i love AUs where the avengers find out something batshit insane about peters past. they'll be having dinner, all having a good time, when suddenly they get jumpscared by shit like this
steve : "so, kid. what's with the webs? do you have any other weapons, or is that it?"
peter : "well, I know how to use a staff pretty well because I used to want to be donatello from teenage mutant ninja turtles, I'm learning how to use a bow, and I don't like using guns."
bruce : "any special reason for that last one?"
peter : "oh yeah my uncle was shot and killed during a robbery. he died in my arms."
pairing: past wanda maximoff x fem!reader / present natasha romanoff x fem!reader
summary: When you see Wanda again after the secret relationship you shared during your college years, you realize the lasting impact she had on you. Haunted by flashbacks of your time together, you struggle to reconcile the memory of the Wanda you once knew with the woman she has become a decade later.
content warnings: angst, homophobia, a few homophobic slurs, internalized homophobia, heartbreak and grief, some smut, tragedy
word count: 7.1k+
Masterlist
A/N: This is heavily inspired by the song Us. By Gracie Abrams ft. Taylor Swift. I would recommend listening to it simply because it is a masterpiece and the foundation of this fic.
comments and reblogs are always appreciated! happy reading ♡
“Babe, are you ready?”
Green eyes peek around the doorframe, delicate fingers working a dangling diamond studded earring through a slightly reddened ear. There’s a gentle smile on Natasha’s face, a strand escaping her perfectly curled hair and falling somewhat in front of her face. It brushes softly against her cheek, a sharp exhale moving it as a wince appears on her face.
“Here, let me,” you say, curling a single finger in her direction. You place your makeup brushes onto the vanity in front of you, your fingers gentle as you pluck the earring from Natasha’s hand.
It’s a beautiful piece. The golden metal is dainty, yet solid, woven into complex swirls that catch the dying rays of sunshine streaming in from your window. Your hands are careful, threading the earring through her skin like a seamstress, with confidence that comes from years of practice and love woven into each measured touch.
“Perfect,” you mutter. You both know you’re not just talking about the earring.
Natasha smirks at you, full of confidence that is only slightly contrasted by the pink flush rising to her cheeks. You laugh slightly, the sound low and full of warmth as you turn back towards the mirror.
Strong hands rest lightly on your shoulders as Natasha’s fingers firmly rub circles into your skin. You can feel the tight knots give away beneath her ministrations and sigh in relief as you brush highlighter onto the highest point of your cheekbones. Green eyes track your movements lazily, taking you in like it's the first time she’s seeing you. You find it quite romantic and tell her just as much.
“Well,” the bright smile on Natasha’s face shines through the word, “That was my goal, detka.”
A soft shove from you has Natasha’s hands wrapping around your own as she pulls you to your feet. You sway slightly, blinking against the headrush that comes from changing positions too quickly. Arms wrap around your waist as strong as the pull of gravity, unwavering and inevitable.
“You look beautiful,” Natasha murmurs, her lips brushing yours.
“Compared to you, I am nothing.” The words flow from your lips easily, the truth of them lying comfortably under your skin, feeling like the steady weight of a cat curled up on your chest. You kiss away any protests, your tongue swiping against hers when she tries to speak.
“We should go,” Natasha manages to say, the words separated with the firm kisses she places against your lips. “We’re about to run late, and I know you hate it when people are inconsiderate with their timing.”
You nod against her, your hands squeezing her waist gently as you breathe deeply through your nose, unwilling to part your lips from hers.
“Sweetheart.”
Natasha’s tone is firm, her hand pressed against your sternum as she pushes you away. It's gentle, almost hesitant. You know that if you pressed back against it, she would crumble like a sandcastle at high tide. It's for that very reason that you don’t, not wanting to disrupt her carefully planned evening.
“Lead the way, my love.”
—
You find yourself hanging from Natasha’s arm, feeling every bit like a trophy. Shining, and put on the highest shelf, gazes sliding appreciatively over you before moving on to the next impressive thing. You wonder how long it will be before the dust begins to collect.
A man, standing close to your wife. His fingers twitch, his eyes glancing dismissively at you. He’s talking just a bit too loud for the short distance between him and Natasha, and you feel a white-hot rage rising before you take in the fake smile plastered across her face.
It's too wide, showing too many teeth and yet not enough at the same time. Her eyes are sharp, the soft crow’s feet that normally appear at the edges nowhere to be found. The pressure of her fingers against your waist grounds you, leaving you feeling every bit like a rock standing solidly against the crashing waves.
The man moves on, loses interest. You don’t mind. The memory of him is already floating away, being replaced by the soft look Natasha is sending your way. You feel shiny again, not a speck of dust in sight.
Dragging your eyes around the room, you let yourself get lost in the sea of bodies.
Natasha had brought you to some important work event. It was essentially a party, disguised under layers of professionalism in celebration of a multi-million dollar partnership with their rival company.
There was an undercurrent of tension, being slowly filtered into a sort of understanding and grudging respect. The alcohol probably helped.
A woman’s laughter rang around the room. The tension in the air shuddered and released its hold slightly.
You amend your statement. The alcohol definitely helped.
Lazily, you return your gaze to the room. Natasha is slowly walking you towards the center of the room, leading you with gentle touches at your waist. You feel every bit like a lamb, awkward with growing limbs as it is shepherded into a crowd.
Bouncing around the room, your eyes take in the multitude of people. Features start to blur together. A pointed nose, blue eyes almost hidden under thick eyeliner, shimmering dresses that catch the light and make your head spin.
Your eyes catch on brunette hair. Soft, flowing like a calm river on a warm summer's day.
Startling slightly, you blink, a memory dredging its way to the front of your brain like molten lava, slow and inevitable.
Brunette hair, falling effortlessly over strong shoulders. The scent of vanilla washing over you and enveloping you like a well-known embrace. Green eyes sparkling down at you as soft lips move. You focus, dragging your eyes away from the perfectly manicured nails softly brushing against your desk.
“Mind if I sit here?”
A feeble shake of your head, and rapid blinking as you attempt to return the moisture lost to wide-eyed staring back into your eyes.
She’s beautiful.
Her words are kind, a small smile seemingly locked into place on her lips as she regards you. Green eyes roam your face, lingering around your lips for just a second too long.
“I’m Wanda.”
The memory slams into your skull, reverberating painfully around as you feel an age-old, nearly forgotten crack in your heart reopen. It takes your breath away, the weight in your chest feeling like a paperweight, settling down on the last few pages of a story full of loss and anguish.
Natasha’s speaking to someone, her raspy voice filtering through your ears. It’s nothing like the cadence of melted butter you still sometimes hear in your dreams. It's different, better. You wonder when the lies will morph into a semblance of truth.
You take a deep breath, letting those thoughts slide back to where they belong. In the back of your mind, locked away and left to be forgotten. It wouldn’t do you any good to dwell on the past, with its looming, crumbling chess pieces that dance around you in a game that you don’t quite understand the rules of.
“Ah, fuck.” Comes Natasha’s voice, the words mumbled directly in your ear.
You twist your head, shaking it free of cobwebs sticky with memory as you take in your wife. Her eyes are locked on something across the room, the faint furrow of her brows the only sign of displeasure etched on her face. Her lips are moving, mumbling something about an important blah blah man blah blah, rich and influential at her rival company blah blah…
Smiling slightly, you hide your amusement with practiced ease as you turn your gaze towards the man, no, a couple heading your way. Your eyes barely register the neatly parted blonde hair of a tall man, his eyes locked on Natasha with a calculating sort of look in them before your eyes slide over to the woman on his arm.
Fuck, indeed.
Your heartbeat rushes through your ears, a dull ringing cascading through them as you feel your breath catch. Everything has gone numb, or cold, or tingly. You’re not really sure. Everything is too much and the room is too hot even as goosebumps rise on the surface of your exposed flesh. You suddenly see yourself in a third-person view, your mind projecting outside your body as you go rigid at the sight of her.
Wanda Maximoff.
Green eyes, brighter and lighter than the ones you stared lovingly into at the altar. Her gaze flickers over to you, not fully meeting your eyes, a forced sort of dissonance playing out briefly on those perfect features before she focuses on Natasha.
Another memory slams into you, rising unbidden from the depths of your mind before you can stop it.
Soft laughter, echoing around the room before it's absorbed by the four walls surrounding you. Green eyes, smiling at you before returning their focus to the pen and paper in front of her.
Wanda writes something down, your eyes tracing the elegant script that flowed easily from her fingertips. Something scratches at the back of your mind, a tendril of something fond, warm. It feels like coming home, future impressions of familiarity beginning to take root.
“Let me see,” you’re saying, moving closer. Your hands reach for the book. No, it's a leather-bound journal. You’d picked them out earlier, after walking to the store with Wanda from your English literature class.
“No, oh my god,” Wanda was saying, giggles erupting from her as she half-heartedly wrestled the journal away from you. Her hand lands on your knee, her cheeks a little too flushed. It reminds you of the cherry she’d eaten earlier, licking the whipped cream from her milkshake off before smiling and sucking the fruit into her mouth.
Her hand stills, awkward and stiff for a moment. You don’t comment on it, shifting your body weight to be slightly closer to her. The warmth from her palm spreads through your body like a slow creek, new and small and promising bigger currents down the road.
“Let me read yours out loud and I’ll let you read mine,” you offer, taking her journal gently and placing yours in her lap.
“It’s just poetry,” the words flow from your lips, but you know it’s more than that. It’s the very contents of your soul, laid bare for her to see, wrapped under layers of grammar and careful wording. It’s a confession, it’s a sin, it’s something twisting and beautiful and as graceless as a newborn foal. Her eyes meet yours, your thoughts reflected back at you as her fingers twitch slightly on your knee.
Wanda’s hand takes your journal, those green eyes skimming the words as her lips move silently.
You don’t look away, you can’t look away. Her hair is falling over her shoulder, as delicate and soft as the words written before you. There’s a palpable tension in the air, low and thumping like a familiar heartbeat.
Green eyes, flickering back to you. Something behind them that you can’t interpret. You feel like she can see your every thought, the very contents of your being laid out before her as she analyzes each individual piece. It’s frightening and it’s intoxicating, and you look away.
You’re reading her words now, the sentences flowing and mashing together in your mind as you pluck the strings of her mind with your careful hands. It’s beautiful and well-written, layered with so many truths and lies that you can’t begin to interpret the true meaning of her sentences.
Something tingles at the base of your skull, warm and light as it blossoms through your head. Understanding. Or, the semblance of it.
You look up. Light green eyes stare back into yours. They’re captivating, and you wonder if they ever left. If she watched you the same way you did her, attempting to unravel her very being through carefully constructed lines and flowing script and words layered with meaning.
Those green eyes have the power to shatter you. You pick up your pen.
“So what is it that you do?” The man is speaking.
Your mind crashes back into the present, another hairline fracture appearing on the surface of your heart. You can practically feel it, the torment running deeper than the illusion the thin crack offers. It’s bone-aching, and you suddenly feel exhausted.
“I’m a copywriter,” Natasha answers, sounding casual. You can sense the clipped tone and undercurrent of frustration, and your hand gently traces circles against her wrist. “I graduated with a degree in English Literature.”
“Ah,” the man says, sounding every bit as pretentious as he looks. “My wife got a degree in that as well.”
Another crack, splintering into you. Your eyes flick down, catching the ring on Wanda’s finger. It’s shining and big, the diamonds glittering back at you, the mockery of it seeping into your soul. The meaning of it is every bit as surface level as what you assume Wanda’s feelings for this man are. You know better, she had told you just as much.
“I don’t think I’ll ever love a man in the way I’m meant to.”
You don’t have to ask what she means. You don’t respond, a gentle sigh escaping you as the weight of her head rests solidly on your shoulder. The clock on your nightstand blinks back at you, the numbers twinkling in the early morning. Pens and paper and journals are strewn around you, a poetry book facedown in your lap. Your voice had grown too tired from reading, but neither of you seemed to mind the comfortable silence stretching around the room.
Until now.
“I know,” you say. There are not many words you can speak.
It's simple. That’s a lie. It’s not, it’s complicated and it's painful and there’s nothing you can do to take that away from her. You wish you could. You would do anything to let Wanda’s soul have respite in your presence, to be unburdened from thoughts of sin and duty, to be able to finally breathe properly.
Soft fingers find your hand, tangling with your fingers almost hesitantly. Your palm slides easily against hers, and you swallow the lump in your throat. Your hands fit like a jigsaw puzzle, feeling like the final piece as it clicks into place. Confusion and frustration sliding away as the picture finally makes sense.
“Poetry feels like prayer.” Wanda’s voice is quiet, and you know what she means. It feels holy, even with the words only spoken in the sublunary space of your dorm room. Her head twists on your shoulder, and you feel your gaze drawn to her like the inevitable magnetic pull of the earth. Her green eyes peer up at you. “Will you pray with me?”
