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about me: i'm 25, i'm lesbian, a libra and i'm a she/her.
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little monster | taylor swift x daughter!reader
summary: you finally meets your lifelong idol, lady gaga, in a moment that changes everything you thought you knew.
a/n: that's really random lol but i hope you like it.
word count: 5k
warnings: none.
You were five years old the first time your mother realized—truly realized—that she had lost her place as your favorite person in the world.
It happened on a quiet Tuesday afternoon, in the middle of her short break between studio sessions. She had come home early just to spend a little time with you, imagining a sweet mother-daughter moment: maybe snuggling on the couch, watching cartoons, or letting you play with her guitar strings while she tried to teach you the names of chords you’d never remember.
Instead, she made the grave mistake of leaving her phone with you while she went to the kitchen to get snacks.
“Sweetie,” she called from the sink, rinsing strawberries, “are you okay there?”
No answer.
She frowned. Silence from a five-year-old was always suspicious.
She wiped her hands on a towel and walked back, expecting to find you dozing off or staring at the lock screen. Instead, she found you curled up on the couch, her phone held inches from your face, eyes wide, mouth slightly open.
And on the screen—blaring through the speakers—was Bad Romance.
Full volume.
Taylor froze. “…Oh no.”
The moment her shadow crossed the room, you turned towards her with full dramatic conviction, pointed at Lady Gaga on the screen, and declared:
“She’s my favorite human in the whole wide world.”
Taylor stood there, strawberries forgotten on the counter.
“Your… favorite… what?”
“My favorite human!” you repeated, louder this time, smiling proudly as Gaga danced across the screen. “She has cool clothes. And she sings like magic. And she’s a MONSTER QUEEN.”
Taylor blinked. “A monster… queen. Right.”
She sat beside you, slowly, carefully—as if approaching a wild animal that might dart away.
“Baby,” she tried, “you know Mommy sings too.”
You nodded enthusiastically. “I know! But Gaga is Gaga.”
And that was that.
From that day on, you made your loyalties known to anyone who dared ask.
If an interviewer playfully asked who your favorite singer was—and they always did, because you were adorable and your mother was, well, Taylor Swift—you would answer without hesitation:
“Lady Gaga!”
Your mom would smile through the mild betrayal, press her lips together, and say something like, “Well, at least she has taste.”
If they asked your favorite song?
“Anything from Gaga!”
Favorite video? Gaga. Favorite hairstyle? Gaga. Favorite color? “The same color as Lady Gaga’s hair today.”
Taylor tried to keep up.
She bought you Gaga shirts, Gaga dolls, Gaga-themed birthday cakes. She even got used to waking up at three in the morning because you were standing beside her bed, holding her phone you had somehow unlocked, asking—
“Mommy, can I watch the meat dress video again?”
But despite the obsession, you had never met Gaga. Not once.
Sure, the superstar had reacted to your mom’s posts—videos of you dancing to her songs, singing (terribly) along, or insisting that Taylor had to learn choreography from Stupid Love “for her next tour.” Gaga would leave emojis, heart-filled comments, once even reposted a clip of you wearing a sparkly silver cape and sunglasses.
But real life? A real meeting?
Never.
That changed one particular night.
You almost never went with your mother to award shows or industry events. You preferred staying home—drawing, reading, building towers with Lego bricks that you insisted were “modern art.” But that day… something pulled you.
Maybe destiny. Maybe cosmic energy. Maybe pure coincidence.
Or maybe—as you would later describe it—it was a “spiritual feeling,” the dramatic kind only a child raised between pop stardom and fairy tales could experience.
You had been sitting on your bedroom floor, surrounded by crayons, when you suddenly stood up and walked straight to the living room.
“Mommy?”
Taylor was adjusting the straps of her glittery silver gown in front of a mirror. “Yeah, baby?”
“I’m going with you tonight.”
She blinked. “You… are?”
“Yes.” You nodded once, as if the universe had spoken. “I need to go.”
Taylor laughed softly, not questioning it. She could never say no to you when you sounded so certain.
“Alright. Let’s get you dressed.”
She found a tiny dress—midnight blue, soft, with little stars embroidered across the fabric—and braided your hair with delicate silver ribbons. When she finished, she stepped back and stared at you lovingly.
“You look like a princess.”
“I look like a Little Monster,” you corrected.
“…Right. That too.”
The car ride was long, full of flashing lights and muffled traffic noise outside the tinted windows. You pressed your face to the glass, humming “Poker Face” under your breath, kicking your heels excitedly.
Taylor glanced over at you. “You seem ready for something.”
“I am,” you said. “I just don’t know what yet.”
When you arrived, the carpet was glowing—red and glossy, lined with photographers shouting names. The crowd roared as soon as Taylor stepped out, cameras firing like a storm of lightning.
But you didn’t hear them.
The moment your tiny shoes touched the carpet, your breath caught.
There she was.
Lady Gaga.
Standing beneath bright lights, wearing a sculpture of a dress that defied physics and logic, giving an interview with her whole body—her expressive hands, her animated smile, her intense eyes.
Time stopped.
Your heart didn’t beat. It leapt.
And your legs—your traitorous legs—moved before your mother could blink. Before she could so much as whisper your name.
“Sweetheart?” Taylor called, confused.
You didn’t hear her.
You were running.
Straight across the carpet. Past security. Past stunned assistants. Past the startled publicist with a clipboard.
Gaga turned mid-sentence, her interview freezing when she saw a small shooting star of a child sprinting directly at her.
Her eyes widened. “Oh—! Hi?”
The journalists were already buzzing, cameras abandoning the interview to follow the moment with hungry fascination.
You skidded to a halt right in front of her, breathless, shaking with the force of your own excitement.
“Hi!” you blurted.
She bent down immediately, instinctively, warm and gentle.
“Well hello, little one. Where did you come from?”
“My mom!” you said proudly.
Gaga laughed. “Good place to come from.”
You took a deep breath, words tumbling out in a flood.
“I love your songs. I love ALL your songs. I watched all your videos. Even the weird ones. Especially the weird ones. And your clothes are so cool and you’re the best singer in the universe and you’re my favorite human forever!”
Behind you, Taylor finally caught up, breathless and mortified.
“Oh my god— I am so sorry,” she said, placing a hand on your shoulder and giving Gaga an apologetic smile. “She’s normally… well, not like this, but—”
“That’s not true,” you said without looking at her. “I am exactly like this.”
Gaga burst into loud, delighted laughter.
“Oh, honey, that was the best introduction I’ve ever received.”
She glanced up at Taylor with warmth. “We’ve interacted online a million times. It’s so nice to finally meet her in person.”
Taylor exhaled in relief. “She’s been obsessed with you since she was five.”
“Oh, I can tell.” Gaga winked at you. “It’s an honor.”
You grinned so wide your cheeks hurt.
“Can I talk to you?” you asked.
“Of course you can.”
And somehow—despite the carpet, the cameras, the chaos—talk you did.
The interviewers stepped aside, sensing magic. Gaga’s team paused. Even Taylor kept quiet, watching in wonder.
You told Gaga about your favorite song (“Born This Way, but also all of them”), your favorite costume (“the sparkly black catsuit because it’s like a space superhero”), and the time you tried to recreate one of her looks using only aluminum foil and your mom’s boots.
Gaga listened like every word was precious.
“You have great taste,” she said. “And a very creative brain.”
“My mom says I’m dramatic,” you added.
Gaga leaned in. “Sweetheart, that’s not a flaw. That’s a superpower.”
Your heart almost exploded.
Then, gathering every ounce of courage you had, you whispered:
“Can I… can I have a hug?”
Gaga smiled—soft, sincere, glowing.
“Of course you can.” She opened her arms. “Come here, Little Monster.”
You threw yourself into her hug, and she held you tight, warm and steady, as the cameras flashed like a thousand tiny stars.
“This,” you said into her shoulder, voice thick with emotion, “is the happiest moment of my whole life.”
Gaga closed her eyes, hugging you a little tighter.
“Well… now it’s one of mine too.”
Behind you, Taylor covered her mouth.
A mixture of exasperation, awe, and pure motherly love in her teary eyes.
The photographers were having the time of their lives.
The moment you pulled away from the hug—your cheeks flushed, your eyes bright like you’d swallowed a star—their cameras erupted in another blinding wave of flashes. It was the kind of candid moment they prayed for. The kind of moment that would be everywhere by morning.
Gaga seemed entirely unfazed by the attention. She brushed a wisp of hair from your forehead and smiled down at you gently.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?”
"Y/N Swift!" You told her, and she repeated it softly, like she was storing it somewhere safe.
“That’s a beautiful name. It suits you.”
Taylor stepped a little closer, placing her hand on your back.
“So, uh… this was not on tonight’s schedule,” she said with a dry laugh.
Gaga grinned at her. “You know kids. They make their own schedules.” She looked between the two of you, eyes warm. “But I’m glad she did. This made my night.”
You nodded proudly. “It’s because I followed my spiritual calling.”
Taylor sighed, staring at the floor for strength. “Right. That.”
Gaga burst out laughing again, her hand on her chest.
“You’re incredible. I hope you know that.”
“I do,” you said confidently.
Taylor groaned. Gaga laughed even harder.
The moment stretched—soft, golden, unbelievable.
But then someone from Gaga’s team tapped her shoulder.
“Sorry to interrupt, Gaga. They’re ready for you backstage.”
She straightened a little, but her eyes stayed on you.
“Hey,” she said softly. “Would you like to walk with me for a minute? Just until they drag me away?”
You froze.
Your mouth fell open.
Taylor blinked. “Oh… wow. I mean, if that’s okay—”
“It’s more than okay,” Gaga said. “If Mom approves.”
Taylor placed her hand over her heart dramatically. “Mom approves.”
You slipped your hand into Gaga’s instantly, like it was the most natural thing you’d ever done. Her fingers were warm, steady, grounding the electric storm inside you.
Together, the three of you walked along the edge of the carpet—Gaga waving to fans, Taylor smiling at cameras, and you staring up at Gaga like she was the moon and you’d just discovered gravity.
At one point, you tugged her hand.
“Gaga?”
“Yes, little one?”
“Do you ever get scared?”
Her eyebrows lifted. She looked genuinely surprised by the question.
“Of what?”
You shrugged, tiny shoulders rising under your starry dress.
“Everything. Big crowds. New places. People watching you. What if they don’t like you?”
Gaga slowed her steps, considering your words with more seriousness than most adults ever gave a child.
“Of course I get scared,” she said softly. “Everyone gets scared. Even performers.”
“Even you?”
“Especially me.” She smiled at your stunned face. “But I don’t let fear be the one who decides what I do. I decide. And you,” she said, tapping your nose gently, “seem pretty fearless to me.”
“I was scared,” you whispered. “When I ran to you.”
Taylor let out a sharp breath behind you. “You were?!”
You ignored her.
Gaga crouched slightly so you could see her eyes.
“Then you were brave. That’s what bravery is, sweetheart—doing something even when you’re scared.”
You blinked, thinking deeply.
“That makes you the bravest person in the world,” you said.
Gaga pressed a hand dramatically to her heart. “You’re going to make me emotional right here on the carpet.”
Another tap on her shoulder.
“Gaga, we really have to—”
“Okay, okay,” she said, standing again. “Duty calls.”
Your heart dropped to your knees.
“But,” she added, turning back to you, “don’t disappear yet.”
You tilted your head. “Why?”
“Because I want to see you again tonight. Properly. Without cameras and microphones and people shouting my name.”
Your eyes widened—so did Taylor’s.
“You… you do?” Taylor asked, genuinely taken aback.
“I do.” Gaga winked. “If that’s alright.
