almost to the creek. Just a little farther.

Logan is heavy against her shoulder, his arm slung weakly around her neck, her own arm locked around his waist. Every step takes effort. Every breath burns.

“You’re fucking heavy,” she huffs, dusk bleeding into the sky around them.

Logan lets out a breath that might be a laugh. His bad leg drags behind them, heel kicking flakes of hardened clay. Blood dots the ground in uneven splashes, then becomes a smear.

A trail.

Like an animal bleeding out.

A hunter following, patient, waiting to finish the job.

The thought tightens something ugly in her chest. Y/N forces herself to move faster, muscles screaming, refusing to let anything happen to anyone else. Not again.

The warren of white buildings begins to thin, walls giving way to open shadow. The creek bed comes into view, dark shapes crouched near the banks.

One hundred meters.

That’s all that stands between them and the team.

Damon sees them first.

Then he sees the blood.

He’s moving before he thinks, running toward them, grabbing Logan’s other side and taking the weight without hesitation. “What happened?” he demands. “How long’s the tourniquet been on?”

“Thirty-five—maybe fifty minutes,” Y/N pants, the relief immediate as the weight lifts from her shoulder. “I don’t know. He got shot. Close range.”

The words it’s my fault lodge in her throat and stay there. She swallows them down. Her team doesn’t need to hear their leader say it out loud.

They lower Logan onto the cracked dirt of the creek bed, his breath shallow, jaw clenched. The moment he’s down, Y/N turns toward the water.

She steps straight in, boots splashing through the shallow current, and drops to her knees. The cold bites hard as she plunges her hands under, scrubbing frantically.

The water blooms red around her fingers. Soft clouds unfurl, thinning into ribbons as the current carries them away. She rubs harder, skin raw, but the blood clings - caught in creases, under her nails.

No one says anything.

They just watch as Y/N’s composure fractures, circling the drain the same way the blood disappears downstream.

When she finally pulls her hands free, the stain is still there. She wipes them on her tank top, the fabric already damp and cold, now streaked darker. Logan’s calf is wrapped in her shirt, soaked through.

She drops to the dirt beside Troy, chest heaving, lungs pulling in dust and smoke-sour air.

“He’ll make it,” Damon says, steady, professional, as he examines the wound. He’s the medic - unofficial, but trusted. They all have experience. Damon has certainty.

Silence settles over them.

Just the creek murmuring. Y/N’s breathing slowly evening out. Logan’s sharp intake of breath when Damon probes too close to the wound.

They have minutes.

Barely any at all.

They know they should move. Know they have to if they want to live.

But they let her breathe. Let her steady herself. For a moment - too long - they allow it.

It’s a mistake.

Something strikes the ground near Logan’s leg. Hard to see in the dim light. Too close to ignore.

Then another - near Chloe. One more by Troy’s pack.

Metal clinks against stone.

Heavy. Hollow.

Smoke grenades.

They rain down around them like hellfire.

Smoke erupts instantly, thick and aggressive, crawling low before rising. It swallows their ankles, then their knees. Logan’s body disappears into the haze.

The irritant hits fast. Eyes burn. Throats seize. Every breath feels wrong. Hands scramble for shemaghs, shirts, anything to cover their mouths.

Lucas breaks into violent coughing, gagging as he tries to draw air that won’t cooperate.

Visibility collapses. Shapes vanish. They lose sight of each other, only the sound of hacking coughs and shouted curses cutting through the smoke.

“Shit,” Chloe swears, ripping off her shirt and pressing it over her face - but it’s too late. The burn is already in her lungs. She coughs into the fabric, eyes streaming.

And with the smoke come shadows.

They move fast, disciplined, silent.

Damon goes down hard - kicked behind the knee, collapsing onto his stomach with a grunt. A figure steps forward and plants a boot directly on Logan’s gunshot wound.

Logan screams.

Blood seeps into the dust, turning it into slick pink clay beneath him. The rest of them are forced down - knees, stomachs, faces to the ground.

“Do not think about running,” a voice commands. Low. Gruff. Final.

Y/N fights instinctively, twisting in their grip. A knee slams into the back of her head, forcing her face into the dirt. The soil is dry, choking.

Boots crunch around them. Too many. Close enough to smell sweat, leather, dust.