Picking up the poetry book in your lap, you begin reading. Your thumb runs over the pages. Staring at the words in front of you, you wonder why they’re blurry. You realize later, after Wanda had fallen asleep from being lulled into comfort by your voice, that it had been unshed tears.
You let them fall.
“Yes,” Wanda is saying, and her voice is exactly the same as you’d remembered. She’s speaking, saying something about the university she’d attended and how she got her degree. The only thing you can focus on is the familiar lilt of her words, the smooth cadence you’ve memorized and seared into your brain.
It’s painful, but you can’t take your eyes off of her. Natasha’s hand moves slightly against your waist, and you blink. The man next to Wanda has his arms almost possessively around her shoulders, his hawkish eyes watching you.
You look away.
“Oh, you and my wife went to the same University,” Natasha says, trying to be helpful. You don’t appreciate it. Her words are genuine, but the statement falls short, a beat of awkward silence stretching into an eternity as you try to respond. What could you even say?
Yes. We did. I fell in love with the confident, full-of-life brunette who looked at me like I hung the moon, and I looked at her like she painted the stars just to give the moon some company. I loved her as easy as breathing, and now my lungs never feel full enough, my breaths labored and weighted with the words of love I breathed into her ear that I can’t take back, won’t take back.
Refuse to take back.
“We must have missed each other,” Wanda says, her eyes flashing in your direction, but not fully meeting yours. “It’s a big school.”
A polite smile plasters itself onto your face, too small and stiff to be sincere. Your heart clenches painfully, a small part of your mind begging Wanda to meet your eyes. God, it feels just like when you were at University.
Her husband’s fingers tighten slightly around her shoulder, pulling her further into his side. You wonder if Wanda feels like she’s suffocating yet. You hope not, you want her to breathe. To fill her lungs with light and hope and passion and… not whatever this is.
Another memory, sludging through your mind like a heavy foot through quicksand.
You don’t talk to Wanda much outside of class and the late-night poetry readings in your dorm. She blames it on her busy social life, being in a sorority is apparently no joke. You’ve learned to keep your head down when you see her in public, her eyes always lingering near you, but never fully meeting yours, too focused on the sorority sisters that always seem to surround her. Appearances are everything to her, you know that.
But god, it hurts.
It still doesn’t cut quite as deep as the weekend her parents came to visit.
Wanda had grown up the daughter of a pastor, a well-spoken man with a quiet, hidden-in-the-shadows wife. You’d watched from afar, noticing the small glances her mother would send her way, and the nervous twitching of her fingers as she adjusted Wanda's collar, or brushed a piece of invisible lint from her daughter's skirt.
Per usual, Wanda was nothing short of perfect. Her hair was perfectly curled, laying gently over her shoulders as the brunette strands glowed in the sunlight. She’d done her makeup just subtle enough to perfect her already dainty features, but not enough to rouse suspicion that she was promiscuous.
You’d watched her do her makeup many times, her hands perfecting the art. You wondered how much of her father’s influence and mother’s worry controlled the easy flick of her brush as it spread a light blush across her cheeks.
Tracing your gaze down her form, you glance back to the book in front of you. A poem glared up at you, the words swimming off the page as you remember the subtle curve of Wanda’s spine, her head bowed slightly as her father spoke into her ear.
Wanda was full of life, shining brightly and standing out amongst the rest of the population at this university. Or perhaps that was simply your own observation, after all, your entire waking moments were consumed by thoughts of her.
The point is, she wasn’t… docile. Or submissive, or meek like her posture suggests when her father lays a hand on her shoulder. You can’t tell if he’s gripping his fingers tightly or gently around her, but either way, Wanda doesn’t make a move to remove his hand.
She’s nodding, her head turning towards him. You can see her smiling easily at him, saying something back.
His hand returns to his side, and you hope that you imagine the slope of her mother’s shoulders relaxing. The way her fingers twitch towards her daughter, wanting to replace the feeling of his hand against her skin, but choosing to brush a strand of her hair behind her ear instead. Always deflecting her true intentions.
Wanda’s face turns towards her mother. You see the momentary look that passes between them, but you’re unable to interpret it from across the quad. The moment passes, and her mother returns her attention back to her husband. Always a faithful, obedient wife.
When Wanda and her parents pass by the table you’re seated at, she doesn’t spare you a second glance. Her green eyes are focused on some unimportant thing in the distance, her father’s lips moving near her ear again. You silently plead with her to look your way, to take solace in the silent comfort you can provide.
Her green eyes don’t meet yours. You feel a crack appear on your heart, and you swallow harshly as you stare blankly at the poetry in front of you. Shoving the crack down where you’ve displaced all the other ones, you begin to read.
The poem is a romantic one. Full of yearning and hope and unbridled passion. The only thing you can think about is how incredibly tragic it seems.
Natasha’s thumb is slowly moving, caressing your hip as she holds you loosely by her side. Not possessive, but not without care either. You’re grateful for the touch, and focus on it as Wanda’s husband continues to talk about… what is he talking about?
You don’t really care.
The version of Wanda that you knew and the woman you see in front of you clash in your mind, splintering your thoughts. You’re also aware of your wife beside you, and guilt creeps into your heart.
You chose Natasha. You’re happy with her, you stood across from her and declared your love and promised her that you would love her until the end of time. You intend to stand by that, to uphold your promise. Imagining a future without her seems impossible.
But you’d also imagined a future with Wanda once. It didn’t seem right to just ignore that. And it was impossible to keep the memories at bay. Not when she was standing before you for the first time in ten fucking years, with her perfect hair and her natural looking makeup and her light green eyes and the scent of vanilla washing over you and and and-
Breathing in, feeling the comforting scent of vanilla enveloping you in the strong embrace of a familiar lover. Wanda’s hair just beneath your nose, the silky strands brushing against your cheek and chin as you place a gentle kiss on her head.
Her arms are wrapped around you, her breaths even. You aren’t asleep, but you let her think that you are. It's easier for her to be herself when she thinks nobody is watching. Her fingers slowly dance along the exposed skin of your stomach, softly tracing nonsensical patterns against you as you feel your heart pound steadily.
A poetry book rests at your side, forgotten in the favor of holding her in your arms. You understand what all the poets mean, with their suffering and their longing written painstakingly on pages of crinkled paper beneath their ink-stained hands, as you hold Wanda gently against you. This moment feels too precious, too raw to ever be put into words, to write down for the world to see.
No, you’d much rather keep this moment pure and untouched, resting in your heart alongside the inevitability of Wanda Maximoff.
You can feel her in your soul. Or rather, maybe it’s your soul that’s bleeding and filling the space between you two. You hope that it is mixing with Wanda’s, filling the painful parts of her that she pushes down and cushioning them with warmth. Is it too much to hope that she’ll carry a part of you with her forever? Is it selfish to take the willing parts of her soul that bleed into yours and keep them there until they’re so ingrained in the fiber of your being that you would lose yourself if she took it back?
Maybe that's the true definition of love.
Natasha's hand grips you tightly, her fingers tense around your hip. Her eyes are locked on Wanda’s husband, his drawling voice grating your nerves. You risk a glance at Wanda, recognizing her blank look at the ground for what it is. Escape.
She used to tell you about the places she’d go inside her mind when life got to be too much for her. It sounded peaceful. She could be whoever she wanted inside her own head, without the pressure of her father or the quiet concern of her mother and the encompassing guilt that she was never making the right choices. You hope she's there right now, and return your gaze towards her husband.
“I mean,” Her husband's eyes are sharp, glinting dangerously at your wife. “It’s so nice that they allow so many… diverse individuals to work with your company.”
His eyes travel down her body before flicking over to you briefly.
“Is it hard to keep your lifestyle and work life separate?” he asks, and your blood boils. You see Wanda’s head lower further. “I imagine it's quite difficult to relate to your peers, with a secret like that.”
Natasha is seconds away from exploding, tearing him down with sharp words and securing her own termination in the same breath.
You find your voice, the quiet strength of your words surprising you. “I’ve been out and proud since I was in high school. I’ve never been ashamed of who I am. And neither is my wife.”
Wanda’s eyes cut sharply over to you, that specific shade of light green filling your vision.
“Why the fuck would you give this to me if you didn’t want me to interpret it that way?” You’re not yelling, you never would. Not at her. Never at Wanda. But you can feel the frustration leaking into each syllable, and you hate the way that Wanda’s shoulders seem to hunch in on themselves.
“I never meant for you to…” Wanda can’t continue, her eyes locked on the poetry book you’re clutching between your fingers.
“You never meant for me to fall in love with you?”
A flinch, green eyes staring at the carpet and gentle fingers clenched uselessly over the back of a chair. The words bounce around your dorm room, settling in with a tentative weariness.
“Why would you give me this poetry book about romance and passion and fighting for love if that’s not what you wanted me to think about you?” you set the book down on your desk, the pages flipping open. You can see the smudged ink of your annotations. That was a flaw of yours, always writing too fast as you try to keep up with the thoughts in your head.
“That’s not what I mean I-” Wanda’s eyes are locked on the book and you watch her swallow harshly. Her voice is shaky, her head bowed. You hate it, and there’s nothing you can do to make it better. “I can’t love you.”
“You don’t love me?”
“That’s not what I said.” Wanda’s voice is quiet.
Oh.
“You don’t understand,” Wanda has unshed tears in her eyes. You want to wipe them away, your fingers twitching, unsure if you’re allowed to anymore. “My family means everything to me.”
Oh.
The weight of tragedy settles in, burying itself deep within your bones and wrapping around your heart and squeezing. All of the cracks you’d smothered appear at once, splintering and creating new fractures with each labored pump of poisonous blood coursing through your body.
You finally understand what the poets mean. The metaphors and desperation, the weight of grief and longing and the way it sticks to your very soul like a parasite that you keep feeding and nurturing because the pain of forgetting is worse than the crushing travesty of remembering.
Wanda is talking, and for the first time, you’re not paying attention to her words. She’s saying something about her parents and financial dependence and them cutting her off and all you can hear is that she’s stuck and scared and trying to protect herself and you can’t choose her path for her.
It’s agony, it’s grief and it’s nothing like what you imagined as you innocently read the words scattered across the pages of your poetry book. It’s so much fucking worse. Wanda’s hand is on the doorknob of your dorm, her vanilla scent already fading from your walls as she looks at you with longing and grief and something devastating hidden and suppressed deep within her soul. You wonder if this will be the last time her green eyes ever look at you with genuine emotion shining through them.
You wonder if you’ll ever escape the numbing chill of loneliness that settles beneath your skin like an old friend.
Vision, you’d learned his name at some point during the conversation, seems at a loss for words for the first time since you’ve met him. His face is steadily reddening, the tips of his ears practically scarlet as you watch the hand on Wanda’s shoulder tighten.
“I’ve seen your name credited a lot, you must be very good at what you do.” Wanda’s voice is melodic, her words placating yet genuine. She’s mending the rift, her words an unspoken apology for her husband’s behavior as he stands sullen beside her.
Natasha smiles and begins speaking.
It’s strange, to see the woman you’re in love with talking with Wanda. There was a time when you thought you’d never find someone who made you feel the way Wanda did. You were convinced that your love would live and die with her.
Then, you met your wife.
Natasha was everything you could have ever hoped for. She loved you openly and proudly from the moment she met you. Her commitment to you had never waned, her gestures true and meanings genuine. You’d never trusted somebody more, never felt as comfortable with another person.
She stood by your side when others did not. She held you when you were sick, and stayed by your side when you were at your lowest. The day that you had married her was the best day of your life, and your vows were nothing short of pure truth. The green eyes that had looked at you from across the altar were vibrant and dark, your love for that shade of green far surpassing the one you’d loved all those years ago.
So why did it still hurt to think about Wanda?
If you had to choose. Right now, Natasha or Wanda, you knew you’d choose your wife in every lifetime. But that didn’t explain the splintering cracks reappearing on your heart the longer you stayed in Wanda’s presence.
Music rattles the floor, a plethora of swirling hues surrounding you. Your senses are dulled by the fiery liquor burning within your veins, your brain finally relaxing.
“Dude, come on don’t just stand there like a weirdo,” Kate pulls you away from the wall, spilling your cup in the process.
You both look down at it for a moment, before bursting into peals of laughter that leave you clutching her shoulder for support as she bends at the waist. Her dark hair falls neatly over her shoulders, her backward cap holding it in place.
The music drowns out most of your laughter, but you’re aware of the eyes on both you and Kate as you wipe tears from your eyes. She’s pulling you closer to the DJ, dancing sloppily with you. You can’t bring yourself to care about the people around you. There was one goal tonight, get absolutely sloshed at the local college bars and then pass out on Kate’s couch to forget about the whole thing.