You nodded so fast your braid bounced.
Gaga blew you a kiss, squeezed your hand one last time, and let her team pull her away.
And just like that, she disappeared through a pair of tall black doors, swallowed by the building.
You stood frozen, trembling with leftover magic.
Taylor knelt beside you, smoothing your hair.
“Sweetie,” she whispered, voice thick with emotion, “are you okay?”
You nodded slowly.
“Mommy…”
“Yes?”
“I think I talked to an angel.”
Taylor laughed, hugging you tightly. “Yeah,” she murmured into your hair. “It does feel like that sometimes.”
Inside the venue, the music industry buzzed like a hive—voices, lights, drinks clinking, people in glittering outfits weaving through the crowd. Taylor held your hand tightly, constantly glancing down to make sure you were still with her. You were vibrating with excitement, practically floating beside her.
Everyone stopped your mom to talk—artists, producers, reporters. And each time, without fail, someone knelt down to your level and asked:
“So… I heard you met Lady Gaga tonight. Is that true?”
And you would answer with complete earnestness:
“Yes. And she’s my favorite human.”
At one point, a famous drummer with half his hair dyed neon green gasped.
“Your favorite human? Wow. Even more than your mom?”
“Obviously.”
Taylor threw her hands in the air. “I have accepted my fate.”
The night carried on in a blur of laughter and lights.
But you kept glancing toward the backstage doors.
Waiting.
And waiting.
And waiting.
“Mommy,” you whispered eventually, tugging her sleeve. “What if she forgot?”
Taylor crouched, looking into your worried eyes.
“She didn’t forget. She’s just busy. People like Gaga have to do a hundred things at once.”
You nodded, though worry curled in your stomach.
Then—
A hand tapped Taylor’s shoulder.
You turned.
There she was.
Lady Gaga.
No cameras.
No reporters.
Just her—warm, smiling, gazing at you like you were a tiny comet that had landed in her orbit.
“Hey,” she said softly. “I told you I’d find you.”
Your head tilted back, eyes wide, heart exploding in sparks all over again.
“You came back.”
“Of course I did.”
She knelt until her face was level with yours.
“So…” she said with a soft grin. “Ready to talk a little more?”
You grabbed her hand immediately.
And the rest of the world melted away.
Gaga didn’t take you somewhere chaotic or noisy. She led you—still holding your hand—through a quieter hallway behind the main auditorium, where the hum of the ceremony softened into muffled echoes. Taylor followed a few steps behind, giving you space but watching with the tender alertness only a mother could have.
Gaga stopped near a small lounge area with velvet couches, soft lights, and a bowl of fruit untouched on a glass table. It was calm there—like the world finally exhaled.
She sat on one of the couches and patted the spot beside her.
“Come here, little one.”
You climbed up instantly. Your feet didn’t even reach the edge of the cushion. Gaga folded one leg beneath her and turned toward you fully, as if nothing else existed.
Taylor stood back, leaning against the wall, smiling at the scene like she was trying not to cry.
“So,” Gaga began, resting her elbow on the back of the couch and her chin on her hand, “tell me the real story. When did this obsession with me start?”
You straightened your shoulders, very serious.
“When I was five.”
“Oh wow,” she whispered dramatically. “A lifetime of devotion.”
“My mom left her phone with me. And then I saw one of your videos. The one where you look like an angry space queen.
Gaga snapped her fingers. “Bad Romance. Yes. Excellent taste.”
“She said you were a Monster Queen,” you continued. “And I liked your hair. And your voice. And your clothes. And that you dance like a superhero.”
You paused, thinking hard.
“And after that you kinda became my favorite person.”
Gaga pressed a hand dramatically to her heart.
“That might be the best review I’ve ever had.”
You leaned forward slightly. “I watched all your videos. Even the scary ones.”
“That’s dedication.”
“And I made my mom buy all your merch. All of it.”
Taylor raised her hand from the corner. “I can confirm.”
Gaga laughed. “Well, that explains the tiny version of my disco stick I saw in that video she posted.”
Your eyes brightened.
“You saw it?!”
“I absolutely did. I think about it often.”
You grinned so hard your face hurt.
“You’re really… real,” you whispered suddenly, your voice soft and trembling at the edges. “I mean—I knew you were a real person but now you’re here. Talking to me. And sitting next to me. And touching my hand.”
Gaga’s expression softened instantly.
“I’m real,” she said gently, squeezing your hand. “Very real. And I’m so glad you came tonight.”
You shifted a little closer, your voice dropping to a shy whisper.
“Do you… like me?”
Gaga blinked, as if the question surprised her. Then she leaned all the way forward so your foreheads almost touched.
“I adore you.”
You inhaled sharply—like your heart had just turned into confetti.
“Really?”
“Really.” She tapped your nose lightly. “You have a big, bright, brave little soul. I knew that the moment you ran at me like a meteor.”
You giggled.
“I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You didn’t.” Her smile widened. “But you definitely shocked the interviewer.”
Taylor snorted from across the room. “You shocked me.”
Gaga looked over at her.
“She’s got that star energy. Can’t tame it.”
Taylor shook her head fondly. “Believe me, I know.”
You swung your feet absentmindedly, thinking deeply.
Then you asked, very seriously:
“Gaga… Do you think I could be like you when I grow up?”
Her expression turned soft. Tender. Serious.
She took both your hands now, holding them gently between her palms.
“I think,” she said slowly, “that you can be whatever you want. A singer, a performer, a painter, a scientist, a director… anything. And if what you want is to be like me—”
She leaned down, lowering her voice to a whisper just for you.
“—then I think you might already be halfway there.”
You froze.
Then you launched yourself forward again, hugging her with all the strength your little body could hold. She laughed softly, wrapping you up, her chin resting against the top of your head.
From her corner, Taylor felt her heart melt into a lovesick puddle.
After a moment, Gaga brushed a hand through your hair and asked:
“Do you want to tell me something else?”
You nodded fiercely.
“Can I tell you a secret?”
She gasped quietly, placing a dramatic hand on her chest. “A secret? Of course.”
You cupped your hands around her ear—though your whisper was still very loud.
“My mom gets jealous of you.”
Taylor spluttered. “HEY—!”
Gaga choked on a laugh and leaned back, eyes sparkling with mirth as she looked over at Taylor.
“Is that so?”
“I’m not jealous,” Taylor protested, walking closer with her hands raised. “I am simply—”
“Outranked,” Gaga offered helpfully.
Taylor sighed. “Apparently.”
You nodded solemnly. “She always loses.”
Gaga smiled so warmly her eyes softened at the edges.
“Well, that’s because she raised someone with very strong opinions.”
You tilted your head. “Is that good?”
“That’s wonderful.”
Taylor crossed her arms, pretending to pout. “I liked it better when I was her favorite human.”
“You were never my favorite human,” you corrected.
Taylor gasped, placing a hand to her chest in mock betrayal.
Gaga’s laughter filled the room, bright and ringing.
After the laughter faded, Gaga’s expression turned thoughtful.
She reached into her clutch bag and pulled out a silver Sharpie—one of those metallic ones that glinted under the lights.
“Give me your hand,” she said.
You stretched it out with curiosity bouncing in your eyes.
Gaga uncapped the pen and began drawing something delicate, swirling, and beautiful on the back of your hand. Her touch was careful, precise.
When she finished, she showed it to you.
It was a tiny monster—cute, cartoonish, with sparkly eyes and a crown.
“For my Little Monster,” she said softly.
You practically glowed.
“Is it real?”
“It’s as real as magic ever gets,” she replied.
You traced the drawing lightly, reverently, trying not to breathe too hard in case it smudged.
Taylor stepped forward, her voice gentle.
“That’s beautiful.”
Gaga smiled at her. “So is your kid.”
Taylor’s eyes softened. “She is.”
“And she loves you a lot,” Gaga added, looking back at you. “Even if she pretends she doesn’t.”
You panicked immediately.
“I don’t pretend!”
Gaga raised an eyebrow, amused.
“Oh really?”
You looked between them—your idol and your mother—and your face burned with embarrassed realization.
“I mean… I love her too,” you said quickly, pointing at Taylor. “Obviously. She’s my mom.”
Taylor crouched, cupping your cheek.
“And you’re my favorite human,” she whispered.
You blinked up at her.
“…Really?”
“Really.”
Gaga placed a gentle hand on your back. “See? Your mom’s pretty great too.”
You looked down at your monster drawing again.
“My two favorite humans,” you murmured.
Gaga gasped lightly.
“Oh my goodness. Taylor, we got promoted.”
Taylor smiled. “It’s a good night for promotions.”
The sound of distant applause rumbled through the building.
Gaga glanced toward the stage. “They’re starting the next category. I have to go on soon.”
Your heart tightened. “Do you have to leave?”
She nodded. “But not before I do something important.”
You blinked. “What?”
She took your hands again, warm and steady.
“Promise me something, little star.”
You stared up at her, ready for anything.
“What?”
“Promise me you’ll always stay as brave, funny, dramatic, creative, and kind as you are right now. Don’t let the world shrink you.”
Your throat tightened in a way you didn’t understand yet.
“I promise,” you whispered.
Gaga kissed your forehead.
You closed your eyes.
It felt like a blessing.
“Good,” she murmured. “Then I’ll see you again someday. And when I do, I know you’ll already be shining.”
She stood up slowly.
You reached out on instinct—and she gave your hand one more gentle squeeze.
“Be good for your mom. And keep dancing.”
Then she turned, heading down the hallway toward the stage.
You watched her until she disappeared behind the heavy curtains.
And when she was finally gone, you leaned into your mother’s chest, overwhelmed and breathless.
Taylor held you close, stroking your hair.
“You okay, baby?”
You nodded into her dress.
“Mommy?”
“Yes, sweetie?”
“That was the best night of my entire life.”
Taylor kissed the top of your head.
“I know,” she whispered. “I could see it on your face.”
Years later.
The bright studio lights hit you the moment you stepped onto Jimmy Fallon’s stage.
The audience erupted into cheers—applause, whistles, a wave of energy that washed over you cool and warm at once. Cameras panned, music played, and Jimmy stood near his desk with his signature wide grin, waving you toward the guest chair.
You had your mother’s grace, but your own spark—calm and confident, but with a glint of mischief in your eyes. And the internet had been buzzing about this interview all week. You had just starred in your first major film role, and everyone wanted to hear from Taylor Swift’s daughter, the girl who somehow grew up both in the spotlight and mysteriously grounded.
Jimmy shook your hand, exaggeratedly dramatic.
“Look at you! You grew up! This is—this is unreal! I feel like I’m eighty years old.”
You laughed. “I feel like I’m twelve again when you say that, so we’re even.”
The audience laughed with you.
You both sat down. You crossed one leg over the other, adjusting the shimmering suit you were wearing—silver accents in the fabric, a quiet nod to the drawing still saved in a frame on your bedroom wall: the tiny monster Gaga had drawn on your hand all those years ago.
Jimmy waited for the applause to settle before leaning forward.
“Okay, we have to get right into this, because the fans—your fans—are losing their minds. You posted something the other day that nearly broke the internet.”
You smiled. “I did. And I stand by it.”
Jimmy held up a printed screenshot like a proud teacher showing a child’s masterpiece.
It was your post:
“Finally met Gaga again… and told her she’s still my favorite human. Some things never change.”
The audience exploded again.
Jimmy slapped the desk.
“How—HOW—are you Taylor Swift’s daughter and STILL manage to tell everyone your favorite singer is Lady Gaga?!”
You raised your hands innocently.
“Look, I love my mom. She’s amazing. But Gaga is… Gaga.”
The audience roared.