Their hands are bound tight with plastic restraints. Weapons are kicked away. A Beretta skids free and splashes into the creek.

Cold metal presses against skulls. Gun barrels jab ribs and shoulders - a warning without words.

Hoods are yanked over their heads.

Darkness drops instantly, thick and suffocating.

The smoke is still in her lungs, every breath scraping, metallic on her tongue. Panic claws, sharp and immediate.

They’re hauled upright. Forced forward.

She walks blindly, guided only by hands at her arms and the uneven ground beneath her boots. Somewhere above them, stars burn - unseen, unreachable.

Sound fades into a dull rush of adrenaline. The only thing loud enough to register is Y/N’s heartbeat, pounding against her ribs.

Time loses meaning. Minutes. Hours. She can’t tell. Her legs ache. Someone stumbles and is yanked upright by the back of their shirt.

The smell changes.

Salt. Iron. Rust.

Rotten fish.

It grows stronger with every step. A few of them gag, but the figures don’t slow. They don’t care.

Metal groans - old, stressed, settling. A building breathing.

She’s shoved forward, then down. The silence stretches.

The floor beneath her palms feels cold. Wet. She can’t tell which.

“Logan?” she calls, voice muffled beneath the hood.

No answer.

Separated.

Alone.

Guilt hooks into her chest and drags, heavy as an anchor sinking through water.

And somewhere in the dark, it settles in all of them at once:

This isn’t something they can outrun.

Not without someone being left behind.

Y/N sits in the darkness, breath shallow, blood still under her nails, and realizes this could be the end.

The thought makes her blood boil.

[wandaschaosmagic]

Wanda Maximoff Archives

This file will be updated as more information becomes available.

Series

File Name: Shadows of War

Subjects: Wanda x f!soldier!reader

Overview:

Hearts and duty collide. One choice, endless consequences.

One Shots

File Name: Where She Lands

Subjects: Wanda x gn!reader

Overview:

Being an Avenger means leaving, and loving one means waiting.

[wandaschaosmagic]

Where She Lands

Pairing: Wanda x gn!reader

Warnings: just fluff and mentions of sacrifice (does not happen)

Word Count: 1k

Summary: Being an Avenger means leaving, and loving one means waiting.

A/N: dude this was a request and I accidentally deleted the ask. 😭 It said something like “can you write about wife/girlfriend Wanda returning from a mission and only wanting cuddles and kisses.”

Masterlist

Being an Avenger wasn’t easy.

And you knew that.

Well - as best as a coffee shop owner could know what it meant to save the world.

The closest you’d ever come was a frazzled woman grabbing your hands across the counter and calling you a lifesaver when you explained how to get a coffee stain out of a very expensive blouse.

You didn’t fight aliens.

You didn’t dismantle terrorist organizations.

You didn’t stand between civilians and catastrophe.

But you understood pressure.

You understood that every decision could ripple outward, touching lives you’d never meet. That one wrong move could cost someone everything.

For the Avengers, it was always like that.

Lives at stake - always.

Protecting the world from evil was a constant.

The weight of being Earth’s Mightiest Heroes was a daunting task, not because they were incapable - but because of the unknown.

Never knowing what you’d walk into.

Never knowing what you’d leave behind.

Never knowing if you’d come back at all.

Any day could be the last.

You knew that.

Wanda knew that too.

She just forced herself not to think about it.

Until one particularly onerous mission made it impossible not to.

-

Wanda had to go - some important mission somewhere in Northern Europe. You weren’t entirely sure. The details slipped right out of your head as you grabbed her emergency bag and hurried her toward the door, adrenaline buzzing in your chest like static.

You might’ve shut the door a little too fast.

Okay - you did shut it in her face.

There was a knock. Then another. And another.

You opened it with a nervous laugh, half-expecting red energy to spark around your head. Instead, Wanda grabbed your cheeks with both hands and kissed you.

It was short.

Too short.

It always was when she left.

“I love you,” she murmured against your lips, the words barely louder than a breath.

You smiled instantly, like your body couldn’t help it. “I love you more,” you replied, kissing her again - just as quick, just as desperate.

And then she was gone.

Off to the compound.

Then onto a quinjet.

Then off to save the world - again.