“Who the fuck let the sloppy, drunk dykes in?”
Kate doesn’t hear the words, but you do. You turn to face the group near you, the liquor making you bold. It’s a bunch of sorority girls, with their skin-tight dresses and judging eyes watching you with caked-on mascara. Your heart drops when you see Wanda standing in the middle of them.
Your blood runs cold, a surge of sadness and fury sweeping through you. It’s confusing, but most of all, it’s fucking infuriating.
Behind you, Kate stumbles, her elbow knocking into your side. Your arms wrap around her, keeping her upright as she mumbles an apology in your ear. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Wanda whisper something to one of the girls, their eyes on you and filled with mirthful laughter.
“You’re right, Wanda,” the girl says, loud enough for the whole group to hear. “These dyke sluts would probably jump on the nearest dick they could find, since nobody else wants to fuck them.”
The blood rushes to your ears, and Kate’s gasp reverberates around your skull. The bar seems quieter than before, and a multitude of eyes are on you and the blonde bitch in front of you is smirking like she just stole your favorite candy and Wanda is laughing and pointedly avoiding eye contact with you but her smile wavers slightly as her eyes grow sad for a split second before she remembers where she is and you’re so fucking mad and it all just seems so goddamn tragic and-
Your fist connects solidly with that stupid, smug smirk that the blonde girl proudly plasters on her face. There are gasps and Kate whooping loudly in your ear and arms wrapped around you and pulling you towards the door and alcohol making your head spin and fuck you’ve never felt more alive.
Wanda’s eyes finally meet yours. They’re filled with shock, but just before she turns away, you see a sliver of gratitude and the hint of an apology glimmering in their depths.
Needless to say, both you and Kate are banned from that bar.
Your wife is laughing. The echoes of mean laughter from Wanda and her sorority sisters fade into the background noise of your brain as you refocus on the conversation. Natasha’s soft chuckles bring a smile to your face before you can stop it, your lips turning up as you look at her.
She’s effortlessly pretty, her eyes crinkled slightly at the edges even as her gaze flickers warily over to Vision. Her arm is wrapped around your waist, solid yet unrestrictive.
Wanda’s eyes linger around the fingers that lightly draw circles against your hip. She seems to shake herself, eyes quickly moving back towards safer territory as she focuses on Natasha’s face. You don’t miss the fleeting expression of longing that flits across her face, her appearance seeming soul-crushingly tired for a mere moment before it smooths over in a way that speaks to years of practice.
You wonder if she’s remembering the same night that rises to the front of your mind. You try to combat it, to stay in the moment. Natasha's fingers squeeze your hips lovingly, and you descend into the memory with bone-deep guilt.
The concrete is cold beneath you, the wind picking up slightly and threading its way through your hair. You shiver, feeling Wanda adjust her body closer to yours. You’re aware of her heat spreading through you. Her hand fits seamlessly in yours, and you wonder when loving Wanda became as easy and inevitable as breathing.
“Do you think the poets compared their words to the stars?” Wanda asks.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” you say, breathing in her vanilla scent. It’s hard to focus on her words when her body is pressed fully against yours, your left side burning with warmth and something else that you’re almost scared to identify.
Wanda chuckles, the sound heating your cheeks further.
“Well,” she pauses. That’s one of the things you love about her, how careful she is with her words. “Do you think they viewed their words, their poems, as unattainable yet beautiful and pure?”
You’re quiet. You can think of something that is also unattainable, pure and completely inevitable. It’s not poetry, and it’s not the glittering stars that take up your vision. She’s lying right beside you, her nose bright red from the wind and a future stretching out ahead of her that she is able to mold into something beautiful and something that is completely her own. If only she had the courage to do so. You hope she does.
“Of course they did. They’re poets,” you respond, and Wanda hums. “Do you feel that way?”
Wanda doesn’t respond, and that’s enough of an answer for you.
The silence stretches on, but it's comfortable. Wanda is shifting silently, more of her body pressing against you, the wind having died down a while ago, leaving no easy excuses for her leg pressed fully against yours.
“You wanna know what I think?” Wanda’s voice is quiet, yet firm.
Turning your head, you look at her. She looks back, her lips mere inches away from yours. You can feel the soft, warm breath escaping her lips and hitting your face as she speaks.
“I think that you’re like the stars,” Wanda begins, her green eyes sparkling at you. They glance down imperceptibly, almost too quickly for you to catch. You notice, of course you do. “You're incomparable, chemical almost.”
Wanda trails off, her eyes firmly focused on your lips. You understand, you always do.
“I can’t tell if you’re a curse or a miracle,” you whisper, feeling Wanda lean in. The tension vibrates palpably between your lips and hers. “But I don’t really care.”
Soft lips collide with yours, a seismic shift that causes your head to spin for a moment. It’s perfect and pure and something bordering on holiness and you find yourself never wanting to leave this moment. Then, Wanda’s lips are moving against yours and the heat inside you is rising and her hands are everywhere and you can’t get enough of her and-
Her moans feel almost reverent, stretching out into the minimal space between you as she arches herself closer to you. Her skin is pressed against yours, warm and alive and feeling every last bit like an all-consuming force that you gladly pull closer. Your fingers slip inside her easily, the feeling of her bringing tears to your eyes. You want to live in this moment forever, with the taste of her on your lips and her thighs impossibly soft around you, her head thrown back as she chants your name like a prayer.
You’ve never believed in God. But in this moment, you finally know what it truly means to worship.
A man’s voice pulls you from your thoughts.
“Well, as lovely as it’s been to meet you…” Vision trails off, and Natasha simply raises an eyebrow.
“Thank you for the wonderful conversation,” Wanda’s smooth words cut in, another unspoken apology and excuse for her husband's behavior. “We should probably be leaving, it’s getting late.”
Green eyes glance at her husband, whether for permission or in reprimand, you can’t tell. Either way, it gets Vision to move, a firm head nod directed towards your wife before he’s striding towards the door, pulling Wanda with him.
She’s leaving. Again.
A final memory claws its way to the surface. You know this one. It's a memory that you’ve kept hidden in the deepest part of your brain, in a place full of sticky cobwebs and scarce lighting, meant to be forgotten.
It’s inevitable.
Wanda is almost at the exit, her husband's hand possessive against the small of her back. It speaks of ownership, of pride. You despise it. It’s nothing like the soft, loving touch of your wife’s hand against your waist.
The turn of a head and soft brunette waves falling gently around delicate, hunched shoulders. Soft skin, glowing slightly in the dim, red lighting of an exit sign. Green eyes, piercing yours in the same manner that they had all those years ago.
Your breath catches, lodging itself painfully in your throat. Or maybe it's just your chest, and what lies beneath the surface. A heart, with cracks all along the surface, squeezing painfully, the tension, the agony almost too much to bear.
A single tear slides down your cheek. You hear Natasha murmuring something in your ear, a gentle hand wiping your face dry.
There’s a mask sliding into place over those perfect features that you’d memorized a decade ago. Green eyes, light in shade, sliding past you as if you’re an insignificant, forgotten trophy on the highest shelf. And then she’s gone, out the door with only the faint scent of vanilla and a permanent memory etched into your mind.
The cracks splinter, and without warning, shatter completely.
“Pick up, pick up… please just… fucking. Ah, just, goddamnit pick up the fucking phone Wanda.”
You’re drunk, the phone feeling awkward and heavy in your hands. The sound of a dial tone beeping ricochets through your mind, and you clumsily jerk the phone away from your ear. Blearily, you take in the four previous calls you’ve made to Wanda.
One more try can’t hurt. Right?
You firmly press your finger against her name, the sound of your phone dialing her number washing over you. The tiny numbers in the corner of your screen read somewhere between one or two in the morning, but you don’t care. All you need is for Wanda to pick up.
A sound, different from before. You hear quiet breathing on the other side of the line.
God, you’ve missed that sound. The feeling of her head resting against your shoulder or chest as slow measured breaths fill the four walls of your dorm room. The small puffs of air hitting your skin when she shifted, burying her face in your neck.
You say as much, the words spilling out of you. You’re not sure if Wanda is listening, but you hope she is.
“Fuck, I- I just miss you so much. It feels like I’m dying every time I see you, and I can’t take your eyes avoiding mine anymore. I mean,” you hiccup, the sound pathetic even to your own ears. It doesn’t matter.
“Don’t you miss us?” you say, your voice quiet. The soft breaths on the other end of the line hitch, and you grasp at it. “I miss the flame of what we were, I don’t even really know what we were, but… I miss the small reign we had. Even if it was just in the space of my dorm room. I would go through the pain of you every day if it meant I could be close to you. I-”
You lose the words, the regret pouring through you as quickly as a flooding river. The words can’t escape fast enough.
“Do you regret us? I know we were a secret, and I was okay with that. I would have done anything, kept anything private, secret even, just to keep you in my life. You know that Wanda.” You draw a shaky breath. You hope that you don’t imagine the same type of breath on the other end of the line.
“Do you miss it?” You ask, hating the way your voice cracks gently. You hear Wanda’s sharp, soft inhale. “Do you regret the secret of us?”
summary: A reimagining of 50 Shades of Grey, featuring a healthy, consensual relationship and safe BDSM scenes. And lesbians, of course. Wanda meets Natasha, and their captivating story begins.
word count ~ 4.9k+
ⴵ ~ Chapter 2 ~ ⴵ
summary: Wanda returns home to her roommate's many questions, and runs into a surprise guest at her job.
word count ~ 4.5k+
ⴵ ~ Chapter 3 ~ ⴵ
summary: Kate is excited and there's a photoshoot. And lots of gay pining and panicking. Mostly on Wanda's end.
word count ~ 4.5k+
ⴵ ~ Chapter 4 ~ ⴵ
summary: Our girls go on a lovely date and there's lots of gay tension.
word count ~ 3.7k+
ⴵ ~ Chapter 5 ~ ⴵ
summary: Wanda receives a gift and finishes her final exams, then decides to go out drinking to celebrate with her friends and accidentally makes a very awkward phone call.
word count ~ 4.2k+
ⴵ ~ Chapter 6 ~ ⴵ
summary: Wanda wakes up in an unfamiliar bed, then goes through emotional whiplash. Curtesy of a rich, sexy CEO.
word count ~ 4.2k+
ⴵ ~ Chapter 7~ ⴵ
summary: Natasha drives Wanda home, where she meets Yelena and debriefs with Kate.
word count ~ 3k+
ⴵ ~ Chapter 8 ~ ⴵ
summary: Wanda goes on her first helicopter ride, with a hot woman right beside her.
word count ~ 3.3k+
ⴵ ~ Chapter 9 ~ ⴵ
summary: Natasha shows Wanda around her playroom, and they have a discussion.
word count ~ 2.4k+
ⴵ ~ Chapter 10 ~ ⴵ
summary: Wanda loses her virginity to the most eligible bachelorette in America.
word count ~ 4.2k+
ⴵ ~ Chapter 11 ~ ⴵ
summary: Wanda makes breakfast and then has sexy bath time, another first.
word count ~ 4.8k+
ⴵ ~ Chapter 12 ~ ⴵ
summary: Natasha introduces a bit of kink and rewards Wanda.
word count ~ 2.5k+
ⴵ ~ Chapter 13 ~ ⴵ
summary: Wanda meets Natasha's mother, and then they have an interesting conversation over lunch.
word count ~ 3.5k+
ⴵ ~ Chapter 14 ~ ⴵ
summary: Wanda chats with Kate, deals with a phone call from Vision, and looks over Natasha's contract. Then, she gets a surprise package in the mail.
word count ~ 3.9k+
ⴵ ~ Chapter 15 ~ ⴵ
summary: Wanda meets with Vision, and then researches more about the contract. She sends an email, and gets a surprise visit.
word count ~ 4.5k+
ⴵ ~ Chapter 16 ~ ⴵ
summary: Wanda has dinner with Natasha, and they have a much-needed conversation.
word count ~ 3.5k+
All work is my own. None of the content on this blog is yours to translate, steal, or repost on any platform.
Something falls in the bathroom, Wanda’s eyes flicking over to the door in mild concern. You appear, your cheeks lightly flushed as you hold a towel loosely around your body. Wanda can’t help but trail her eyes down your frame, raising her eyebrow in a silent command.
You drop the towel, biting your lip as you make your way over to her. “Sorry, I dropped my lotion.”
Green eyes lock on yours, Wanda’s pupils dilating as she takes in your nudity. Your nipples are already hard, your skin soft and smelling faintly of her vanilla-scented body wash. She loved it when you used her products.
It was one of her rules, actually. You were required to use any product Wanda instructed you to, which consisted mainly of her own -expensive- things. You didn’t mind, you loved being taken care of, in every way.