Jimmy wiped a tear of laughter.
“I swear, your mom texted me earlier and said, quote: ‘Please remind her that I gave her life.’”
You covered your face.
“Oh my god, she would say that.”
Jimmy leaned closer, eyes bright.
“Okay, so everyone knows the picture from the event years ago—you're tiny, you're running at Gaga, your mom is chasing behind you like she’s in an action movie—”
“—She said she aged ten years in those ten seconds.”
“—But we’ve never actually heard the full story from YOU. We’ve heard your mom’s version. Gaga’s version. The journalists’ version. Twitter’s version. But never yours. So tonight…” Jimmy spread his arms dramatically.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we are finally going to hear the truth.”
You laughed and shook your head. “My version is chaos. Are you sure?”
“YES,” the audience shouted.
Jimmy pointed at you. “You heard them. Start from the beginning.”
You took a breath.
“Well… it was one of those nights when everything feels weirdly… aligned. Like the universe is tugging your sleeve. I never went with my mom to events like that. Ever. But that day, I just walked into her room and said, ‘I’m going with you.’”
Jimmy put a hand over his heart. “Destiny.”
“Exactly! A spiritual calling. And I had no idea why until I stepped onto that red carpet and saw her.”
Jimmy raised both eyebrows.
“Lady. Gaga.”
You nodded.
“And then I blacked out.”
The crowd howled.
Jimmy clapped. “YES! Because it looked like you lost all control of your body.”
“I did! People talk about ‘fight or flight,’ but that day I discovered a third option: ‘Gaga.’ My legs were like, ‘We run now.’”
You mimed your tiny-child-self sprinting across a red carpet.
The audience erupted.
Jimmy bent over laughing. “Your mom looked TERRIFIED!”
“She told me later that she thought I was running toward a dog or something. But nope. I was on a mission.”
Jimmy wiped tears. “And Gaga was mid-interview!”
“And she looked SO confused,” you said, mimicking Gaga turning suddenly like a startled cat. “Like—‘What is this small creature sprinting at me with purpose?’”
More laughter.
“But then,” you continued, voice softening, “she knelt down. And I swear the world just… stopped. I told her she was my favorite human. And she took it SO seriously. She talked to me like I was the most important person on that carpet.”
Jimmy’s smile softened too. “She seems like she has such a big heart.”
“She does. And when she hugged me…” Your voice wavered slightly, nostalgia hitting your chest. “It felt like magic. Like she saw me.”
The room grew quieter—warm, attentive.
Jimmy nodded gently. “You said in an interview once that she made you braver.
“She did,” you said simply. “Because I was terrified when I ran at her. I was seven. I didn't know if I was allowed to do that, or if someone would grab me, or if she’d be annoyed. But I did it anyway. And she told me that was bravery. That you don’t need to be fearless—you just need to choose your courage.”
A soft awww spread across the audience.
Jimmy held his chest. “I’m gonna cry.”
You glanced at him. “Please don’t. My mom said if I made Jimmy Fallon cry on national television she’d make fun of me forever.”
Jimmy burst out laughing.
Then he leaned forward, eyes mischievous.
“Okay, but wait—we need to talk about the BEST part. The drawing.”
You smiled, flexing your hand instinctively even though the drawing was long gone.
“She took out a silver Sharpie like it was Excalibur,” you said dramatically. “And she drew this tiny little monster with a crown on my hand, and she said, ‘For my Little Monster.’”
The whole audience melted
Jimmy threw his arms up. “SHE CROWNED YOU. THE WOMAN CROWNED YOU!”
“She did,” you said proudly. “That became my villain origin story.”
The crowd cracked up.
Jimmy shook his head in disbelief.
“And then tonight—years and years later—you see her again.”
You nodded.
“And she remembered me.”
The audience gasped.
Jimmy stared at you. “…She remembered you?”
“She said, ‘My Little Monster grew up.’ And I almost cried. I think I actually did cry. I don’t know. I blacked out again.”
Jimmy slapped the desk. “ICONIC. You blacking out at every interaction with Lady Gaga is my new favorite running joke.”
You held up a finger.
“I only black out when I’m overcome by divine energy.”
Jimmy pointed at you. “Your mother raised a poet.”
You smirked. “She raised a Swift.”
The audience screamed.
Jimmy spun his chair dramatically. “I WALKED RIGHT INTO THAT.”
You laughed.
Then Jimmy leaned back, folding his hands.
“So before we go to break… I need to know.”
He narrowed his eyes.
“Is Lady Gaga STILL your favorite human?”
The audience screamed and leaned forward.
You didn’t hesitate.
“Yes.”
Jimmy collapsed onto the desk.
The audience roared.
You added, “My mom knows her place.”
Offstage, someone yelled, “SHE’S WATCHING THIS!”
And you shrugged.
“She’ll live.”
Jimmy wiped his eyes, still laughing.
“This—this is one of my favorite interviews EVER.”
“You’re welcome,” you said sweetly.
“And we’ll be right back with more after the break!”
The applause hit like a wave as the cameras faded out.
You smiled—relaxed, glowing—thinking of the little monster drawing, the silver ink, and the woman who made you believe in courage.
ok guys, here’s the thing: i was almost giving up on posting here again because since i don’t have my computer it’s impossible to keep my account’s aesthetic :( but since i’ve been really enjoying writing again, i promise not to disappear this time. i’m going to post some stories from months ago that i still have in my drafts, so they’ll probably have my original aesthetic, and i’ll start writing everything that’s in my inbox. love you all <3
hi! would you ever start writing for emma carstairs? i saw that you wanted to start but that was a while ago.
i didn’t get to write anything for emma, unfortunately. i can’t come up with any ideas :( you can send me any you want!
all yours, all mine | mor x reader
summary: you and mor are very jealous of each other. but what happens if you push that jealousy over a very high cliff?
a/n: i’m usually not one to write smut because i don’t feel very confident with it. but i think i took my obsession with mor a little too far, because besides this story i already have one finished and another in progress to post 😲 anyway, i hope you like it. you can send me requests for mor if you want to <3
word count: 1,9k
warnings: MINORS DNI, oral sex, fingering, ✂️ and everything.
The grand hall of the House of Wind buzzed with the energy of the Night Court's elite. Fae from all corners of Prythian had gathered for the solstice celebration, their laughter and clinking glasses filling the air like a symphony of indulgence. You stood near the edge of the crowd, a goblet of rich, spiced wine in your hand, watching Mor across the room. She was radiant as always, her golden hair cascading in loose waves down her back, her crimson gown hugging her curves in a way that made your pulse quicken even from a distance. But tonight, that beauty twisted something sharp in your chest.
Mor leaned against a marble pillar, her laughter ringing out as she conversed with a tall, broad-shouldered male fae. His dark hair was tousled, his eyes gleaming with obvious interest as he bent closer to her, murmuring something that made her tilt her head back and smile—that sensual, effortless smile that drew everyone in like moths to a flame. He was too close, his hand brushing her arm as he gestured animatedly. You knew Mor didn't mean to flirt; it was just who she was, her sensuality spilling over without intent. But watching his fingers linger on her skin, seeing the way his gaze dipped to the swell of her breasts, ignited a fire in your gut. Jealousy, hot and unbidden, coiled tight.
You took a long swig from your goblet, the wine warming your veins, loosening the knot of restraint you'd usually hold. Normally, these moments ended with you pulling her aside for kisses and soft words, her arms wrapping around you until the world faded. But tonight, after your third—or was it fourth?—glass, the idea festered. Why should she get to make you feel this way without consequence? Your eyes scanned the room, landing on a striking female fae nearby, her silver hair shimmering under the starlight illusions dancing across the ceiling. She caught your gaze, her lips curving into an inviting smile, and something reckless sparked in you.
You sauntered over, goblet in hand, letting your hips sway just a bit more than usual. The female's eyes lit up as you approached, and she extended a hand. 'I've been watching you all evening,' she purred, her voice like velvet. “You have the kind of presence that commands attention.”
You laughed, a tipsy sound, and let your fingers trail lightly over her arm as you replied, “Do I? Well, perhaps I should make the most of it then.” You stepped closer, your shoulder brushing hers, close enough that Mor—standing just a few feet away—could see every deliberate move. The female leaned in, her breath warm against your ear as she whispered compliments about your eyes, your lips, and you played along, tossing your hair and meeting her gaze with a flirtatious tilt of your head. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Mor's posture stiffen, her golden eyes narrowing as she excused herself from the male and turned fully toward you.
The female's hand found your waist, pulling you into a light dance as the musicians struck up a lively tune. You let her spin you, your laughter mingling with hers, but your focus was on Mor now. Her face was a storm—lips pressed thin, cheeks flushed not with wine but fury. She crossed the room in swift strides, the crowd parting instinctively before her. Before you could react, her hand clamped around your wrist, yanking you from the female's grasp with a force that sent your goblet splashing wine across the floor.
“What the hell do you think you're doing?” Mor hissed, her voice low and venomous, her grip iron-tight as she dragged you toward the shadowed corridor leading to the private quarters. The female called after you with a confused protest, but Mor ignored her, her other arm snaking around your waist to haul you along.
You stumbled slightly, the wine making your steps unsteady, but the thrill of her jealousy surged through you. “Just having a bit of fun,” you shot back, though your voice wavered under her glare. “Like you were with that male. He was practically drooling over you.”
Mor kicked open the door to your shared bedroom, the heavy oak slamming shut behind you as she shoved you inside. The room was dimly lit by faelight orbs, casting a warm glow over the massive bed draped in silks and furs. She rounded on you, her chest heaving, eyes blazing like molten gold. “Fun? You call flirting with that bitch right in front of me fun? After I've spent the night watching every male—and female—in this hall eye-fucking you without you even noticing?”
You opened your mouth to retort, but she was on you in an instant, her hands fisting in the front of your dress as she backed you against the wall. Her body pressed flush against yours, heat radiating from her skin. “You have no idea how many times I've had to bite my tongue tonight,” she growled, her lips inches from yours. “All those fae circling you like vultures, and you just smile, oblivious. But this? This was deliberate. You wanted me to see.”
Her mouth crashed down on yours then, not gentle like your usual reconciliations, but punishing, her teeth nipping at your lower lip hard enough to draw a gasp. You tasted the faint tang of blood, but it only fueled the fire between you. Your hands flew to her hair, tugging at the golden strands as you kissed her back fiercely, the jealousy twisting into something raw and desperate.
Mor broke the kiss with a snarl, her hands ripping at the laces of your bodice. “You're mine,” she said, her voice rough as she yanked the fabric down, exposing your breasts to the cool air. Her palms cupped them roughly, thumbs circling your nipples until they hardened into peaks. “No one else gets to touch you like this. No one else gets to make you moan.”
You arched into her touch, a whimper escaping as she pinched one nipple sharply, sending a jolt straight to your core. “And you're mine,” you managed, your voice breathy. “That male was too close, Mor. You were letting him—”
She silenced you with another bruising kiss, her tongue invading your mouth as her hand slid down your body, bunching up your skirts. “He was nothing,” she muttered against your lips. “A distraction. But you... you think you can tease me like that and walk away unscathed?”
With a swift motion, she spun you around, pressing your chest against the wall. Your hands splayed on the cool stone for balance as she hiked your skirts over your hips, her fingers digging into your ass. You felt her breath hot on your neck as she leaned in. “I'm going to fuck you until you forget every other name but mine. Until you beg me to stop—and then beg for more.”