-

Now, you pace in front of the TV, finger in your mouth, chewing at the skin until it hurts.

“I suggest you stop,” FRIDAY says from the screen, her voice clipped, irritation seeping through each word. “I will notify you if there is cause for concern.”

You huff out a laugh, dragging a hand through your hair. “I always worry. That’s the problem.”

Tony has graciously installed FRIDAY into your shared apartment, insisting she’d be “useful” and telling you to “bill him later.”

She is useful, sure.

Reminders.

Stove checks (more often than you would ever admit).

Mood lighting for date nights that Wanda pretends not to love.

Tony Stark has made the perfect AI.

Just one problem.

FRIDAY has inherited his relentless sarcasm.

“Oh, I couldn’t tell,” she deadpans.

You scoff. Of course that egotistical billionaire would program his personality into her.

“Shut it,” you mutter, eyes glued to the TV.

FRIDAY refuses to give you surveillance access - something about boundaries - so you’re stuck with the news.

A banner flashes across the bottom of the screen:

DEVELOPING STORY: Authorities confirm Avengers operation underway in Latvia; civilians urged to remain indoors.

Your stomach drops.

The worst part is the waiting.

The not knowing.

Maybe something has already gone wrong and the news doesn’t know yet. Maybe FRIDAY is withholding information. Maybe—

Wanda always holds her own.

Against enemies.

Against herself.

Against a world that fears her power more than it trusts her heart.

You aren’t worried in the traditional sense.

It isn’t doubt.

It’s the knowledge that Wanda would take a bullet for a stranger without hesitation.

That she would sacrifice herself before anyone else had the chance to.

That thought alone makes your chest ache with terror.

-

Hours pass.

You watch the same news cycle repeat itself, over and over. No updates. No confirmations. No reassurance.

FRIDAY says nothing.

You’re losing your mind.

Then the door opens.

And FRIDAY’s smug voice rings out, “Miss Maximoff is back home.”

Yeah. No shit.

You’re off the couch before the words fully process.

You and Wanda just stare at each other for a moment.

Taking each other in.

A small cut splits her eyebrow. A faint bruise blooms along her cheekbone. Her hand clenches tightly around the strap of her duffel bag, knuckles white.

Then she drops it.

And steps into you.

The embrace is familiar - quiet, steady, filled with unspoken relief. You wrap your arms around her waist as she sags against you, finally letting the tension bleed out of her body.

Safe.

Grounded.

Home.

-

Sometimes Wanda doesn’t talk about the mission.

And that’s okay.

You clean her wounds - rolling your eyes when she admits she skips medical just to get back to you faster, butterflies erupting anyway.

You make her something to eat, even though she rarely feels hungry after missions.

And then you either talk.

Or you sit in silence.

Hard missions mean silence.

This one takes everything out of her - mentally, physically, emotionally.

“You okay?” you ask softly, lips brushing her hair as her fingers twist into your shirt like she’s afraid you’ll disappear.

She nods.

“You sure?”

No movement.

Not sure.

“I’m not going to push you, Wands,” you murmur, kissing the top of her head. “But if you need anything… I’m here.”

She looks up then, resting her chin on your chest, green eyes glassy and tired. You cup her cheek, and she leans into your palm immediately, like she’s been waiting for it.

“Just need you,” she whispers.

Your smile is small but real. “You have me.”

She rolls her eyes, shifting so she hovers over you on the bed. “Do I?”

“Every single day,” you say, barely louder than a breath.

That’s enough.

Her fingers slide into your hair and she kisses you - deep, grounding, unhurried. You kiss her back just as fiercely, hands settling on her hips as she straddles you.

Yeah. It’s been a brutal mission.

Yeah. She’s exhausted in every way imaginable.

Yeah. You never wish for danger to find her - or the Avengers.

But god - you love this.

The closeness.

The quiet reassurance.

No words required.

You give her exactly what she needs.

And she takes it without fear.

She’ll never find a more willing participant.

She wouldn’t want to anyway.

Because you’re her reason to come home.

[wandaschaosmagic]

I'm the anon that sent that Terms and Conditions message, I'd love to pick a signing emoji (since i do plan to stick around)

Would 🗡 be alright? If yes, I'll pick it.

You’re my first anon, so yes the 🗡️ is perfect!