Leaning down, you gently kiss her, smiling as her hand makes its way to your waist, her fingers digging in and urging you closer. This is your favorite side of her, the one that craves you. You love her fingers pulling you in, her lips on your skin, her eyes solely on yours.
“I’ve laid out a dress for you,” she murmurs, her voice husky and low. It sends a pleasant warmth down your spine that pools in your gut. “Go put it on.”
Her tone is firm as she gently pushes you toward the bed. You catch her eyes lingering on your nude form, glancing over you through the mirror as she applies the last bits of her makeup. Grinning to yourself, you decide to put on a show for her, swaying your hips as you saunter over to the bed.
There it is. The dress she’d picked out for you. It was beautiful, dark red and lacy, a long slit in the side that practically reached your hips. It had a neckline that dipped dangerously low, enough to tease the sight of your chest but not too much to expose you indecently. Just the way Wanda liked it. Lying next to the dress was a pair of black heels, the bottom of them painted bright red, a sight you’d become accustomed to.
Biting your lip to hide your excitement, you slowly pull the dress over your head, moving your hips slowly to fully pull it over your body. You note the lack of panties or a bra on the bed, your cheeks flushing slightly at the thought of sitting through dinner without any undergarments. Luckily, the dress supported your chest well, your breasts sitting comfortably with the extra padded support.
“Perfect,” Wanda murmurs, having spun around to watch you.
Smiling, you bask in her attention as you slowly spin around, adjusting your hair slightly. Your zipper has been caught halfway up your back, the small piece of metal resting just below your shoulder blades.
Wanda gestures to you, a silent command.
You obey, snagging the heels from off the bed and padding toward her. You feel giggly, and a bit like you’re playing dress-up, but Wanda looks at you with utter adoration; her normally serious expression is nowhere to be found. Her eyes are wide and unguarded, her hands firm as she beckons you closer, but not stern and unforgiving as they usually are.
Biting your bottom lip, you decide that you quite like this side of her. It was almost… adorable.
As if she could read your thoughts, Wanda’s eyes snap up to yours from where they’d been lingering around your neckline. “Sit on my lap, darling.”
Blinking, you clear your throat as a strange shyness creeps over you.
“Now.”
Wanda’s tone turns slightly icy, her eyebrows furrowing slightly at your hesitance. She doesn’t like to be disobeyed.
“Yes, ma’am,” you murmur, noting the way her face smooths at your words. Quickly, you drop onto her lap, sitting sideways since your dress won’t allow you to straddle her as you usually did. The heels slip from your fingers, landing on the carpet with a soft thump as Wanda’s hand snakes around your waist.
Her green eyes peer into yours, studying your face. You notice the subtle makeup she’s put on, her eyelids darkened seductively with dark gold eyeshadow, her black eyeliner small and precise. Her lips are also dark, a matte red color coating them. You wonder if it would stain your skin, then promptly push that thought to the back of your mind, lest you leak through your expensive dress.
“I have some jewelry for you,” Wanda murmurs, her other hand coming up to trace the thin gold chain fastened permanently around your neck. She’d gifted it to you last year, her initials subtly engraved into the chain, a private sign of her ownership of you. Wanda wore a similar necklace, your initials also engraved into the silver metal glittering around her neck.
Smiling, you lean in until your lips are mere inches from hers, “I love it when you dress me, Wanda.”
“I know you do,” Wanda smirks, her hand dropping to grip your thigh possessively for a moment, before she reaches for some jewelry she’s laid out on the vanity in front of her. Her fingers send heat down your spine as she grazes them lightly across your skin, clasping a few necklaces around your neck. She adjusts them, laying the metal perfectly on your chest before she taps your hands in a silent command.
Obediently, you raise your hands, watching her slip various rings on them. Somehow, Wanda always manages to match your jewelry to your outfit perfectly. You’re in awe every time, and you no longer protest when she demands to dress you.
Green eyes flit over your ears, Wanda nodding slightly in approval as she takes in your various earrings. “Perfect,” she mutters, her hand coming back down to your thigh.
“Yes, you are.”
“Don’t deflect, darling. What do you say when I compliment you?” Wanda’s tone is light, but her eyes are intense, her fingers squeezing your thigh.
“Thank you, Wanda.”
Smirking, Wanda releases her hold on your thigh. “Good girl.” She moves to stand, helping you off her lap and adjusting your hair to fall perfectly over your shoulders. “Now put those heels on and meet me by the cars.”
Wanda lightly kisses you, careful not to ruin her lipstick -or yours- before she playfully squeezes your waist and walks out the door.
The heels slip on quickly, perfectly molded to your feet. You take a moment, looking at yourself in the mirror and willing your blush to go away. You’re unsuccessful.
Wanda is beautiful. She stands next to the passenger door of her favorite car, opening it and ushering you in. The exterior is gleaming, the dark red gloss standing out. The interior is even nicer, somehow, all black leather with red trim. It smells as fresh as the day she bought it.
Taking a moment, you admire Wanda’s outfit, her silver jewelry and sharply cut jacket. She’s several inches taller than you, her heels clacking softly on the ground as she shuts the door softly before rounding the car to the driver’s side.
The drive to the restaurant is relatively short. You steal glances at Wanda the entire time, loving the comforting weight of her hand on your thigh.
You’ve grown used to being pampered by her. She makes a lot of decisions for the two of you, and you love her control over you. You love providing for her as well, insisting on cooking meals whenever you can. Between your part-time job at a bookstore and your relationship, you were pretty okay with your life.
Wanda would have preferred you to be home all the time, especially when she often worked from her home office, but you’d insisted on keeping your job. You liked it, there was a bookstore cat named Freckles, and your manager was really nice. Plus, you loved being surrounded by books all day.
Shifting in your seat slightly, you bite your lip in excitement as you feel your credit card sitting snug between the fabric of your dress and your breasts. You’d been saving up for months, knowing that Wanda had expensive tastes. This restaurant was meant for upper-class patrons, so you’d prepared well in advance. You wanted to surprise her tonight; after all, it wasn’t often you got to return the favor of spoiling Wanda.
Wanda never lets you pay for anything. You'll be changing that tonight.
The restaurant is just as you remembered. Low lighting and soft voices that help you relax further into Wanda’s hand on the small of your back. It feels safer this way, more intimate.
“Right this way, Ma’am,” the waiter says, his voice quiet as he gestures for Wanda to follow. Her hand is splayed on your lower back, the warmth from her fingers propelling you forward as the waiter leads you to a table near the back.
The chair doesn’t make a sound and Wanda slides it out, gesturing for you to sit. Her hands briefly touch your shoulders before she pushes the chair in firmly, her stride elegant as she walks to the chair across from you.
“Two glasses of Cabernet Sauvignon, from the Robert Mondavi Winery Reserve,” she murmurs, the waiter nodding dutifully before striding away.
Those green eyes stare into yours, a soft smile playing on Wanda’s lips.
“You look beautiful tonight, darling.”
“Thank you, Wanda,” you whisper, blushing at the praise. You briefly touch the necklace resting between your collarbones. “I think you look amazing.”
Wanda smiles warmly at that, her hand sliding across the table to clasp yours. Her fingers are soft as you idly play with her rings.
The waiter returns, showing the bottle before Wanda nods at him. He pours the wine, standing still as Wanda takes a sip. His eyes are nervous, but Wanda simply nods again before quietly ordering food for the both of you.
You knew what she was going to order. You’d meticulously saved up in order to cover the bill, plus a generous tip. A flood of relief fills you when she doesn’t stray from her usual order, but you cover it up with a smile.
“How was work?”
Wanda begins speaking, her thumb running over the back of your hand as she does. You listen diligently, unsure of half the things she’s referring to but enjoying yourself nonetheless. The waiter returns some time later with steaming food, and you and Wanda make idle conversation while you eat.
It is one of the best meals you could have asked for. Perfectly cooked salmon with a side of quinoa salad and rice. There are complementary breadsticks, and you eagerly take two. The wine pairs nicely with the food, but you’re not a huge nerd about it like Wanda is. She knows all the best combinations.
Truly, it all tastes the same to you. But, you’d never tell her that.
“I’m going to use the restroom,” you say, wiping your mouth politely.
Wanda simply nods, sipping her wine. You’re a much faster eater than she is, and this is one of the times you’re grateful for the skill. Squeezing her hand briefly, you stand up and walk toward the restrooms.
Once you’ve rounded the corner, your heart begins to race. Glancing back, you see Wanda taking a small bite of her salad.
Perfect.
“Excuse me,” you say quietly, walking up to the waiter standing near the kitchen window. He looks up, surprised.
“How can I help you, ma’am?” He asks, politely averting his eyes when you dig into your dress for your credit card.
“I’d like to pay for my wife’s and my meal.”
He nods, gingerly taking your card. You try not to giggle, smoothing your face over when he nods and briskly walks into the backroom. Casually, you fix your hair, careful not to lean against the wall. Wanda had helped you with your posture, and you could still remember her lessons in the back of your mind.
“All set, ma’am.” The waiter returns, handing you your card back.
“Oh, thank you,” you murmur, placing it back into your dress and biting your lip to stifle your smile when he looks away again. You pull out two hundred-dollar bills, handing them to him. “Thank you.”
He smiles politely as he accepts the bills, nodding at you.
“I’d prefer you keep this from my wife until the end of the meal,” you say, watching his eyebrows raise slightly. “I’m surprising her.”
“Ah,” he smiles wider this time. “Always happy to be a part of a surprise, ma’am. My lips are sealed.”
With that, you walk back to your seat. You make sure not to walk too quickly, lest Wanda becomes suspicious. She always has a way of figuring out what you’ve been up to.
“There you are, darling,” she smiles at you and stands, pulling your chair out again. “I was beginning to worry.”
You flush, sitting down again and turning to look up at her. “Just decided to freshen up a bit, I wanted to look my absolute best for you.”
Leaning down, Wanda places a soft kiss against your cheek. “You always look wonderful, sweetheart.”
“Thank you, Wanda.”
Smiling at you, Wanda returns to her seat and grasps the stem of her wine glass. You mirror her action, bringing the glass to your lips and taking a deep sip. You’re going to need some liquid confidence to get through the night once Wanda discovers what you’ve done.
One thing you’d learned early on in your relationship was that Wanda liked to be the one in charge of things. You didn’t mind, especially in the bedroom, but you’d always felt just a tiny bit disappointed when you wanted to spoil her and she’d refuse. She’d just offer her own card, raising an eyebrow at you and firmly reminding you that she was there to take care of you.
Sometimes it felt like you weren’t contributing anything of worth to the relationship.
“Darling?” Wanda’s green eyes are piercing, locked on your face. “Are you alright? You look… morose.”
You shake away your thoughts. You’re sitting here with the beautiful woman that you married, on a nice date that you’ve just paid for. Get a grip.
“Yes,” you say, smiling reassuringly at her. “I just got lost in my thoughts, you know how that happens sometimes.”
Laughing slightly, you watch Wanda’s lips quirk up slightly, but something tells you that she won’t let the subject go that easily. You reach across the table, grabbing her hand and making sure she can see down the front of your dress.
“Baby, I’m fine. Really.”
Green eyes flit down, before they glance back up at you, her eyebrow raised. “Alright. Just stay present with me, okay?”
You nod eagerly, smiling brightly at her before sitting up again.
Under the table, you feel the top of Wanda’s heel brush against your leg, advancing slowly as it makes its way above your knees and further up your thigh. “You’ll pay for that stunt,” Wanda murmurs.
Your heart stops for a moment, your mind flashing back to your credit card, before you realize she’s talking about your adventurous moment when she got a nice full look at your chest.
“I understand,” you quip, adjusting in your seat to spread your legs further just slightly, watching the way Wanda’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly. That’s right, two could play this game. You smiled victoriously.
“How do you feel about going to the speakeasy a bit further downtown?” Wanda asks, finishing the rest of her wine. You mirror her actions, feeling the pleasant buzz under your skin.
You nod, and Wanda smiles at you, grabbing her clutch.
“I’ll be right back.”
Watching her leave to find the waiter, you wait anxiously. You can just barely see her across the restaurant, her red hair glowing slightly in the warm lighting. She’s exchanging low words with the waiter, before he gestures over towards your table. Two sets of eyes turn towards you, one apologetic and the other unreadable.
You’re focused on the green pair, barely noticing the cash Wanda hands the waiter as a tip.
She advances slowly, moving through the restaurant as her gaze never leaves yours. “Darling…” she says when she reaches your seat, her hand on your shoulder. It’s firm, not painful, but her fingers dig in just enough to express how she’s feeling.
“Surprise,” you say, smiling up at her. You’re proud of yourself; your voice didn’t even waver. Standing, you bite your lip as you gaze at her, assessing her expression.
She reveals nothing, her hand snaking around your waist and guiding you toward the front door. What would normally be a comforting action sends pleasant shivers down your spine.