Her hand slipped between your thighs from behind, finding you already slick with arousal. Two fingers parted your folds, stroking along your slit before plunging inside without warning. You cried out, your body clenching around the intrusion as she pumped them deep and hard, her thumb pressing against your clit in firm circles. “So wet for me already,” she purred, her free hand sliding up to grip your throat lightly, tilting your head back so she could nip at your earlobe. “This pussy is mine. Say it.”
“Yours,” you gasped, pushing back against her hand, the rhythm building a pressure that made your knees weak. Her fingers curled inside you, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. She added a third finger, stretching you, the wet sounds of her thrusting filling the room alongside your moans.
But Mor wasn't done. She withdrew her fingers abruptly, leaving you aching and empty, and you whined in protest. “Patience,” she commanded, her voice laced with dark amusement. You heard the rustle of fabric, then felt her press against you—her own arousal evident as she ground her hips forward. She'd shed her undergarments somewhere along the way, and now her bare pussy rubbed against your ass, slick and hot.
She guided you to the bed, shoving you down onto the mattress face-first. You scrambled to your elbows, but she was there, straddling your thighs, her hands pinning your wrists above your head. “Stay,” she ordered, and you obeyed, heart pounding as she positioned herself. Her knees spread your legs wider, and then she was lowering herself, her wet heat sliding against yours in a slow, deliberate grind.
The friction was exquisite—her clit catching on yours with every roll of her hips, her folds parting to envelop you both in slick warmth. You bucked up instinctively, seeking more, and she laughed breathlessly. “Eager little thing. You want me to fuck this pretty pussy?”
“Yes,” you pleaded, twisting in her grip. “Please, Mor—”
She released your wrists only to grab your hips, flipping you onto your back in one fluid motion. Now facing her, you saw the raw possession in her eyes, her hair wild, lips swollen from your kisses. She hooked your legs over her shoulders, folding you nearly in half as she aligned herself again. This time, she rocked forward with purpose, her pussy grinding down hard, clits mashing together in a rhythm that had you both gasping.
“Look at me,” she demanded, her hands braced on either side of your head. You locked eyes, the intensity making your breath hitch as she fucked against you, her movements growing faster, more urgent. Her breasts bounced with each thrust, nipples grazing your skin, and you reached up to pinch one, earning a moan that vibrated through her body into yours.
The pressure built relentlessly, her clit swollen and sensitive against yours, the slick slide turning frantic. “You're going to come for me,” she growled, one hand snaking down to rub your clit directly, fingers slippery with your combined arousal. “Come on my pussy, show me who owns you.”
It hit you like a wave crashing over the Sidra—your body seizing, walls clenching as pleasure ripped through you. You cried her name, nails digging into her thighs, and she followed seconds later, her own orgasm shuddering through her as she ground down one last time, juices mingling in a hot flood.
But Mor didn't stop. Panting, she slid down your body, her mouth latching onto your oversensitive clit without mercy. You jerked, hands fisting the sheets, but she held your hips down, tongue lapping at you greedily. “Not done yet,” she murmured against your flesh, sucking your clit between her lips and flicking it with precise strokes. Her fingers joined again, three this time, thrusting deep while her mouth worked you over.
You were a mess of pleas and moans, the overstimulation bordering on pain but tipping into ecstasy as another climax built. “Mor—fuck, I can't—”
“You can,” she insisted, her voice muffled as she sucked harder, her free hand kneading your breast. The coil snapped again, your release gushing against her tongue, and she drank it down, humming in satisfaction.
Finally, she crawled up, collapsing beside you, both of you slick with sweat and cum. Her arm draped possessively over your waist as she nuzzled your neck. “No more flirting,” she whispered, though her tone held a hint of that earlier fury softened by sated desire.
You turned to kiss her, tasting yourself on her lips. “No more for you either.”
She chuckled, pulling you closer. “Deal. But if you ever pull that stunt again...”
You shivered at the promise in her voice, knowing this jealousy-fueled fire was far from extinguished. In the quiet aftermath, with her body warm against yours, the world outside the bedroom faded, leaving only the two of you—bound, jealous, and utterly consumed.
silent treatment | mor x reader
summary: mor is used to everything. your anger, your bad temper. but definitely not to your silent treatment.
a/n: yayyy, i'm finally back. hope you like it 🫶🏻
word count: 2,6k
warnings: none.
It began as any other golden morning in Velaris — sunlight spilling lazily through the gauzy curtains, the distant murmur of the Sidra brushing against the city’s edge, and that warm, comforting scent that always meant home.
You usually slept through all of it.
Mor liked that about you — how peaceful you looked in those quiet dawn hours, tangled in blankets, one arm draped dramatically across the bed as if declaring war on the world for daring to wake.
Except this morning, you weren’t there.
The space beside her was empty. The sheets were cold.
For a moment, Mor lay still, blinking at the absence. Maybe you’d gotten up to grab a drink of water. Maybe you’d gone to open the window. But the apartment was too quiet — the kind of quiet that made her wings twitch.
She sat up slowly, curls falling over her shoulders, and called softly,
“Sweetheart?”
Nothing.
The silence stretched. Then, faintly, came the sound of something clattering in the kitchen.
Mor frowned. You never cooked this early. You never cooked at all before coffee.
She padded barefoot down the hall, still half-smiling, ready to wrap her arms around you and nuzzle your neck while you pretended to protest — “*Mor, I’m trying to— stop— that tickles!*”
But the moment she reached the kitchen doorway, the air changed.
You stood at the counter in one of her shirts, sleeves rolled to your elbows, jaw set, hair pulled back in that messy way she loved — only this time, there was no softness in your expression. Your brow was furrowed, eyes sharp, mouth pressed into a thin line.
The pan hissed on the stove. The scent of eggs and herbs filled the air.
You didn’t even look at her.
“Morning,” Mor said, her voice all honey and sunlight as always.
No answer.
You flipped the eggs. Set the pan down.
Mor waited. Smiled. “You’re up early, love. Planning to surprise me?”
Still nothing. Not even a hum of acknowledgment.
Her smile faltered slightly. “...Alright. Guess not.”
You grabbed a plate, set it on the counter, and began slicing fruit with slow, surgical precision. Mor leaned against the doorframe, watching.
You moved like someone trying to keep their hands busy, like silence was safer than whatever might come out if you opened your mouth.
She tilted her head. “Did I—”
You opened a cabinet, ignoring her completely.
“Okay,” Mor murmured under her breath, “so she’s mad. Good to know.”
You finished arranging the plate, took a fork, and sat down to eat without so much as a glance in her direction. Mor crossed the kitchen, trying again.
“You didn’t sleep well?”
No reply.
“Bad dream?”
Still nothing.
“You’re doing that thing where you pretend I don’t exist. Which is frankly cruel, considering how adorable I am first thing in the morning.”
You stabbed a piece of fruit.
Mor blinked. “...Is that an orange or my heart?”
Nothing.
Her confusion began shifting into mild panic. You never ignored her this long. Not even after the time she accidentally burned your favorite scarf.
She leaned across the table, chin propped on her hand, studying you with a smile that was trying very hard not to be nervous. “You know, I’ve fought in wars, faced monsters, stared down High Lords — but the scariest thing in this world is this face you’re making right now.”
Your only reaction was the slow, deliberate act of setting down your fork, wiping your hands, and standing. You took your plate to the sink, rinsed it, dried it, and placed it neatly in the cupboard.
Mor’s golden eyes tracked every movement, utterly baffled.
“Sweetheart,” she tried again, more serious now. “Talk to me.”
You turned. Looked at her — really looked — for the first time that morning.
And the glare you gave her was sharp enough to make even the Morrigan flinch.
Then you brushed past her, silent as a shadow.
The smell of your shampoo lingered after you’d gone.
The rest of the morning was torture.
Mor sat in the living room pretending to read, eyes darting to you every few seconds. You cleaned. Not the casual kind of cleaning you usually did while humming. No, this was full-blown declaration of war cleaning.
Shelves reorganized. Floors scrubbed. Windows polished until they gleamed.
At one point, she walked in to find you moving all the cushions on the sofa, rearranging them into perfect alignment.
“You’re— you’re dusting the lamps, sweetheart,” she said weakly.
Silence.
“You hate dusting lamps.”
You kept dusting.
Mor rubbed a hand over her face. “This is it. She’s finally snapped. The House of Wind’s chaos gene finally claimed her soul.”
By midday, she was pacing behind you like a lost puppy while you sorted laundry.
“Okay,” she said aloud, counting on her fingers, “so. Did I forget an anniversary? No, that was last month. Did I say something stupid? Unlikely — I’m charming. Did Cassian say something and you think it came from me? He does that sometimes.”
You folded a towel. Mor leaned closer.
“Blink twice if this is about Cassian.”
You blinked exactly once.
Mor groaned. “Okay, not Cassian. Good. Because I swear, if this is about something he—”
You moved to hang the clothes.
“—or is it Nesta? Did she say something? Because if she did, I can totally—”
You shut the laundry room door in her face.
“—take that as a no,” she mumbled to herself.
By late afternoon, Mor was a wreck.
She’d tried everything — humor, gifts, flattery, food. You’d barely acknowledged her existence. The silence wasn’t loud anymore; it was suffocating.
She even went so far as to pull out a bottle of your favorite wine, setting it on the counter like a peace offering.
You glanced at it, then at her, then went back to cleaning the counter.
Mor nearly screamed.
When you left the kitchen, she flopped dramatically onto the couch, burying her face in a pillow.
“She’s going to kill me,” she muttered. “She’s actually going to kill me and no one’s even going to find my body because she’ll bury it under the floorboards after scrubbing them clean.”
The thought of calling Feyre crossed her mind. For all of half a second.
Then she remembered how you would react if she did that.
“Okay,” she whispered to herself. “No calling Feyre. No calling anyone. Figure it out, Mor. You’re ancient, gorgeous, clever—”
From down the hall came the faint sound of a door closing.
She sighed, pressing a hand over her heart. “—and completely doomed.”
By the time the sky blushed pink over the mountains, Mor had exhausted her last ounce of patience. She’d given you space. She’d given you silence. And now she was done pretending she wasn’t worried sick.
She approached your bedroom door softly, fingers brushing the handle.
“Y/N?” she called, voice gentler now.
No answer.
She pushed the door open.
You were curled on the bed, facing the window, shoulders trembling ever so slightly. The room was dim — the curtains drawn, the last light of sunset casting golden streaks over the floor.
The sight of you like that — small, quiet, hurt — made Mor’s heart squeeze painfully.
She crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to touch you yet. “Sweetheart,” she said softly. “You’ve been ignoring me all day. I don’t know what I did, but please— please talk to me.”
Still no response.
She sighed, running a hand through her hair. “I’m not good at this. You know that, right? Feelings. Apologies. But if I said something—if I forgot something—just tell me. Don’t shut me out like this.”
The sound you made then — a broken, watery sniffle — nearly undid her.
Mor froze. “Hey,” she whispered, voice trembling, “are you crying?”
You turned your head slowly, eyes red, lashes wet.
Her heart dropped. “Oh, gods, baby…”
You sat up, pulling your knees to your chest. “I’m— I’m fine.”
Mor gave a soft, disbelieving laugh. “You’re not fine. You’ve been glaring at me for twelve hours.”
You wiped your face with the back of your hand. “You didn’t do anything.”
Mor blinked. “What?”
“It was a dream,” you muttered miserably.
Her brow furrowed. “A… dream?”
You nodded, cheeks heating. “You— you cheated on me.”
Mor stared at you. Blinked once. Then again.
“You’ve been mad at me all day because of a dream?”
You groaned, covering your face. “It felt real, Mor! You were smiling with her and— and touching her—”
Mor’s shock melted into pure amusement. A slow, teasing grin curved her mouth.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered, crawling closer until she could brush a strand of hair from your face. “You jealous little thing.”