Wanda remains silent all the way to the car, opening the passenger door and ushering you in. Sliding into the driver's seat, she starts the car before letting out a breath.
“Explain.”
“I wanted to treat you for once,” you say stubbornly. You might as well have crossed your arms and pouted, but you didn’t.
Looking at you, Wanda sighs. “Darling, why do you always fight me on this topic?”
You don’t answer, looking out of your window as Wanda begins backing up the car, the low hum of the engine comforting. The city flashes before you as she drives, people milling about, and different lights hitting your eyes.
“Sweetheart,” Wanda says, something in her tone telling you to turn and look at her. “You know that I appreciate it when you want to pay for me, don’t you?”
You furrow your brow. “I… well, I always thought it just annoyed you.”
“It does annoy me,” Wanda shoots a look at you. “But, that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate what you’re trying to do.”
Then, she sighs. “In this relationship, you do so much for me. One of the only ways I feel that I can take care of you is by paying and making sure you don’t have to worry about anything financially. Do you understand?”
“I- but I don’t do that much for you?”
Wanda laughs then, the sound surprising you. “Oh, sweetheart. You have no idea, do you?”
Shaking your head, you watch her as you wait for an explanation.
“Lift up the hem of your dress.”
It’s a command, and you blink at the sudden turn of events. Still, you know better than to disobey Wanda. Slowly, you drag the hem up until the tops of your thighs are revealed.
“Spread your legs.”
“Wanda…”
She shoots you a look. You spread your legs.
“Touch yourself.”
At that, you suck in a breath. Trailing your fingers down, you collect some of your arousal on your fingertips, surprised at how wet you are. Then, you begin circling your clit, nice and slow, just the way Wanda likes it.
“Good girl. Keep doing that.”
Wanda smiles, glancing down at your fingers every so often as she makes her way out of the city. You want to ask about the speakeasy, but choose to remain silent. She seems to be proving a point somehow, and you wait for her to explain.
“We’re going home, where I’m going to make us some drinks and you’re going to sit on my lap while we make a new rule. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Smiling at that, Wanda reaches over, placing a hand on your thigh. It makes your skin buzz hotly, and you resist the urge to circle your clit faster.
“This is one of many things you do for me, darling. Your submission is everything to me, and you offer it so willingly. I’ve been able to freely express my dominant side with you, and you’ve never judged me for the things I desire in a sexual dynamic. You were made for me.”
You nod, realization creeping into your mind. Wanda isn’t finished.
“You have your job, which I allowed because I know how happy it makes you, and I want you to have a life outside of me. As much as I would like to keep you for myself, I know how much you adore that bookshop. At home, you cook for me, not because I’ve asked you to, but because you genuinely enjoy cooking. That is something you provide for me.”
Wanda quirks an eyebrow at you. “When I get home, what is the first thing you do?”
Blushing, you respond, your words slightly breathy. “I take your coat and purse, give you a kiss, and walk with you to your home office while you tell me about your day.”
Nodding, Wanda continues. “That is another thing you provide for me, sweetheart.”
She continues to list things, small, mundane things that you hadn’t considered to be a big deal. Evidently, they meant the world to Wanda. The way you helped her with laundry, when you’d rub her shoulders after a long meeting, make her a drink in the evening, and especially when you’d follow her orders.
“Like I said, you were made for me. You do so much for our relationship.”
“So do you,” you protest, stopping yourself from saying more when she shoots a sharp look your way.
“One of the main ways I feel that I can contribute and take care of you in this relationship is with my income. You know I make a lot, darling, I’ve never hidden that from you. I work long days so that I can come home and make your life comfortable.”
“Oh,” you say, finally understanding.
“Please, darling. Let me use my money on you. That’s why I work so hard.”
You nod, unable to speak as you realize why Wanda was so insistent on paying for everything.
“I see you finally understand,” Wanda says, glancing down again. “Go faster.”
Blinking, you circle your clit faster, biting your lip at the pleasure it brings. You take a deep, shuddering breath, sure that you’re leaking through your dress. The air in the car becomes warm, and the next time that Wanda looks at you, her pupils are blown.
“Keep going,” she murmurs, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. “If you cum before we get home, your punishment will be worse.”
You whine, nodding as you keep your pace. You try desperately to think of anything other than the woman seated beside you, her grip firm on your thigh as you feel your pleasure building.
The fingers on your thigh grip harshly as you slow your pace slightly, trying to stave off your incoming orgasm.
“What did I say?” Wanda hisses, her eyes glancing sharply at you.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry… what?”
You shudder, feeling little bolts of pleasure crashing through you. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”
“Hmm,” Wanda pretends to think, watching as you increase your pace again. “I don’t think that’s a strong enough title, do you?”
“I’m sorry, Mistress.”
Wanda smiles, satisfied. “Good girl. Keep going. Please your Mistress.”
You let out a low moan at her words, feeling your pleasure increase tenfold as she calls herself that title. You try to stop it, your orgasm. But Wanda is talking, telling you that you’re doing so well for her as her fingers slowly inch up your thigh, her vanilla scent engulfing you as your muscles spasm, white-hot pleasure overtaking you.
You fingers stall, your orgasm coursing through you as your clit pulses. Wanda makes a noise, her fingers grabbing yours and moving them back to your raw clit. “Did I tell you to stop?”
“No, I’m sorry, Mistress.”
Continuing, you let your fingers wring every last drop of pleasure from you, aware of the fact that you’ve just made your punishment worse. You truly couldn’t help it. I mean, it’s not your fault that your wife was insanely hot and her words were able to bring you to orgasm, was it?
You’re working your way up to a second orgasm when Wanda pulls into the driveway of your shared home. As the garage shuts behind you, she turns the engine off, her hand grabbing yours and gently pulling it away from your swollen clit.
Wrapping her fingers around your wrist, Wanda brings your hand to her lips, maintaining eye contact with you as she sucks the arousal off of your fingers.
“I can smell your arousal,” she murmurs, releasing your fingers with a soft pop. “I’m going to get changed. By the time I come back, I want you nude and kneeling on the floor in front of the couch, with two drinks in your hands. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mistress.” You watch her exit the car and round the side to open your door.
Wanda disappears into the bedroom, and you quickly make your way to the kitchen, grabbing the ingredients to make Wanda’s favourite cocktail.
It isn’t long before you’re finished, garnishing each drink with a maraschino cherry. You walk carefully to the living room, setting the drinks on two coasters near the couch. Wanda didn’t like it when you forgot about the coasters. You didn’t blame her, all of the furniture in your home was expensive, much of it was hand-crafted.
Stripping out of your beautiful dress, you fold it neatly and place it on the chair nearby, your heels sitting next to it. You remove all of your jewelry, except for the permanent gold chain around your neck.
Grabbing the drinks, you kneel in front of the couch, facing the cushions. It’s a position that Wanda had trained into you, and you’re well aware of the wetness clinging to your center as you wait.
Footsteps sound out, heels clicking towards you. As much as you want to, you don’t dare turn from your position, knowing that Wanda liked the thrill of suspense.
“I hope you enjoyed that orgasm in the car,” Wanda says, stepping around you to sit on the couch. Your mouth waters as she comes into view. “It will be your only orgasm tonight.”
Your eyes snap up to hers, but you remain silent, her eyes hard and unforgiving. The lingerie set she’s wearing is gorgeous, all black with a lacy corset. There are accents of dark red throughout the whole piece, and you can feel yourself getting worked up as you take her in.
Wanda’s hand grabs one of the glasses, sipping from it as she makes a small noise of appreciation. Setting it to the side, she grabs the cherry and pops it in her mouth, before she leans forward to grab your jaw.
“Open.”
You can smell the cherry and sharp hints of alcohol on her tongue, and you obey. Wanda’s fingers reach into your glass, grabbing the cherry and bringing it to your parted lips. She rubs it over your top lip first, then your bottom lip. You remain still, watching her eyes as she slowly presses the cherry onto your tongue.
“Chew and swallow, dear.”
You obey, looking into her eyes as you do so.
Wanda smirks, satisfied with your obedience. She grabs your glass, tapping her knees in a silent command as she brings the glass to your lips. You rest your hands on the tops of your thighs, palms facing up as she tips the glass forward, the sweet drink flowing into your mouth.
She has you drink until the glass is empty, your stomach warm from the alcohol and lips buzzing from the way she’d wiped them with her fingers once she was done. Wanda sits back, watching your flushed face as she sips on her own drink.
“There is going to be a new rule implemented, darling.”
You nod, tilting your head slightly.
“When we are together, I will pay for everything. If you wish to make a purchase, you will talk to me beforehand. You know how I hate it when you disobey or trick me in public.” Wanda’s eyes soften. “Occasionally, you can buy some things when we are together, I won’t deny you that. But, let me take care of you, okay?”
You nod. The decision is easy now that you know the real reason why Wanda was so insistent on paying for everything. Besides, it was nice to be taken care of.
“Good girl.”
Wanda finishes her drink, setting it next to your glass. “You know that I have to punish you, don’t you?”
“Yes, Mistress.” You hang your head slightly, wondering what type of punishment Wanda has planned. Strong fingers grip your chin, wrenching your head up.
“You know why, don’t you?”
“Because I went behind your back, Mistress.”
Wanda’s eyes flash, a pleased smile adorning her face. “Exactly, sweetheart. You know that what you did was wrong, and you know how I hate it when you are dishonest with me.”
At that, Wanda stands, still gripping your face as you crane your neck to look up at her. “Who owns you?”
“You do, Mistress.”
Wanda’s fingers tighten on your jaw, forcing your mouth open. She spits, letting her saliva drip into your mouth, and you swallow obediently.
“Crawl,” she commands, before turning and walking slowly to the bedroom.
You obey, your eyes glued to the sway of her backside as her footsteps click down the hallway. The hallway is carpeted, something you’re grateful for as you crawl behind Wanda. You can feel your arousal running down your inner thighs as you crawl, and sharp arousal mixed with soft humiliation mixes deep inside you.
You reflect on your choices as you crawl, satisfaction that Wanda had finally explained why she liked to pay working its way through you, even as regret pools in your stomach. You truly hated going behind Wanda’s back, and although it was meant as a thoughtful surprise, you now understood why it meant so much to Wanda to take care of you financially.
Wanda stops, wordlessly pointing at the bed. You blink, having not realized that you’d made it to the bedroom already. You follow Wanda’s instructions, crawling onto the bed as she shuts the door behind you, a few warm lamps lighting the room.
“Sometimes I forget…” Wanda begins, sauntering back over to the bed, a glint in her eye. “I forget that good girls like you need discipline to keep them in line, isn’t that right?”
You nod.
“Use your words.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
Wanda’s eyes hardened. “Yes, Mistress… what?”
“I-” your eyes dart around the room, unsure of what Wanda wants you to say. The woman reached behind you, grabbing two velcro cuffs and attaching them to your wrists while you fumble for an answer.
“What do good girls need, sweetheart?” Wanda finally says, testing the cuffs to make sure they’re secure but not too tight.
“Oh, um. Good girls need their Mistresses to discipline them to remind them of their place.” You turn to look at Wanda, hopeful that you’ve supplied the correct answer. Wanda smiles at you, tracing a finger down your face as she nods.
“Very good,” she murmurs, grabbing a piece of metal and attaching your wrists together on your lap. You know that you can’t escape, so you don’t even test the strength of the restraints; you just watch Wanda.
Tapping your lower back, Wanda urges you into position. “On your knees, ass up, darling. I want your arms straight up so your face is on the mattress.”
You obey, stretching your arms out and presenting your backside. Wanda’s hand lands on the back of your head, ensuring that you stay in place, before she strokes your hair and trails her fingers down your spine. Her lips caress your ear, her vanilla scent washing over you as she whispers, “Count for me.”
You barely have time to question it before a resounding crack echoes through the room. You register the pain a second later, a burning sensation multiplying the humiliation and arousal inside you.
“One, Mistress.”
Wanda is relentless, using her hand first, until you no longer squirm when she spanks you. She lets out a frustrated noise as your voice remains steady, stalking over to the closet and emerging with more toys.
“I want to see you break,” she hisses, grabbing the roots of your hair and twisting your head until your wide eyes meet hers. She relishes the wide look of anticipation and trepidation on your face, before she roughly shoves your face back into the mattress, one hand steadying your back while the other raises a paddle and brings it down sharply with a twist of her wrist.
“T- twenty-three, Mistress,” you moan, feeling tears form in your eyes as your head starts to become fuzzy. This was the headspace that you loved the most, and Wanda knew just how to get you there.
Wanda resumes, switching between the paddle and a soft cane, the low whistle in the air before it strikes you, causing your arousal to spike.
“God, I love how much of a masochist you are,” Wanda says, her voice slightly raspy. “You’ll take anything I give you, won’t you, darling?”