You swatted at her weakly. “Don’t laugh at me!”
“I’m not laughing,” Mor said — though she very obviously was. “I’m—” She caught herself when she saw fresh tears gathering in your eyes. “Hey, hey. I’m sorry. It must’ve been awful.”
You sniffled. “And my period started this morning.”
Mor froze. “Oh. Oh, gods.”
You nodded miserably. “So yes, I hate everything.”
Mor immediately pulled you into her arms, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You poor, tragic creature. Betrayed by your own imagination and your own uterus.”
That earned a shaky laugh from you, muffled against her shoulder.
“Shh,” Mor murmured, rocking you slightly. “I’ve got you. I promise, I’m not going anywhere. Not even in your dreams.”
You exhaled softly, letting yourself melt into her warmth, the scent of citrus and sunlight wrapping around you. “You’re lucky I love you,” you mumbled.
Mor smiled against your hair. “Oh, I know. Trust me, I know.”
And for the first time that day, you let yourself believe it.
The sun filters through the curtains of Mor’s room — gold spilling lazily across the sheets, across you, across the woman who’s trying very hard to breathe under the weight of your body.
Because you haven’t moved.
At all.
Not since you woke up tangled in her arms at dawn and decided, quite firmly, that you weren’t going anywhere.
Mor blinks awake, her hair a golden mess, her voice still rough with sleep. “Good morning, sunshine,” she murmurs softly, smiling when she feels you nuzzle closer into her neck. Her fingers trail down your back, slow, comforting. “You’re warm,” she hums. “And very clingy this morning.”
You don’t answer — only press a little closer, your leg hooking over hers, your face buried against her shoulder.
Mor laughs quietly. “I take it I’m forgiven, then?”
You hum something that might be yes — or maybe just a sleepy sound of protest when she tries to move.
She chuckles again, brushing her lips against your temple. “Sweetheart, I need to get up. Cassian will burn the kitchen down if I don’t—”
You tighten your arms around her waist immediately. “Let him,” you mumble, voice muffled by her skin. “Let him burn it.”
Mor freezes for a heartbeat — then bursts out laughing so loudly the bed shakes. “You’re serious?”
You lift your head just enough to glare at her, hair all messy and expression deadly serious. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“Oh, I see,” she teases, brushing a stray lock from your cheek. “So this is punishment now? I survive a day of being ignored, and my reward is you turning into a koala?”
You don’t even deny it. “Exactly,” you mutter, laying your head back down. “You deserve it.”
Mor tries — she really does — to wriggle free. But the second she lifts an inch from the mattress, you make this small, wounded noise that hits her straight in the heart.
She sighs dramatically, falling back beside you. “Alright, fine. I’ll stay. The world can crumble. Cassian can burn the entire House of Wind for all I care.”
You grin against her skin, satisfied.
But after a few minutes, Mor tilts her head toward you again. “You know,” she says softly, “you were scary yesterday. You didn’t talk to me for hours. I almost begged Feyre for help.”
You snort at that, finally peeking up at her. “You deserved it.”
Mor gasps theatrically. “I did not! I was an innocent victim in your dream betrayal!”
“You cheated on me!” you protest, half serious, half joking — though your pout is very real. “In my dream! With some faceless fae!”
Mor bites her lip to stop from laughing. “Sweetheart, I think the real tragedy here is that your imagination doesn’t even let me cheat with someone interesting.”
You gasp, sitting up and crossing your arms, glaring at her in mock outrage. “Oh, so you wanted to cheat with someone interesting?”
Mor’s grin softens. She sits up too, cupping your face in her hands. “Never,” she whispers, kissing your forehead. “In this life or any other, there’s no one but you. Even your dreams can’t convince me otherwise.”
Your heart squeezes — but instead of replying, you push her down again and curl up on top of her chest.
“Still not letting you go,” you murmur stubbornly.
Mor strokes your back, amused and utterly gone for you. “I’m starting to think you mean that literally.”
You nod against her. “You’re mine today. No training, no errands, no nothing. Just me.”
She sighs, but her tone is soft, indulgent. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
You hum in satisfaction, tracing lazy circles on her stomach with your finger.
By the time afternoon arrives, Mor has fully accepted her fate.
You follow her everywhere — to the kitchen, to the balcony, even to the library. You cling to her arm while she tries to make tea, standing so close that she can barely move her elbows.
“Sweetheart,” she laughs, trying to reach the kettle, “if you want tea, I kind of need to be able to breathe.”
“You don’t need tea,” you say without looking up, cheek still pressed against her shoulder. “You have me.”
Rhysand walks in at that very moment, freezes, and then silently turns around, muttering something about newly mated nonsense as he leaves.
Mor loses it, laughing until she has tears in her eyes. You glare at her, but your lips twitch, betraying you.
Later, on the balcony, you end up sitting in her lap, both of you wrapped in a blanket, the sun setting over Velaris. The city glows below — soft lights, the sound of laughter, the smell of jasmine.
Mor rests her chin on your shoulder, voice low. “You know,” she whispers, “if this is what I get after you ignore me for a day, I might start misbehaving more often.”
You turn your head sharply, meeting her mischievous grin with a warning look. “Don’t even joke about that.”
Mor raises her hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. No betrayal — not even in dreams.”
You nod firmly, then lean forward to kiss her cheek. “Good.”
There’s a long silence after that, comfortable and warm.
Your fingers find hers, intertwining naturally. She looks at you — at the stubborn little crease between your brows, at the softness in your eyes when you think she’s not watching — and she realizes she’s utterly, helplessly gone for you.
Mor brushes her lips against your hair. “You’re impossible,” she whispers.
You smile faintly. “You love it.”
“Unfortunately,” she murmurs with a smirk, “I do.”
You turn in her lap, wrapping your arms around her neck, your voice muffled against her skin. “Good. Because I’m not letting you go anytime soon.”
And true to your word, you don’t.
When the night finally settles over Velaris, you’re still there — wrapped around her, warm and safe, refusing to give her even an inch of space.
Mor pretends to complain, but her arms never loosen. Not once.
hey guys, i'm back. i've spent these last few months dealing with massive creative block and a job that completely wrecked my mental health. i really wanted to finish threads of fate, but i don’t know if i can pick the story up from where i left off... so it’s going to stay on hiatus for a while.
on the other hand, i'm currently hyperfixated on acotar (especially on mor), so you’ll see a lot of stories i wrote during the week here on my account. and probably some taylor swift ones too.
ily 🫶🏻
hey guys, hope you're all doing okay. as most of you probably noticed, it's been a while since i last updated threads of fate, and that’s exactly what i came here to talk about.
i was working at this super exhausting job where i barely had time to breathe. now i’m unemployed again (yay, brazilian reality) and honestly feeling pretty unmotivated to write. i’m still not sure if i’ll put the story on hiatus or try to rewrite it at some point. there are a few things i wanted to explore that i didn’t get the chance to, so i might end up rewriting it.
thanks for understanding and for all the kind comments—seriously, you have no idea how much that means to a writer! <3
THREADS OF FATE | chapter 05
chapter summary: the bond between you and wanda deepens as she quietly supports you through your grief. slowly, without force, you begin to reconnect with her, finding comfort in her presence.
a/n: hope you like it!
word count: 3,6k
warnings: mentions of murder and death.
The day started like any other. The sun filtered through the massive windows of the Avengers Compound, casting golden streaks across the polished floors. You had just returned from a sparring session with Sam, your muscles still aching from the relentless training. Natasha had been pushing you harder lately, claiming you were getting soft.
"You good?" Sam had asked as you both wiped the sweat from your brows.
You had laughed, punching his arm lightly. "I'm fine, Wilson. Worry about yourself."
That was the last moment you remembered feeling like yourself.
Because after that, everything shattered.
You were about to hit the showers when Steve approached, his usual composed expression replaced with something that made your stomach twist—concern, hesitation, maybe even pity.
"Hey," he started gently. "Can we talk for a second?"
Something in his tone made your heart pound, but you nodded, following him toward one of the quieter hallways. As soon as you saw Tony waiting there, arms crossed, his jaw tight with unspoken words, you knew.
No.
It couldn’t be.
"Your parents just called," Tony said, voice measured, controlled. "It's about Daniela."
The air left your lungs. Your world tilted.
"No."
"She—" Steve hesitated, eyes flickering to Tony, as if silently asking him to continue. But you didn’t need to hear it. Your hands were already shaking, the dread sinking into your bones like ice.
"Daniela was attacked," Tony finally said, and the next words hit you like a blade to the heart. "She didn’t make it."
The walls of the compound felt like they were closing in on you.
Your ears rang. Your body locked. A distant part of you registered Natasha stepping closer, as if ready to catch you.
But you couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
"No… No, no, no," the words tumbled from your lips in rapid succession, but no one corrected you. No one told you it was a mistake.
"Lo están inventando," you murmured under your breath, shaking your head violently. "No puede ser verdad. No, no puede ser verdad…"
No one in the room had ever seen you like this—lost in your mother language, lost in sheer disbelief. But the way Tony looked down, the way Steve placed a hand on your shoulder, it only confirmed the truth.
Your knees buckled.
The world blurred.
You didn’t even realize you had collapsed until Natasha was gripping your arms, keeping you from hitting the ground.
"Hey, hey," she murmured, her voice steady, grounding. "Breathe."
But how could you? How could you when your sister—your best friend, your other half—was gone?
You gripped Natasha’s arms like she was the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth.
"Dios mío, por favor, dime que esto no es real," you sobbed, the Spanish pouring from your lips in broken gasps. "Por favor, dime que es una mentira… Daniela… mi hermanita…"
Your voice cracked into something unrecognizable, something shattered beyond repair.
"Get her to her room," Tony muttered, and then you were being half-led, half-carried down the hallway, but none of it felt real.
Nothing felt real anymore.
You weren’t sure how you made it back to your room.
One second, you were standing in the hallway, drowning in the weight of Tony’s words. The next, you were on your bed, curled up on your side, staring at the wall.
Everything was quiet.
Too quiet.
Your chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, your fingers clutching the fabric of your shirt. You felt… empty. Like your body was moving, existing, but you weren’t really there.
Somewhere outside your door, you could hear the hushed voices of the team. They were talking about you, probably trying to figure out what to do. But you didn’t care.
You didn’t care about anything.
Daniela was gone.
She had been walking home from work. That was all. Just walking. She wasn’t supposed to be a target. She wasn’t supposed to die.
But she had fought back. Of course, she had. Daniela had never been the type to just hand over what was hers.
And because of that—because of a stupid, senseless act of violence—she was dead.
The thought made you sick.
A knock at your door broke the silence, but you didn’t move.
"Hey, it’s me," Natasha’s voice was quiet, cautious.
You swallowed hard.
Another knock. "I’m coming in."
You didn’t respond, but the door creaked open anyway. She sat beside you on the bed, not speaking at first.
Then, softly, "I’m sorry."
You turned your face into the pillow, biting your lip so hard you tasted blood. "I can’t—" You choked on the words. "I should have been there. I should have protected her."
Natasha exhaled slowly. "This wasn’t your fault."
But you didn’t believe her.
And you didn’t say another word.
Wanda had noticed the change in you the moment she laid eyes on you, standing in the shadows of the compound with your eyes red-rimmed, your body rigid in a way that made you seem like you were trying to disappear.
It was strange, watching you.
She had always seen you as someone with light in their eyes, someone who was almost perpetually bright and warm, like the sun on a cold winter's day. But today—today was different. Today, you were a shadow of that person.