“Yes, Mistress,” you say, your voice slightly muffled from the way your face is pressed into the mattress.
Wanda delivers one final blow, the crack jolting your body forward as your fingers grip the comforter tightly, a muffled sob sounding out. Her cool fingers gently trail over your raw, red ass, her voice whispering in your ear, “Color?”
“Yellow, Mistress,” you moan. “I just need a moment.”
“Good girl,” she responds, rubbing your backside for a moment before walking back into the closet to retrieve more toys, letting you catch your breath.
She remains in the closet for a suspiciously long time, but you don’t dare raise your head. You can hear her rummaging around, her heels making a soft thud on the carpet as she returns, the weight of the bed shifting as she deposits whatever items she collected.
There are some more noises, near the foot of the bed, and you feel yourself craning to hear what she might be doing.
“Turn around, darling,” Wanda commands. “On your knees, facing the headboard.”
“Yes, Mistress,” you mumble, quickly following her order. You can feel her attaching cuffs of some sort to your ankles, and you realize that you’ve been restrained with a spreader bar. Flexing your ankles for a moment, you realize that you’re well and truly stuck. It sends a rush of arousal through you.
“You like this, don’t you,” Wanda murmurs, dragging a finger through your dripping slit, an appreciative moan telling you that she licked your juices from her finger.
You can’t do much but whimper, hearing her chuckle from behind you.
The feeling of something thick prodding at you makes your heart stutter for a moment, before you feel Wanda’s fingers spreading lube all over what you presume to be a dildo. She makes sure to spread some on you as well, her fingers scissoring inside you as she ensures you’re well lubricated.
There’s a click, and then you hear the soft hum of machinery. A thick dildo presses against you, and you moan as you feel it start to penetrate you.
“Hold still,” Wanda commands, and you obey, feeling her adjusting the machine. The dildo presses deep inside you, hitting that spot inside you that causes pleasure to bloom, and you groan into the mattress.
“Perfect.”
Wanda rounds the bed, the machine slowly thrusting her favorite dildo deep inside you, the sounds of your wet pussy being slowly fucked sending her own arousal soaring. She grips your hair again, pulling your head up to admire the glassy look in your eyes. “Does that feel good, sweetheart?”
“I- mmmph,” you manage, your eyes gazing into hers, not a thought behind them.
Chuckling, Wanda presses a button on the remote, the dildo moving slightly faster. Your mouth opens, your cheeks coloring further as a deep flush emerges.
God, it feels amazing. Wanda’s cool hands on your cheeks as your body is set alight with pleasure. She’s moving, pulling off her lingerie as she manoeuvres herself to sit against the headboard.
You can smell her, so you drop your gaze down to her perfect pussy, licking your lips at the glistening arousal you find there.
“Go on,” Wanda’s voice cuts through the haze. She clicks the remote again, the dildo fucking you faster and deeper. “Make Mommy feel good.”
At that, you dive in, not needing to be told twice. Eating Wanda out was something you’d never tire of. She smelled divine, and tasted even better. You’d told her once that you thought she compared to the nectar of the Gods, and she’d been so pleased that she allowed you to eat her out during an entire workday from home. It had been one of the best days of your life.
“Oh, fuck,” Wanda breathes out, feeling your tongue expertly wrap around her clit, stimulating her in that perfect way of yours. Her hand makes its way to your hair, gripping tightly. It would be uncomfortable, but you loved the pain as she pulled on your roots slightly, pushing your face further into her.
Your hands are still uselessly cuffed together, but your fingers manage to find Wanda’s nipples. You pinch them in that way she likes so much, and you feel her clit pulse beneath your tongue.
Wanda has never been very vocal during sex, but you’ve learned how to read her all the same. You can feel her breath stutter beneath your fingers, and you continue to stimulate her nipples, rolling and pinching until her muscles twitch. She subconsciously thrusts harder into your mouth, and you eagerly accept.
When she comes, it’s quietly, with a low moan and her fingers gripping your hair like she never wants to let you go. You moan with her, your pleasure building as the dildo continues to fuck you slowly, sliding in and out of you until your brain can’t focus on anything else.
“Fuck,” Wanda whispers, pulling your head up to gaze at you. “I want to fill you up, darling.”
Your eyes widen, but you nod, the pleasure making your mind fuzzy. Wanda knows this. She knows how easy you are to manipulate and follow her every word when you’re desperate to cum.
Smirking, Wanda caresses your cheek for a brief moment before she slides out from under you, grabbing another toy from the nightstand.
It’s a beautiful buttplug, made of pure gold with a dark red gem at the end. It’s one of Wanda’s favorites, and you like it well enough. It’s not too big, just enough to stretch you out and make you feel full, and you love it when Wanda claims every part of you.
“Relax, baby,” Wanda murmurs, gently squeezing some lube onto your ass. You obey her, the pleasure from the dildo making your muscles weak. Wanda presses on the remote again, the dildo fucking you faster, pleasure erupting inside you.
Slowly, Wanda inserts the buttplug. You can feel the stretch, the slight burn as the thickest part of the plug makes it past your rim, the sensation of being full making you pant and moan.
“You like that, don’t you? You like it when I claim every one of your holes, hmm?” Wanda asks, twisting the buttplug so it’s covered in lube as she slowly inserts it.
“Yes, Mistress,” you moan, bucking your hips into her hand. This causes the dildo to fuck deeper inside you, and you practically melt into the mattress, your muscles going limp from pleasure.
Wanda chuckles, inserting the buttplug fully and relishing the way you whine at the fullness you feel. She admires you for a moment, the dark red gem glinting back at her as your arousal drips down your thighs while the machine fucks you relentlessly.
Grabbing a soft towel, Wanda slips it underneath you, grabbing your ass when she’s finishes and kneading your hot flesh. You moan, full twinges of pain only adding to your pleasure. You can feel an orgasm starting to emerge, your heart racing as pleasure builds within you.
“Do you want to cum?” Wanda asks, her voice sounding out next to your ear.
You moan in response, too weak to do much else.
“Aww,” Wanda coos, her voice dripping with faux sympathy. “My pet is too dumb to respond correctly, isn’t she?”
Her words reverberate around your skull, the warm vanilla scent engulfing you as your mind grows hazier. You can’t offer much other than soft whimpers and moans, your head turning to tearfully look at your Mistress.
“Well,” Wanda begins, her hands caressing your sore backside harshly. “Since you can’t form a correct response, I suppose I’ll have to punish you.”
You would protest, but you can barely think of any words to say. Wanda’s hand comes down, gentler than her strikes before, but the impact on your already red ass makes you yelp, your mind breaking fully.
Wanda is gentle, but persistent. She spanks you in a rhythm you can’t decipher, unable to anticipate when she’ll strike next. It thrills you, and sends your mind deep into that vanilla headspace you’ve grown to love. Pain mixes with pleasure, the dildo fucking you slowly enough that you feel your orgasm growing, but never quite enough to tip you over the edge.
“P-please,” you manage, after you feel yourself edge again, Wanda monitoring your body’s reactions and slowing the dildo down whenever you grow too close to an orgasm.
“Use your words, darling. Full sentences."
“I-,” you moan loudly, the dildo speeding up.
“Pathetic,” Wanda murmurs, her hand grabbing your hair and yanking your head up. Green eyes meet glazed ones, and she smirks. “You can’t even beg properly anymore, you’re completely mine, aren't you?”
“Yes, Mistress,” you moan, unable to say anything else.
“Good girl,” Wanda releases your hair, letting your head press into the mattress weakly. She clicks the remote again, the dildo fucking you harder than before, the sound of your arousal making it’s way to your ears as you feel pleasure growing once again.
Your orgasm is close, your knuckles white as you grip the pillow, your muscles tense. You’re so close, and Wanda knows it.
“Tell me, darling,” Wanda begins, sitting next to you, stroking your back gently as the dildo fucks punishingly into you. “What lesson did you learn today?”
“I- um… to… to let you, mmphh fuck, to let you pay for me…”
Wanda smiles. “Exactly.” Then, she stands, reaching back to slowly grab the buttplug, pressing it even further into you. You moan, a broken, weak sound that makes Wanda pulse with need.
“You’re going to obey me.” Wanda pulls the buttplug slightly out, before slamming it back into you. “You will never question me or go behind my back again, do you understand?”
“Yes, Mistress,” you yelp, moaning as you feel your orgasm creep closer.
“Oh, sweetheart, you know I just want to take care of you, right?” Wanda’s voice is sickly sweet. “That’s all I want. And you just need to learn your place.”
You nod frantically, your submissiveness clicking firmer into place, your role reestablished in your mind.
“Yes, Mistress,” you moan. “I know my place, I’ll do whatever you want, I’ll never disobey you again.”
“I doubt that,” Wanda murmurs to herself, before smiling at your wrecked form. “One more edge, baby, then we can be done for the night.”
You nod, moaning as Wanda clicks the remote higher, the dildo fucking you faster and rougher than it had previously. You’re almost overwhelmed with pleasure, Wanda’s hands on your face and ass, her presence everywhere. You love it.
“I- m gonna…”
Wanda clicks the remote, the dildo stopping immediately.
You moan in slight frustration, feeling your arousal leaking around the dildo as it drips down your thighs. Everything happens in a haze, Wanda removing the dildo from you and slowly taking your buttpluge out. She unclips your restraints, leaving you boneless on the bed as you embrace the comfortable haze in your mind.
The shower is nice, warm, and smelling of vanilla as Wanda washes your body and hair, whispering sweet things into your ear while you slump against her. It’s not until you’re wrapped up underneath the covers that you finally begin to emerge from that comfortable headspace, your limbs entangled with your wife’s.
“I love you, darling. Thank you for your trust in me.”
“You always make good decisions for us,” you say, yawning slightly and burrowing further into her. “I love you, too.”
Wanda smiles, making a contented noise as you hear her breathing start to grow softer.
“Hey, Wands?”
“Hmm.”
“I’m paying for ice cream tomorrow.”
And with that, you ignore the soft, happy sigh your wife lets out, letting her vanilla scent engulf you completely.
Mira joining Huntr/x first and being Rumi's best friend (and only friend) and vice-versa, but there's always a wall in between them that she can't quite breach. Rumi won't fall asleep around her, won't let her tend to her bruises and cuts after training, won't speak in-depth about her past. Mira knows Rumi is hiding something but eventually, it just becomes a background detail in her mind
Zoey joining Huntr/x a year later and being a buffer of sorts. Her and Mira bonding really quickly bc they don't have the same apprehensions that Rumi does about being close, physically and emotionally. Zoey adores them both, of course, but she can love Mira fully in a way that she can't with Rumi
Rumi dealing with bouts of jealousy watching them hangout and have sleepovers in each other's rooms and going to the bathhouse and she feels guilty for being jealous, because she knows it's not their fault and that they want her there, but she just can't be there
(I think she has a lot more depth than a lot of people give her credit for, and I think it's more interesting to discuss her through the lens of being a good person who really. really fucked up)
Rumi would have frequent nightmares as a child, and Celine would sing her Sunlight Sisters songs to fall asleep
She had feelings for Rumi's mother but never confessed them, she has a lot of internalized homophobia she's never addressed (until the girls force her to talk about it after they have a movie night where they watch a queer romance and Celine cries, like a lot)
When they were all training together, Celine would put on weekly movie nights where whoever did the most pushups/ran the farthest/did the most chores/etc would get to pick the movie. She's got like a whole projector set up. She's a film buff. Her favorite movie is Breakfast at Tiffany's (don't ask me why, I just know it, I know that woman has a celebrity crush on Audrey Hepburn)
She loved raising Rumi, and has always talked to others about how proud she is of Rumi (even though she didn't tell this to Rumi herself)
When Rumi and Celine reconcile after the movie, Celine breaks down crying and apologizes. The moment when Rumi asked her to kill her was the moment all the realization of the pain she caused Rumi came crashing down on her. It's the first time she tells Rumi how proud of her she is, and Mira and Zoey are there (shocked, expecting it to not go well) and Rumi also starts crying and hugs her. She forgives her and the girls are really surprised by that but, it's Rumi, and she's got a big heart. All Rumi ever wanted was an apology to be validated her entire life. Their relationship will never be the same, but it will be better
The first time she told the girls she loved them was during the reconciliation, because she didn't want to go one more day taking the chance that she couldn't say it, and then they all start crying and hugging
When the girls tell her they're together (Polytrix blog yo) she's 1. confused because she doesn't know what polyamory is, 2. concerned because optics, 3. thankful Rumi didn't get together with Jinu (still working on the whole "not all demons are bad" thing like when you're trying to get your well-intentioned grandma to stop using language she doesn't realize is derogatory), 4. cries again because they get a chance at love that she wasn't able to have
If you can't tell already, I think Celine is actually secretly a big crier. She is a huge softie and the only people that know this are the girls, because unless she is in front of a camera or in public, she will cry over anything, happy or sad. She's where the girls picked up the "don't cry because if you cry then I'll cry" behavior
Big softie but a drill sergeant during training, "if any of you drop from your plank before 30 minutes, you're all running another mile" type shit
Big softie but never talked about her feelings, even when crying she'd say "I don't know what you're talking about, it's just my allergies"
Post reconciliation, the girls make a group chat with Celine and she will send them super niche movie reference memes because she can't remember what movies she's seen but the girls haven't. They let it go and just add the movie to the long list to watch. Celine also watches every. single. turtle video (or whatever her hyper fixation is at the time) that Zoey sends in the group chat, and responds to every single one
Ok I stayed up way to late to doodle all this, but here's my headcanon for Rumi's dad. I was thinking about how she seemed to have a greater effect on the honmoon when her demon powers kick in and, of course, the purple hair.