Wanda hadn’t known your sister, but she could see the impact of Daniela’s death in the way you moved, in the way your shoulders were hunched, in the glassy, distant look in your eyes whenever someone spoke to you.
You hadn’t really spoken to anyone since the news hit. Not to the team, not to Natasha, not to anyone. You had retreated into yourself. And it was killing Wanda to see it.
She had been watching you for days, ever since you first shut yourself off. She knew that grief like this wasn’t something that could be fixed with words, but she couldn’t help but feel the pull to be near you. It was like a magnetic force, this need to be close.
But what could she say?
She had no idea how to approach you, no idea how to ease your pain. But she couldn’t stand seeing you like this.
It was the day of Daniela’s funeral when Wanda finally decided to approach you.
She had seen you from the window of the compound, standing alone at the edge of the garden, your hands in your pockets, your head bowed low as you stared at the ground.
It felt wrong, seeing you like that. You were always so full of life, full of warmth, and now you were like a shell, hollowed out and unrecognizable.
Wanda took a deep breath before walking over to you, her footsteps slow but purposeful.
You didn’t notice her approach until she was standing directly in front of you. Your eyes lifted slightly, but you didn’t speak.
The silence between you two stretched for a long, painful moment.
Finally, Wanda broke it. "I—I’m sorry," she said quietly. "I know nothing I say will make this better, but I just… I wanted you to know I’m here. If you need anything."
Your eyes flickered to her, then away. "You don’t have to be here, Wanda," you murmured, your voice a fragile whisper. "I’m not… I’m not in the mood for company."
Wanda didn’t move. "I understand," she said softly, not taking offense, her gaze softening with empathy. "But that doesn’t mean I’m going to leave you alone."
You stayed silent for a long time, as if contemplating whether or not to tell her to go away. But then, unexpectedly, you spoke.
"You were right," you said, your voice thick with the weight of unspoken emotion.
Wanda blinked. "What?"
You inhaled shakily. "You told me that I’d lose the people I cared about. That no matter how strong I was, I wouldn’t be able to save them."
Wanda froze at your words. She had never wanted you to understand that kind of pain. Never wanted you to have to feel what she felt after losing Pietro. And yet, there it was, in your eyes—that look.
"I wanted you to be wrong," your voice broke. "But you weren’t. I lost her, Wanda. I lost her, and I couldn’t do anything."
She swallowed hard. "I didn’t mean for you to go through it, though," she whispered, her voice breaking slightly. "I never wanted you to understand. I just… I wanted you to stay happy. I didn’t want you to feel what I’ve felt."
"But I do now," you whispered. "And I hate you for being right."
Wanda looked away, her jaw tightening.
You closed your eyes, shaking your head. "I used to think I could protect the people I loved. That if I was strong enough, fast enough, smart enough… they’d be safe."
You exhaled shakily.
"But you were right. I couldn’t save her. I couldn’t do anything."
Wanda’s heart ached at the rawness in your voice. She didn’t know what to say, how to fix this. She wasn’t sure if anything could fix it.
"I never wanted this for you," Wanda whispered, her hand reaching out hesitantly toward you. She stopped just short, unsure if you wanted her close. You didn’t pull away, so she gently placed her hand on your shoulder. "I never wanted you to feel this kind of loss."
You looked up at her, your eyes brimming with unshed tears. "I know you didn’t," you whispered, your voice soft but thick with sorrow. "But now that I’m here… I understand why you were so distant with me. Why you hated seeing me so happy all the time. You couldn’t stand it."
Wanda flinched, a pained expression crossing her face. "I didn’t hate you for being happy," she said quickly, her voice trembling. "I hated it because it reminded me of everything I lost. I hated that I couldn’t be like you—so full of life, so full of light."
Your brow furrowed, confusion sweeping over your features. "But you never told me that. Instead, you made me feel like something was wrong with me."
"I know," Wanda said, shaking her head. "I know I was cruel, and I regret it. More than you’ll ever understand."
For a moment, the world around you fell away, leaving just the two of you in the quiet garden. The weight of the conversation hung heavily in the air, but there was something about it—something about this moment—that felt like it could break the silence between you two forever.
You took a deep breath, your voice barely above a whisper. "I think… I think I was wrong too. For not seeing it. For thinking I could just go on being the same after something like this happens."
Wanda’s hand tightened slightly on your shoulder, the warmth of her touch grounding you in this shared sorrow. "It’s okay," she said softly. "We don’t have to pretend to be okay."
For the first time since Daniela’s death, you allowed yourself to lean into Wanda’s presence, feeling the weight of everything you had lost and everything you were still struggling to carry.
And maybe—just maybe—you realized that, even in the midst of the deepest pain, there was a small spark of connection between you and Wanda. Something fragile, but real.
A connection that had always been there, even when neither of you were ready to see it.
In the days that followed Daniela’s funeral, the team kept their distance—understanding that grief was something no one could rush. You had pulled back into yourself, but there was a change, however subtle, that didn’t escape Wanda. It wasn’t that you were talking more or acting like your old self; no, that was far from it. But something between you had shifted in a way that couldn’t easily be ignored.
At first, Wanda had been cautious, careful to respect your space. She didn’t want to push you too far, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself from checking in on you. Sometimes it was just standing in the doorway of your room, watching you for a moment, but there was something about it—something unspoken—that made it feel like you were silently letting her in.
It wasn’t a dramatic change. Nothing happened overnight. You were still distant, still broken in ways that couldn’t be healed with a simple conversation. But little by little, you started to let her into your world in ways you hadn’t allowed anyone else to see.
One afternoon, Wanda found you sitting on the roof of the compound, legs dangling over the edge as you stared at the horizon, the sunset casting a soft orange glow across your face. The wind had picked up, pulling your hair back from your face, and you seemed lost in thought.
She hesitated at the doorway, watching you quietly. There was something about this moment that felt private, like a scene from a dream—your sorrow, her distance. And yet, there was a flicker of something in the air, something that made Wanda feel like you weren’t as alone as you seemed.
She cleared her throat softly. "Mind if I join you?"
You didn’t immediately respond. Your gaze was fixed on the horizon, your expression unreadable. But then, after a long beat, you shrugged, a gesture that somehow seemed like an invitation.
She stepped forward, sitting down next to you without saying another word. For a long time, neither of you spoke. The only sounds were the rustling of leaves in the wind and the distant hum of the compound’s activity.
Wanda watched you from the corner of her eye, trying to gauge whether you’d open up at all. She had no expectations, no agenda. She just wanted to be there, silently offering her presence in the way she knew how.
"You used to like to watch the sunsets with Daniela, right?" Wanda asked quietly, breaking the silence but not pressing for a response.
You glanced at her briefly before nodding. "Yeah," you said softly. "She always used to say the sunset looked different when you watched it with someone else."
Wanda’s lips curled into a faint smile. "I guess she was right."
You didn't say anything after that. But the conversation wasn’t what mattered—what mattered was the quiet companionship that settled between you two. The way Wanda simply sat beside you, her presence calming in ways that words couldn’t reach.
Over the next few weeks, you and Wanda had more of these quiet moments—small exchanges that felt less like a burden and more like a gentle reminder that you weren’t completely alone in your grief.
Sometimes, it was a simple gesture—a shared glance when the team was gathered around the dinner table, or Wanda offering you a soft smile after a particularly difficult mission. You didn’t speak much, but there was a comfort in the space between you, in the way that Wanda never pushed you to talk but seemed to understand when you needed silence.
It was a slow, natural process. You still kept most of your pain to yourself, but with Wanda, it felt easier to breathe. Easier to be around someone who didn’t demand answers or explanations.
One evening, the two of you were assigned to go over some security plans for the compound. It was a late night, the rest of the team already long in bed, but Wanda had asked you to stay back and help her. The task was tedious, but there was something almost peaceful about the way the two of you worked together in the quiet of the war room.
You were seated at the table, papers spread out in front of you, your pen moving across the paper as you made notes. Wanda was beside you, leaning over a map, her brow furrowed in concentration.
For a while, there were no words. It wasn’t necessary. You were both lost in the work, but the proximity was comfortable. And when you looked up from the map and met Wanda’s eyes, there was a brief flicker of understanding—a shared moment of peace in the midst of the chaos.
"Do you ever get tired of all this?" you asked quietly, breaking the silence.
Wanda’s gaze softened as she considered your question. She didn’t immediately answer. Instead, she met your eyes with an intensity that felt like it carried the weight of everything she had been through—the loss of Pietro, the isolation, the battles, both physical and emotional.
"Sometimes," she admitted, her voice quiet but honest. "But I think I’ve learned to live with it. I don’t know how else to be."
You nodded slowly. "I get that," you said softly.
Wanda didn’t respond right away, but she didn’t need to. The exchange was simple, but it was real. You both understood each other in a way that had taken time to build but had grown undeniable.
It wasn’t long before Natasha noticed the change between you and Wanda. The two of you had always been distant, at least as far as Natasha had seen it. But now, there was something different.
It wasn’t obvious at first, but Natasha was perceptive. She could tell that the little moments between you and Wanda had become more frequent, that you were no longer as withdrawn when Wanda was around. There was an ease in the way you interacted with her now—something she hadn’t seen before.
One evening, as the team gathered for dinner, Natasha watched you and Wanda quietly pass the salt back and forth, exchanging a few brief words, before Wanda leaned in to show you something on her phone. It was small, but Natasha could see the difference in your posture. You were leaning toward Wanda now, your body language more open, more at ease.
"Interesting," Natasha murmured to herself, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
She hadn’t seen you smile much in the past few weeks, but there you were, almost laughing at something Wanda had said. Natasha caught your eye for a brief moment, and you quickly turned away, your cheeks flushing with embarrassment.
It was subtle—small moments that anyone else might miss—but Natasha didn’t miss a thing.
She leaned over to Clint, who was sitting across from her, and whispered, "Have you noticed how close they’ve gotten?"
Clint raised an eyebrow, following Natasha’s gaze to where you and Wanda were now sitting. "You mean, like… closer than usual?"
"Yeah," Natasha said. "It’s more than just proximity. They’re actually talking."
Clint grinned. "Well, it’s about time."
Natasha didn’t respond, but she couldn’t help but feel a small sense of satisfaction. You were finding your way back to yourself, piece by piece, and it was clear that Wanda was playing a big part in that.
The days passed, and although the grief would never fully disappear, you felt like a small part of you was coming back to life again. It wasn’t all at once. It wasn’t a grand, sweeping transformation. But it was real, and it was happening quietly, like the gradual breaking of dawn after a long, dark night.
And Wanda was there, in the background, offering you her presence, her strength, without ever demanding anything in return.
You didn’t know exactly when it happened, but one day, you realized that Wanda had become a part of your world in a way that no one else had. Not with words, not with grand gestures. Just by being there.
And somehow, that made all the difference.
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THREADS OF FATE | chapter 04
chapter summary: in the aftermath of sokovia, tensions rise as wanda struggles with grief and guilt, pushing away those who try to help—including you. despite your unwavering kindness, she directs her frustration at you, unable to understand why your light bothers her so much. as the rift between you deepens, a final harsh exchange leaves you distant, making wanda question if she’s lost something she never realized she needed.
a/n: i have a hard time keeping wanda being very mean and rude for too long, sorry hahaha i hope you like it!
word count: 4,1k
warnings: death.
The abandoned HYDRA facility in Sokovia loomed ahead, a fortress of steel and stone nestled within the mountains. Snow covered the ground in thick, uneven blankets, and the air was sharp with the sting of winter. You adjusted your earpiece as Steve’s voice crackled through the comms.
"Remember, we’re looking for Loki’s scepter. That’s priority one," he reminded the team.
But as you stepped forward, something shifted in your chest—an almost magnetic pull, deep and unexplainable. It was a sensation you had never felt before, an invisible thread tugging you toward the unknown.
And then, suddenly, she was there.
Perched above, on the ledge of a broken balcony, a young woman stood, her long auburn hair wild in the wind, her red coat billowing like a shadow of power. Wanda Maximoff. Even from this distance, her presence was overwhelming. Her piercing green eyes locked onto yours, and for a brief second, everything else fell away.
The pull in your chest grew stronger.
Then, she raised a hand, fingers curling.
A wave of crimson energy erupted from her palm, rushing toward you like a storm.
You barely had time to react.
The crimson energy crashed into your chest, and the world tilted. A deafening silence wrapped around you as if you had been pulled into a vacuum. Your knees buckled, and suddenly, you weren’t in Sokovia anymore.
You were standing in your childhood home.
The warm scent of cinnamon and coffee filled the air, the golden hues of the setting sun filtering through the lace curtains. A soft hum of music played from the old radio in the kitchen. It was so familiar, so painfully familiar. Your heart clenched as you took a step forward, toward the wooden dining table where two plates sat half-eaten.
"Please…" you whispered.
A chill ran down your spine as you turned your head, dreading what you’d see next.
And there she was.
Daniela.
She stood in the doorway, her curly hair falling over her shoulders, her usual mischievous smile absent. Instead, her lips parted in a silent scream, her eyes filled with horror. Blood bloomed across her chest like a dark flower, spreading through the fabric of her yellow dress.
You lunged forward. "Dani!"
She collapsed.
You fell to your knees beside her, hands trembling as you reached out. You had healed wounds before—burns, cuts, bruises, even deep gashes. But as your hands hovered over her body, waiting for the warmth of your gift to spread, nothing happened.
No golden glow. No surge of power.
"No, no, no, please—" Your hands pressed desperately against the wound, but her blood only seeped through your fingers, staining your skin.
She coughed, eyes glassy, lips trembling as she tried to speak.
"You said… you'd always protect me," she choked out, her voice barely a whisper.
Your breath hitched. A sob tore through your throat.
"I will! I—I can fix this! Just hold on, Dani!"
But she wasn’t listening.
Because she was gone.
Your world shattered around you.
A cold wind howled through the house, shaking the windows. The lights flickered, casting long, eerie shadows on the walls. The warm glow of home was gone—replaced by an unnatural darkness creeping in from the edges of your vision.
And then you saw her.
Standing in the doorway where Daniela had been just moments ago was Wanda Maximoff.
Her green eyes glowed with eerie intensity, her expression unreadable. She tilted her head slightly, as if studying you.
"What kind of hero are you," she murmured, voice soft, yet laced with venom.
You gasped, stumbling back, your body shaking. "Why are you doing this?!"
She didn’t answer. Instead, she raised her fingers again, red mist swirling at her fingertips.
And with a snap—
The nightmare collapsed in on itself.
You gasped as reality slammed back into you. Your body jerked, your hands flying to your chest as if expecting them to still be covered in Daniela’s blood.
But it was just the cold snow beneath you.
You were back.
Around you, the battle raged on. Explosions shook the ground, flashes of blue and red cutting through the stormy sky. The Avengers were fighting off HYDRA soldiers, and somewhere in the chaos, Pietro Maximoff sped past in a blur of silver.
But all you could focus on was Wanda.
She stood a few feet away, watching you. There was no smirk, no satisfaction—just an unreadable intensity in her gaze. For the briefest second, you swore you saw something else there.
Guilt.
But then, as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone.
She turned and disappeared into the facility.
And for the first time, you realized—
Wanda Maximoff hated you. More than the others.
And you had no idea why.
The mission continued in a blur.
You forced yourself to push through the weight of the nightmare Wanda had forced into your mind, ignoring the tremble in your hands and the cold sweat clinging to your skin. There was no time to dwell on it—not while explosions tore through the facility, not while Steve was barking orders through the comms, not while HYDRA soldiers kept firing from every direction.
"Focus," you whispered to yourself, taking a steadying breath.
You found Natasha in the middle of a brutal fight, her movements quick and calculated as she took down one enemy after another. She was moving toward something—toward them.
The Maximoff twins.
Wanda and Pietro stood at the end of the corridor, blocking the exit. Pietro was moving too fast for the others to catch, while Wanda’s hands burned red with chaos magic.
Your heartbeat stuttered when she met your gaze.
This time, you expected the wave of hatred in her eyes.
What you didn’t expect was how much it stung.
Natasha lunged first. You followed, knowing that if the twins weren’t stopped, this entire mission would fall apart.
But Wanda was faster.
She raised her hands, and before you could react, a crimson mist curled around Natasha, twisting into her mind.
"No!" you shouted, but it was too late.
Natasha’s body stiffened, her eyes glazing over as she was dragged into her worst memories. The Red Room. The horrors she had fought to bury.
And then—
She turned to you.
Wanda’s magic coiled toward you next, but this time, you were ready.
Your hands burned with golden light as you pushed back, meeting her energy head-on. The clash sent a shockwave through the corridor, throwing both of you apart. You barely managed to catch yourself before hitting the ground, panting.
Wanda staggered, her expression shifting to something close to shock.
You weren’t supposed to be able to resist her.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
And then Pietro grabbed her wrist, pulling her away. "We need to go," he muttered, casting one last glance at you before they disappeared.
By the time you managed to wake Natasha from her trance, the Maximoffs were gone.
But their presence still lingered—especially hers.
Wanda Maximoff was a threat. That much was clear.
But there was something else.
Something you couldn’t explain.
After HYDRA fell, everything changed.
Ultron was born.
Tony’s mistake spiraled out of control, and suddenly, the enemy wasn’t just some organization—it was an AI with a god complex.
And somehow, despite everything, the Maximoff twins were now on your side.
You didn’t trust them.
You wanted to, but Wanda made it impossible.
Every glance she threw your way was filled with something bitter, something raw. She barely spoke to you, except when necessary. And when she did, it was always short, clipped.
The others noticed.
"Did you do something to her?" Clint asked one evening, nudging you with his elbow as you both watched Wanda talking with Steve and Natasha.
You scoffed, crossing your arms. "You think I enjoy being glared at like I stole her favorite sweater?"
Clint hummed, squinting at Wanda. "Maybe she’s just wary of you."
"Wary? She hates me, Clint."
He shrugged. "Well, at least she notices you."
You rolled your eyes, but a nagging thought settled in your chest.
Why did she hate you?
You hadn’t done anything to her. You had barely met her before the mission at HYDRA. Yet, from the very first moment, she had treated you like an enemy.
And after Sokovia, it only got worse.
When Ultron launched his final attack on Sokovia, everything fell apart.
Chaos.
Screams echoed through the collapsing city, mingling with the relentless gunfire and the mechanical growls of Ultron’s army. Smoke curled into the sky, thick and acrid, mixing with the scent of burning metal and ozone. Buildings crumbled like sandcastles, their remains swallowed by the chasm below.
You moved through the wreckage, your heart pounding as you focused on evacuating civilians. The fight was far from over, but every life saved mattered. The city was falling—literally—but you still had a chance to get people out.
A flicker of silver shot past your vision, followed by a rush of wind.
Pietro.
He was everywhere at once, moving too fast for the human eye to track. He zipped between Ultron’s drones, dismantling them in seconds, never pausing for breath. His cocky grin flashed in brief intervals, despite the destruction around him.
And then, you saw it.
A group of civilians trapped in the middle of the street, too many drones closing in. Clint was with them, shielding a young boy with his own body, but there was no way he could take on all of them alone.
You turned, sprinting toward them, calling out through your comms. "We need backup at the main square! Civilians are pinned down!"
No answer. The comms were jammed.
Your hands glowed, the golden light of your power flaring to life. You reached out, ready to strike—
But Pietro was faster.
A blur of silver streaked past, and suddenly, Clint was gone, the boy whisked away to safety. But Pietro—Pietro didn’t stop running.
You saw it happening before he did.
The drones shifted their aim. The bullets fired.
“PIETRO!”
He turned too late.
The impact was brutal. His body jerked violently as the bullets tore through him, his momentum carrying him forward even as blood bloomed across his chest. The speedster stumbled, his expression flickering between shock and pain.
And then, just like that, he collapsed.
You were already running.
Sliding to your knees beside him, you pressed your hands over the wounds, willing your power to work. The golden light pulsed, but it was weak—too weak. His injuries were too severe.
“No, no, no,” you whispered, pressing harder. “Stay with me, Pietro. Just hold on.”
His breath came in short, ragged gasps, his blue eyes searching yours. A faint smile ghosted his lips.
“You didn’t see that coming?” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
Tears burned in your eyes. “Don’t joke right now. You’re gonna be fine.”
He gave a weak chuckle, though it ended in a cough. His fingers trembled as he reached up, barely brushing your wrist. His skin was too cold.
“Wanda…” His voice wavered. “Look after her.”
Your throat tightened. “You can do that yourself—”
But his grip slackened.
His breath hitched once.
And then,
Nothing.
Your hands trembled as they hovered over his still body. Your power flickered and faded.
He was gone.
A scream tore through the battlefield.
Wanda.
You barely had time to brace yourself before the energy surge hit. A shockwave of pure, raw grief erupted from her, pulsing outward with terrifying force. The ground cracked beneath you. Ultron’s drones disintegrated in an instant, their metallic remains raining down like shattered glass.
Your ears rang, your breath stolen by the sheer magnitude of her power.
Then, silence.
You turned slowly.
Wanda was there, standing over Pietro’s lifeless body, her entire form trembling. Her eyes—those once-bright green eyes—were consumed by pure, unchecked devastation. Tears streaked down her face, unnoticed.
You opened your mouth.
And then she turned on you.
Her magic lashed out, slamming into your chest. You barely managed to brace yourself as you were thrown backward, skidding across the rubble-strewn ground.
By the time you looked up, she was already stalking toward you.
Her face was twisted in rage, grief, and something far worse.
“You…” Her voice was low, dangerous, barely human.
Your chest heaved. “Wanda, I—”
“DON’T.” The single word shook the air around you.
Her fingers curled, chaos magic crackling at her fingertips, wild and uncontrollable. Her entire body radiated fury, her grief warping the very space around her.
“You were right there.” Her voice wavered, but the venom in it was unmistakable. “You were right there, and you let him die.”
Your breath caught in your throat.
You didn’t get the chance to speak before she took another step forward, her expression twisted with pain.
“What good is your power if it can’t save the people who matter?”
The words struck deeper than any wound.
You felt your stomach drop, felt the air rush from your lungs like you had been punched in the gut.
She wasn’t done.
“You walk around here like you’re some kind of hero,” she spat, voice shaking. “Like you can fix everything. Like you understand loss.” Her lip curled, her hands trembling with rage. “But you don’t. You don’t know what it’s like to feel your own twin die, to have half of your soul ripped away while you’re still standing.”
The weight of her words pressed against your chest, suffocating.
She took another step, her voice turning into a whisper.
“You couldn’t even save him.”
Your entire body went numb.
You wanted to tell her the truth—that you tried, that you did everything you could. That Pietro’s last words had been about her.
But nothing came out.
Because deep down, you knew—
It wouldn’t matter.
Not now.
Not when she was drowning in her grief, searching for something, someone, to blame.
And she had chosen you.
The storm of her power flared again, red mist curling around her fingers like living fire.
For a moment, you thought she was going to end you right then and there.
But she didn’t.
She just stared at you, eyes hollow, broken.
Then, she turned.
She dropped to her knees beside Pietro’s body, pulling him into her arms, rocking him like she could somehow will him back to life.