There's been some thoughts that Gwi-Ma was her father and tricked her mother, to pull in the purple and the powers and that could definitely have tracked--but then we got that concept art of her parents together being happy and that deleted storyboard of Rumi having a memory of her demon-dad holding her and giving her a flower. So it seems it was a loving relationship between Mi-yeong and demon-dad.
And yet, the purple hair and purplish-pink powers...and then I had the idea: What if her dad was Gwi-Ma's son
The name I picked for him in his true demon form is:
Wangja-Ma /왕자 魔 (Prince Demon)
But the name he'd go by when undercover as a Jeoseung Saja (to avoid the hunters giving him any extra attention as the Demon Prince) I decided would be Shin .
Taken from the ending of gwishin (ghost) like Gwi-Ma is from the beginning. Shin by itself means god, (신) but also it can be a translation of the Japanese word shin (真), that means "genuine", which I thought was hilarious for a dude in like, three layers of disguise xD
I don't have a full story worked out, but it's likely he's either sent by Gwi-Ma/undertakes by himself a mission to spy on the Sunlight Sisters, try and spy on them to see how to destory them from within by gaining their trust--and then he gets Feelings for Real.
And whatever confession he gives to Mi-yeong is tainted by the fact that, while he might confess he's a demon, he doesn't tell her he's the son and heir of the demon lord they're trying to defeat.
And he's definitely torn between his loyalties to his father/the demon world and to his love and their baby. Like, its not like he just totally switches sides, I think he's trying for a long while to have his cake and eat it too. But eventually he does decide to choose Mi-yeong and little Rumi--but his father of course doesn't take kindly to his boy trying to leave the family business and settle down with a Hunter. While his true title of Prince still isn't revealed, things escalate, Celine finds out Shin's a demon, Mi-yeong is accidentally killed, and Rumi is left orphaned as her father is dragged back to the Demon Realm to be punished for his disloyalty...
summary: you start your first day at university and meet the enigmatic professor romanoff in your russian literature class. instantly captivated by her presence, you can’t stop thinking about her—even during a phone call with mj, where you pretend everything’s normal. As you reread anna karenina and scramble to finish the essay she assigned, you realize something’s already shifting inside you: you want her to notice you. maybe even like you.
pairings: professor!natasha romanoff x student!reader
warnings: nothing much, but you could feel the tension between them from this chapter.
author's note: yes i had this drafted a long time ago, i'd say a few weeks? so i hope you guys like it. x
It didn’t always feel like this.
You used to know who you were. Sharp. Focused. Always top of your class — the kind of student who didn’t just chase grades, but conquered them. So when you told your mother you got into NYU, she lit up like she’d been holding her breath. Your best friend barely blinked.
“Of course you got in,” she said. “You’re smart.”
Like it wasn’t a compliment. Like it was just a fact.
Still, you were proud. You are proud. Even if you don’t know what exactly possessed you to enroll in Russian Literature of all things. Maybe it was the challenge. Maybe it was the part of you that couldn’t stand to do the expected. You’ve always been good at learning fast — you figured this wouldn’t be any different.
And then there was her.
Professor Romanoff. Students called her a legend. Cold but brilliant. The kind of woman who could quote Chekhov like scripture and cut your argument in half with a single glance. You looked her up, obviously. Found articles. Interviews. Even a guest lecture she gave with Professor Stark — the engineering icon — who seemed almost cautious around her. That only made you more curious.
You push the door open on the first day and there she is, already seated behind her desk. A paper in hand. She doesn’t look up, not fully — just a flick of her eyes in your direction.
“Take a seat,” she says, voice low. “We’ll begin shortly.”
Okay. So she’s not warm. But she’s not a monster.
She’s wearing a deep plum coat, the fabric tailored to her form like it was made for no one else, and a black pencil skirt that hugs her hips and cuts neatly at the knee, revealing just enough of her legs to look powerful without seeming like she’s trying. Her heels are quiet on the floor, but commanding. Her hair is red — real red — the kind that doesn’t need lighting tricks or filters to stand out. It falls in soft, deliberate waves that frame her face like a painting, too polished to be accidental. There’s something about the way she moves, the way she occupies space without asking permission, that makes it impossible to look away. She doesn’t smile, but she doesn’t need to. She has presence, the kind that demands attention without raising her voice. You don’t know if what you’re feeling is admiration or something more dangerous, but somewhere beneath all your logic and perfectly built ambition, there’s a part of you — quiet, curious, pulsing — that wants to get closer. Maybe it’s attraction. Maybe it’s awe. Maybe it’s both.
You settle into a seat near the back of the room, close enough to catch every word the professor might say, but far enough that if she were to call on you, you wouldn’t be front and center—exposed. It’s a safety net, this distance. A silent prayer that you won’t be noticed until you’re ready. The classroom itself doesn’t offer much comfort. The hardwood floors echo every step, amplifying your uncertainty. The windows are tall and narrow, letting in thin streams of light that do nothing to warm the space. At the back wall, shelves sag under the weight of thick, old books—their spines faded, their titles barely legible—like relics from another lifetime. You shift in your seat, the wooden chair groaning beneath you, and begin to glance around at the others.
Your wandering gaze catches a pair of eyes already locked on you. A girl sits a few seats away, isolated. She’s striking—black eyeliner drawn with such precision it could slice, sleeves stretched past her fingers like armor. Her expression is unreadable, her stare unwavering. It isn’t exactly threatening, but it isn’t welcoming either. It’s the kind of look that evaluates rather than judges. She’s not smiling. She’s not blinking. You turn away, quickly. You don’t want to read into it, but your skin prickles anyway. Something tells you this semester will be more than just lectures and essays.
Then, the room goes still. Like it’s holding its breath.
Professor Romanoff rises from her seat at the head of the table, and the atmosphere shifts immediately. She doesn’t need to speak for the room to pay attention. Her presence commands it. She has a way of standing that feels… prepared. Like she’s fought battles no one in this classroom could imagine and walked away victorious, if scarred. You swallow hard as her eyes sweep the room. “Alright, let’s begin,” she announces, her voice low but firm, brushing over everyone—then landing squarely on you. You flinch, just slightly. “As you may know, I’m Professor Natasha Romanoff. I’ll be teaching Russian Literature this semester. I’m surprised to see so many of you here, honestly. Not many want to study Russian these days. But those who do… might gain something rare from it.”
You can’t look away from her. The way she moves across the room isn’t casual—it’s deliberate, as if every step, every glance is calculated. Her eyes catch yours again, briefly. And then she turns. Just like that. She looks away like it means nothing. But to you, it does. It stings. As if you were reaching for something and had your hand slapped back. You remind yourself it’s just the first day. You’re reading too much into everything. Still, you feel foolish for hoping she might see you—really see you.
Her voice slices through the silence again, heavier now. “Russian literature is not here to soothe you,” she states, her tone sharp but strangely elegant. “It doesn’t comfort. It doesn’t reward. If you want happy endings, transfer to American Lit. I think they’re doing The Great Gatsby this semester.” A few students laugh—nervously, more at each other than at the joke. You don’t. You’re too busy watching her write something on the board. Her handwriting is clean, controlled.
PAIN IS THE PRICE OF TRUTH.
She faces the room again, and her eyes seem to flicker in the low light. “Russian writers gave us some of the greatest works of the human condition—and some of the darkest,” she continues. “This class won’t be about identifying metaphors or discussing plot. It’s about what these stories demand from you.” She lists names—Dostoevsky, Akhmatova, Chekhov, Bulgakov—each one pronounced like a sacred invocation. Her voice is smooth, but not soft. It carries something beneath the surface: reverence, maybe. Or a personal history.
Then she turns the question on you all.
“Has anyone here read Anna Karenina?”
Your heart stutters. You have. Mostly. Enough to discuss it, if needed. You lift your hand, slowly, half-wishing someone else will beat you to it. No one does. It’s just you. Eyes swing toward you—some surprised, some unreadable, some silently pleading what are you doing? But it’s too late to lower your hand. You’re exposed.
She notices you instantly. Her gaze lands like frost.
“You have?”
You clear your throat, trying not to sound too eager. “One of the greatest literary works of all time,” you reply, rehearsed and overly formal. You immediately regret how polished it sounds. It doesn’t feel like you.
One corner of her mouth lifts—not a smile. Something else. “Is that your opinion,” she asks, “or the internet’s?”
The room exhales. You feel it in your bones. Laughter without sound. A kind of collective shift of attention. You force out a quiet chuckle. “Maybe both,” you say. “It’s a beautiful, tragic love story. Very... human.”
Romanoff steps closer, her heels a quiet percussion against the floor. “So you sympathize with Anna, then?”
You nod. “She was trapped. Miserable. In a cold marriage. She falls in love, and she’s punished for it.”
Romanoff tilts her head slightly. “Interesting,” she murmurs. “And yet Tolstoy didn’t seem to think she was the hero.”
The words land hard.
“She abandoned her child,” she continues, her voice still perfectly calm. “She spiraled. She gave in to obsession. Paranoia. And eventually—she threw herself under a train. Is that the character you admire?”
You can’t answer. Your mouth opens, then closes. There’s no mockery in her voice—that’s what makes it worse. She’s not humiliating you. She’s making you realize you’ve only skimmed the surface. You feel stupid. Small. You look down.
“I—I thought that was the point,” you offer weakly. “That it was… tragic.”
Her eyes narrow. “It was,” she says quietly. “But whose tragedy?”
Silence again. The class feels like it’s vanishing around you, and you’re the only one left in the spotlight. You glance down at your desk, your hands clenching around your pen. When you look up, she’s still watching you—calculating.
“Be careful,” she says. Then she turns back to the board. “Sometimes, literature reveals more about the reader than the characters.”
You can’t breathe. It’s like the air has shifted. You can’t remember anything about Anna Karenina now. Not one scene. Your mind is blank.
She writes again.
Assignment: Three paragraphs. Choose a passage that unsettled you. Tell me why. Not what it means. Why it made you uncomfortable. Due next class. No exceptions.
No welcome. No syllabus. Just a demand for vulnerability.
The class remains quiet, even after she sets down the chalk. No one checks their phone. No one whispers. You glance around. Everyone’s still, like waiting to be dismissed from a spell. You’re not even sure if you want to leave.
You pack your notebook slowly, slipping it into your sling bag. You rise and begin walking toward the door—but then her voice cuts through the air like a command:
“Stay. I want to talk to you.”
You freeze. You curse under your breath. What did you do wrong?
You turn around slowly and meet her gaze. This time, her eyes are less ice—more fog. Still unreadable, but not as cold.
“Y-Yes?” you stammer.
She closes her book, leans back against her chair with a quiet sigh. “Where are you from?”
You blink, thrown by the question. “Queens,” you reply, tightening your grip on your bag. “Did I… do something?”
She gives a small laugh, waves her hand. “No. Not yet.”
Yet. That single word coils around your spine. What did she mean? Were you destined to fail? Or to surprise her?
You give a nervous smile. The kind that’s more instinct than confidence.
“What’s your name?” she asks, a little softer now.
You tell her. “Y/N Y/L/N.”
She nods. “You were the only student today who recognized a single Russian author. That’s rare. I was... surprised.”
Your gaze drifts to the worn copy of Anna Karenina resting on the corner of her desk, its spine creased like it's been opened a thousand times. The sight of it catches you off guard, tightening something deep in your chest. It’s not just a book—it’s a mirror, a quiet echo of longing and ruin. You feel a flicker of something—recognition, maybe, or sorrow dressed as affection. A smile teeters on the edge of your lips, but you catch it before it escapes, swallowing it like a secret. Somehow, smiling feels too vulnerable, too honest. So instead, you look away, pretending it didn’t mean anything. But it did. It always does.
“Do you like this book?” she asks.
You hesitate. “Yes. One of the greatest pieces of literature I’ve read.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Because of the scandal? The affair? The suicide?” Her voice teases, just a little. “Go on. Enlighten me.”
You’re not sure if she’s being sarcastic or sincere, but either way, you want to answer. You want to say it’s the desperation you admire, the unraveling of a woman who wanted too much. You see parts of yourself in Anna’s conflict. Her recklessness. But instead, you say: “I liked how conflicted she was. It felt... human.”
“Human,” she repeats, the word soft but weighted, like it carries more meaning than she’s letting on. Then she hums—a low, thoughtful sound that settles between you. You’re caught again in her stare, pinned there like something fragile in a glass case.
Your eyes drop, searching for escape, and land on her hands. They’re veined and delicate, elegant in their age, each line etched like a story half-told. She touches the book in front of her—Anna Karenina—with a reverence that feels intimate, almost holy. As if the pages hold confessions only she’s allowed to hear.
And then, for just a moment, something impossible flickers through you.
You wonder what it would be like to be held that way. To be seen not just for what you are, but for everything you’re trying not to be. To be looked at with quiet understanding, with restraint and reverence and that same aching softness. It terrifies you. It tempts you.
And just like that, the thought slips away—but not before it leaves something trembling behind.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Ms. Y/L/N. Good luck with your next class.”
You nod and slip out the door, letting it close softly behind you.
Once outside, you exhale like you’ve been holding your breath the entire time. Something about her unsettled you—but also, something about her pulled you in. You don’t know why. Maybe it’s the way she speaks. Maybe it’s what she hides. Maybe you’ve never felt this alive in a classroom before. You’re not sure what this is. But it’s already begun.
“How was your first day?”
“Not bad,” you say into the phone, your voice soft as your fingers flip open the book in your lap. Anna Karenina, again. You’ve read it before—more than once—but tonight it feels different, heavier somehow. “How was yours?”
“Y/n, you know I’m fine. I’ll always be fine,” MJ replies, her voice laced with that familiar teasing fondness. You can practically hear her smile. “But you? You get anxious. You overthink. You go into full-on spiral mode.”
“Not this time,” you say quickly, maybe too quickly. “No. I’m good. I met Professor Romanoff today.”
There’s a beat of silence before MJ responds, her voice suddenly sharper. “No shit?”
“Yeah,” you murmur, the corners of your mouth twitching upward despite yourself. “She’s my Russian Literature professor.”
She lets out an exaggerated sigh. “I still don’t get why you picked that class. Makes me think you’re just indecisive.”
Maybe she’s right. Maybe you are indecisive. But it wasn’t just curiosity about literature that made you choose it—it was something else. A feeling. An impulse you haven’t fully named. Something about her name on the faculty list drew your eye, and your gut twisted in that way it does when something is about to change.
Maybe you just wanted to see her. Observe her. Understand the chill behind her voice, the precision of her movements, the warmth she conceals under the weight of her intellect. But you can’t say that out loud. Not to MJ. She’d laugh, or worse—she’d see through you. See how your thoughts are already running too far, too fast, down roads you’re not supposed to go.
“I heard she’s pretty,” MJ says casually.
Pretty doesn’t begin to cover it.
“Yeah. You’re right,” you reply, forcing a small smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes. “When I first saw her, my jaw dropped. I wish she hadn’t noticed.”
MJ snorts. “Well, I hope not. Anyway, I gotta go. Peter wants to study with me.”
You say goodbye, listen to the line go dead, and then sit there for a long moment, the book resting on your chest. You don’t move. Your eyes trace the ceiling, your thoughts distant. You wonder—quietly, cautiously—what Professor Romanoff would say if she knew you were rereading Anna Karenina the same night you met her. Would she be pleased? Would she smile at you like you mattered, like you intrigued her?
And more importantly: why does that matter so much to you?
You don’t know. But the need to be noticed, to be liked—no, not liked. To be seen by her—it swells inside you like something shameful and electric. You feel foolish, but also helpless to it.
You remember the essay. The one she assigned, due by morning. Panic pricks at the edge of your chest.
You scramble out of bed, the book falling shut on the mattress as you rush to your desk. You fumble through the drawer, pull out a blank sheet of paper, and grip your pen like it’s the only thing tethering you to solid ground.
All you know is this: you will not stop thinking about her. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Probably not for a long time.
☆Tags: fluff, yeah just pure fluff really, kids? idk man
☆Sum Sum: Rumi has a event with kids, and kids be saying anything
☆Word count: 738
☆Note: I forgot about this fic in my doc lol
────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────
It was a sunny afternoon, and Rumi was not fighting demons.
Instead, she was sitting criss-cross applesauce on a brightly-colored carpet surrounded by twelve toddlers, each wobbling in various stages of juice box-fueled chaos. She was here for the preschool’s charity party—smiles, photos, and free cupcakes, all in the name of good PR. She didn’t mind though. The demon-hunting could wait a day.
“Okay, kids,” the teacher said, clapping her hands before ducking out to refill the snack table, “Be nice to Miss Rumi, okay?”
The toddlers immediately swarmed her like the world's cutest horde.
“Hi, Miss Woomy!” one boy chirped, getting her name completely wrong and shoving a glittery dinosaur sticker onto her knee. “This is Clawboy and he eats people, but only bad ones.”
“Cool,” Rumi nodded solemnly. “That’s good. We only eat bad people.”
Another girl flopped down beside her with a juice mustache and said, “I like your hair. It looks like cotton candy but my mom says I can’t eat hair anymore.”
Rumi blinked. “I think that’s a good rule.”
And then came her—a little girl with tangled pigtails and a serious expression that didn’t match the glitter star stuck to her cheek.
“I wanna say…” she began, fidgeting with her sparkly pink skirt, “cause you look like my dog.”
Rumi tilted her head, smiling. “Your dog?”
“Yeah!” The girl nodded so hard her whole body wobbled. “And my dog’s name is Pretty because of the flower, and it was yellow. I like yellow. Do you like yellow? My mom never liked yellow. She also didn’t like Daddy. She said he’s a good-for-nothing whore.”
Rumi froze.
The room fell into slow-motion silence. The other toddlers were too busy trying to turn paper towels into capes, but Rumi was just trying so, so hard not to laugh.
Her lips twitched. Her hand shot to her mouth. She cleared her throat and said, “Um. Whore… means not a good person.”
The little girl gasped. “Like when I bite my cousin?”
“Worse,” Rumi said carefully. “But only if your cousin really deserved it.”
“Oh,” the girl nodded thoughtfully, like she’d just learned something very important. “I’m gonna tell my grandma that.”
“Please don’t,” Rumi said with a soft smile.
Another kid popped up in front of her holding a half-eaten cracker. “Can you kill the vacuum? It lives in my house.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“My tummy hurts,” another one announced, “but I ate a crayon and it was the blue kind, so I think I’m okay.”
“Blue is the safest flavor,” Rumi agreed, without missing a beat.
They crawled into her lap, they tugged at her sleeves, and one of them tried to braid her ponytail using a rubber lizard. It was chaos, but warm and silly, and the kind of mess that felt like a vacation from fighting soul-eating demons.
A chubby toddler leaned his entire weight on her arm and asked, “Miss Woomy, are you a princess?”
Rumi paused.
She looked around at their bright eyes and juice-stained smiles, and nodded.
“Yeah,” she said softly. “Today I think I am.”
Just outside the playroom, Mira and Zoey were supposed to be helping refill the water cups and supervise painting, but they’d both stopped in the doorway, watching Rumi with identical wide grins.
“She’s a natural,” Mira whispered, sipping a juice box she definitely stole from the snack table.
Zoey snorted. “She looks like she got tackled by a glitter tornado.”
As if on cue, a toddler near Rumi loudly declared, “I peed but it’s a happy pee! Not the bad kind!”
“I take it back,” Zoey said, blinking. “She’s a brave natural.”
Rumi caught sight of them over the toddler crowd and shot them a helpless look, mouth twitching into a barely-contained laugh.
“Don’t you dare leave me alone in here!” she mouthed.
Mira and Zoey exchanged a glance.
“Rock-paper-scissors to see who goes in?” Mira offered.
Zoey cracked her knuckles. “Loser has to sit through story time and pretend to understand toddler logic.”
They played.
Mira lost.
With a resigned sigh and a fond smile, she stepped into the chaos and knelt beside Rumi, who instantly looked relieved.
One toddler pointed at Mira and asked, “Is that your mom?”
Rumi grinned. “No, that’s Mira. She fights demons.”
The toddler nodded solemnly. “Cool. Can she fight my stepdad?”
Zoey, watching from the door, laughed so hard she almost dropped her juice.
☆Tags: fluff, yeah just pure fluff really, kids? idk man
☆Sum Sum: Rumi has a event with kids, and kids be saying anything
☆Word count: 738
☆Note: I forgot about this fic in my doc lol
────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────
It was a sunny afternoon, and Rumi was not fighting demons.
Instead, she was sitting criss-cross applesauce on a brightly-colored carpet surrounded by twelve toddlers, each wobbling in various stages of juice box-fueled chaos. She was here for the preschool’s charity party—smiles, photos, and free cupcakes, all in the name of good PR. She didn’t mind though. The demon-hunting could wait a day.
“Okay, kids,” the teacher said, clapping her hands before ducking out to refill the snack table, “Be nice to Miss Rumi, okay?”
The toddlers immediately swarmed her like the world's cutest horde.
“Hi, Miss Woomy!” one boy chirped, getting her name completely wrong and shoving a glittery dinosaur sticker onto her knee. “This is Clawboy and he eats people, but only bad ones.”
“Cool,” Rumi nodded solemnly. “That’s good. We only eat bad people.”
Another girl flopped down beside her with a juice mustache and said, “I like your hair. It looks like cotton candy but my mom says I can’t eat hair anymore.”
Rumi blinked. “I think that’s a good rule.”
And then came her—a little girl with tangled pigtails and a serious expression that didn’t match the glitter star stuck to her cheek.
“I wanna say…” she began, fidgeting with her sparkly pink skirt, “cause you look like my dog.”
Rumi tilted her head, smiling. “Your dog?”
“Yeah!” The girl nodded so hard her whole body wobbled. “And my dog’s name is Pretty because of the flower, and it was yellow. I like yellow. Do you like yellow? My mom never liked yellow. She also didn’t like Daddy. She said he’s a good-for-nothing whore.”
Rumi froze.
The room fell into slow-motion silence. The other toddlers were too busy trying to turn paper towels into capes, but Rumi was just trying so, so hard not to laugh.
Her lips twitched. Her hand shot to her mouth. She cleared her throat and said, “Um. Whore… means not a good person.”
The little girl gasped. “Like when I bite my cousin?”
“Worse,” Rumi said carefully. “But only if your cousin really deserved it.”
“Oh,” the girl nodded thoughtfully, like she’d just learned something very important. “I’m gonna tell my grandma that.”
“Please don’t,” Rumi said with a soft smile.
Another kid popped up in front of her holding a half-eaten cracker. “Can you kill the vacuum? It lives in my house.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“My tummy hurts,” another one announced, “but I ate a crayon and it was the blue kind, so I think I’m okay.”
“Blue is the safest flavor,” Rumi agreed, without missing a beat.
They crawled into her lap, they tugged at her sleeves, and one of them tried to braid her ponytail using a rubber lizard. It was chaos, but warm and silly, and the kind of mess that felt like a vacation from fighting soul-eating demons.
A chubby toddler leaned his entire weight on her arm and asked, “Miss Woomy, are you a princess?”
Rumi paused.
She looked around at their bright eyes and juice-stained smiles, and nodded.
“Yeah,” she said softly. “Today I think I am.”
Just outside the playroom, Mira and Zoey were supposed to be helping refill the water cups and supervise painting, but they’d both stopped in the doorway, watching Rumi with identical wide grins.
“She’s a natural,” Mira whispered, sipping a juice box she definitely stole from the snack table.
Zoey snorted. “She looks like she got tackled by a glitter tornado.”
As if on cue, a toddler near Rumi loudly declared, “I peed but it’s a happy pee! Not the bad kind!”
“I take it back,” Zoey said, blinking. “She’s a brave natural.”
Rumi caught sight of them over the toddler crowd and shot them a helpless look, mouth twitching into a barely-contained laugh.
“Don’t you dare leave me alone in here!” she mouthed.
Mira and Zoey exchanged a glance.
“Rock-paper-scissors to see who goes in?” Mira offered.
Zoey cracked her knuckles. “Loser has to sit through story time and pretend to understand toddler logic.”
They played.
Mira lost.
With a resigned sigh and a fond smile, she stepped into the chaos and knelt beside Rumi, who instantly looked relieved.
One toddler pointed at Mira and asked, “Is that your mom?”
Rumi grinned. “No, that’s Mira. She fights demons.”
The toddler nodded solemnly. “Cool. Can she fight my stepdad?”
Zoey, watching from the door, laughed so hard she almost dropped her juice.