And you—
You just stood there.
Frozen.
Helpless.
Because for the first time in your life, your power hadn’t been enough.
And Wanda Maximoff would never forgive you for it.
Happiness. Wanda had forgotten what that word even meant.
It felt like a distant memory, something fragile that had shattered long ago, something she could never have again.
And yet, there you were.
Smiling. Laughing. Acting like the world hadn’t crumbled beneath your feet just like it had beneath hers.
It made her sick.
At first, Wanda thought it was an act.
No one could be that cheerful all the time. No one could live through war, fight battles, lose people, and still look at life like it was a gift. Not unless they were pretending.
But as time passed, she realized that it wasn’t an act.
You were actually like this.
Always cracking jokes, always teasing the others, always trying to make people feel better—even after witnessing death and destruction.
It was unbearable.
How could someone like you exist in a world like this? How could you stand there, helping people, healing people, smiling as if everything was going to be okay?
Didn’t you understand that it wasn’t?
Didn’t you understand that things never would be okay?
Wanda hated it.
She hated how easy it seemed for you to smile while she was drowning in her own grief. She hated how, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't push away the pain that wrapped around her chest like barbed wire.
And she hated that whenever you smiled at her, she wanted to believe—for just a moment—that maybe, maybe, happiness wasn’t impossible.
So, she pushed you away.
Hard.
Wanda didn’t keep count of how many times she had been cruel to you. But if she did, she was sure the list would be long.
The first time was during a training session.
Steve had paired you two together, and you had approached her with that same bright smile, holding out a hand. “Looks like we’re partners today.”
Wanda stared at your hand like it was something disgusting. “Just stay out of my way.”
Your smile faltered for a second before you let out a small chuckle, rubbing the back of your neck. “Come on, Maximoff, you don’t even know if I suck at sparring yet.”
Wanda crossed her arms. “I don’t care.”
That time, you laughed it off.
The second time was worse.
You had walked into the kitchen, whistling some tune that Wanda didn’t recognize. The moment you saw her, your face lit up.
“Hey, Wands.”
Wands.
Like you were friends.
She clenched her jaw. “Don’t call me that.”
You blinked. “Oh. Sorry—”
“And stop acting like we’re friends.”
That time, you didn't laugh it off.
And yet, you still didn’t give up.
You kept trying.
Kept being kind to her, even when she didn't deserve it.
Kept treating her like a person—not a weapon, not a monster, not the girl who had lost everything.
And it was infuriating.
The last time Wanda was cruel to you was the moment everything changed.
You had just gotten back from a mission. It had been a rough one—civilians had been hurt, and even though it wasn’t your fault, Wanda could see the exhaustion weighing on your shoulders.
Yet, when you walked into the common room and saw her sitting there, you still smiled.
“Hey, Wanda. You okay?”
It was such a simple question.
Such a stupid question.
And it made something snap inside her.
“Why do you do that?” she snapped, standing up so quickly that the chair scraped against the floor.
You blinked, confused. “Do what?”
“Act like everything is fine. Like you don’t care.”
Your face fell. “I—”
“Like nothing ever touches you.” Her voice was sharp, dripping with something she wasn’t sure she could control. “Like you’ve never lost anything, never had to watch everything you love be ripped away from you.”
You opened your mouth, but she wasn’t done.
“You think the world is good? You think smiling is going to change anything?” She took a step closer, eyes dark, furious. “You live like nothing bad will ever happen to you, like your perfect little life won’t come crashing down around you one day. But it will.”
She exhaled sharply, her hands curling into fists.
“And when it does, I hope you remember this moment.” Her voice was barely above a whisper now, but it cut like a knife. “I hope you remember that I tried to tell you.”
Silence.
For the first time since she had met you, you looked truly hurt.
But Wanda wasn’t done.
Her lips twisted, something bitter rising in her throat.
“Did you know that my brother was fast enough to dodge bullets?” she said suddenly, voice eerily calm.
You frowned slightly, unsure where this was going. “Wanda—”
“He was. He was the fastest person I’d ever known.” Her fingers dug into her palms. “And yet, I wasn’t fast enough to save him.”
Your eyes softened, and that only made her angrier.
“You’re a healer, aren’t you?” she sneered. “Always trying to save people, always pretending like you can fix things. But you couldn’t save him.”
Your breath hitched, and she took another step closer.
“And one day,” she continued, voice laced with venom, “you won’t be able to save the people you love most either.”
The words hung in the air like a curse.
Something shattered in your expression.
Wanda expected you to fight back. To snap at her. To tell her she was being cruel, that she had no right to say that.
But you didn’t.
You just looked at her for a long moment, something unreadable in your eyes.
Then you smiled. But this time, it was small, tired. Almost forced.
“Okay,” you said softly, nodding to yourself. “I get it now.”
And then you left.
No comeback. No teasing remark.
Just… silence.
And that’s when Wanda realized—
She had pushed you too far.
You stopped trying after that.
You still smiled at the others. Still laughed with them.
But never at her.
Never for her.
And suddenly, Wanda realized something terrifying.
She missed it.
She missed you.
For the first time since she had met you, Wanda felt your absence like a weight on her chest.
You were still there, of course.
Still part of the team. Still training, still going on missions. Still smiling.
But not at her.
Never at her.
She hadn’t realized how much she had gotten used to the sound of your laughter until it was gone. How much she had relied on your presence—your warmth, your light—until you had turned it away from her.
And it was all her fault.
The first time Wanda really noticed the change was during a mission briefing.
Steve was going over the plan, pointing out different positions on the holographic display. You were sitting across from her, arms crossed, nodding along. But your usual energy—the way you used to crack jokes in the middle of meetings just to get a reaction—was gone.
When Steve made a comment about something going wrong, Sam rolled his eyes. “Great, and who gets to clean up that mess?”
Before, you would have jumped in with a teasing remark. Something about how obviously it would be you, because you were just so amazing at fixing everyone’s problems.
Instead, you stayed silent.
And Wanda hated that she noticed.
She kept waiting for you to turn to her, to flash her that bright, infuriating smile. But you didn’t.
You never even looked at her.
It was worse than if you had screamed at her. Worse than if you had fought back that night.
Because it meant you had given up.
You had actually given up on her.
And the worst part?
She had no one to blame but herself.
Wanda told herself it was for the best.
That pushing you away was necessary. That it was safer this way.
But regret was a cruel thing.
It crept in during the quiet moments. During the nights when she lay awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the look on your face that night. The way your smile had faded.
The way you had walked away without another word.
She wanted to tell herself she didn’t care.
But then she’d catch herself watching you.
Noticing the way you still laughed with Sam and Natasha. The way you still joked around with Clint. The way you still treated Steve like some kind of noble hero.
You hadn’t changed.
Not with them.
Just with her.
She wasn’t sure why that hurt so much.
It took her weeks to gather the courage to approach you again.
She told herself she wouldn’t. That it was better to leave things as they were.
But one night, she found herself standing outside the training room, watching as you worked through a set of exercises alone.
Your movements were precise, calculated—lacking the usual easy grace that made it look effortless. There was tension in your shoulders, something sharp in your expression.
You looked tired.
And Wanda hated that she had played a part in that.
Without thinking, she stepped inside.
You noticed her immediately.
Your eyes flickered to her, but you didn’t say anything. Just turned back to the punching bag and kept going.
Wanda hesitated, then took a step forward. “Hey.”
You barely reacted.
“I didn’t know you trained this late.”
Still, nothing.
She swallowed. “Listen, I—”
“Did you need something, Wanda?”
Your voice was calm. Not cold, not angry.
Just distant.
Like she was a stranger to you.
Like she was nothing.
It was worse than anything she could have imagined.
For the first time, Wanda didn’t know what to say.
So she said nothing.
And when you turned back to your training without another word, she took the hint.
She left.
And for the first time in a long time, Wanda Maximoff regretted everything.
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THREADS OF FATE | chapter 03
chapter summary: the avengers and shield continue trying to recruit you, but you remain focused on your life in new york. however, during a mission, someone gets severely injured, and your instincts kick in, making you realize you might be destined for something bigger.
a/n: hope you like it!
word count: 2,7k
warnings: none.
You had done your best to move on.
It had been a year since the Battle of New York, a year since you had healed Natasha Romanoff and walked away from the Avengers and SHIELD.
And they hadn’t stopped trying to recruit you.
At first, it had been subtle—calls from unknown numbers, emails from accounts you didn’t recognize, people who looked just a little too interested when you walked into a café or bookstore. Then, it became less subtle. Natasha had shown up at your apartment one night with takeout and a simple, “So, when are you going to stop pretending you’re normal?”
You had laughed, shaken your head, and told her that you were normal.
She hadn’t believed you.
Neither had Steve, who had found you one day in Central Park, offering you a coffee and a speech about responsibility. Tony had sent a drone to deliver an actual contract to your mailbox, because of course he had. Even Maria Hill had tracked you down at your college library, sitting across from you and sliding a SHIELD file toward you with a raised eyebrow.
But you had refused.
Because deep down, despite everything, you weren’t ready to be part of that world.
So you went to class, studied late into the night, worked a part-time job at a bookstore, and tried to pretend like you weren’t constantly looking over your shoulder, waiting for the moment when fate would drag you back in.
And fate always found a way.
It started slowly—small things that should have meant nothing.
A stranger sitting in the same spot every time you went to your favorite coffee shop. A car that seemed to take the same turns as you on your way home. A flicker of movement in a reflection, gone the moment you turned your head.
At first, you convinced yourself it was paranoia.
New York was a big city. People moved, watched, blended into the background. You weren’t special. You weren’t important.
Except… you were.
And you realized it late one night when you took the long way home from work. The streets were quieter than usual, dimly lit by flickering streetlamps. As you walked, the sensation of being followed pressed against your spine, sharp and suffocating.
You forced yourself to stay calm, to keep walking like you hadn’t noticed.
Then—
A sudden scuffle. A sharp gasp.
You turned your head just in time to see a woman being yanked into an alleyway.
Your heart slammed against your ribs.
Walk away, a voice in your head whispered. You don’t do this. You don’t fight. You don’t save people.
But your feet were already moving.
You barely registered the cold bite of fear in your chest as you rushed into the alley.
Three men surrounded the woman, one of them holding a knife too close to her throat. She was shaking, her breath coming in terrified gasps.
They hadn’t noticed you yet.
You could have turned around. You could have called for help, run for the nearest police station.
Instead—
“Hey!”
The word burst from your lips before you could stop it, your voice sharper than you expected.
The three men turned at once.
Their eyes flickered over you—assessing, weighing. You weren’t big. You weren’t threatening. You were just a girl, standing in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The man with the knife sneered. “Walk away, sweetheart. This isn’t your problem.”
But it was.
Because when the woman’s eyes met yours, wide with fear, you saw Daniela.
You saw your sister, helpless, desperate.
And something inside you snapped.
You moved before you had time to think. Your body acted on pure instinct as you lunged, your foot connecting with the man’s wrist before he had time to react. The knife clattered to the ground. The woman stumbled backward, barely able to scramble away.
The other two lunged at you.
Pain exploded across your ribs as a fist connected, knocking you off balance. But you had learned how to take a hit—growing up with Daniela had taught you that much. You twisted, dodging the next swing, landing a hard kick to the second man’s knee.
And then—
A gunshot.
Your heart stopped.
For a moment, you thought you had been hit. But then you saw the woman—the one you had tried to save—collapse to the ground, blood staining her dress.
No.
You scrambled toward her, hands already reaching.
The men ran. You barely noticed.
All you could see was the blood.
Too much blood.
“No, no, no,” you whispered, pressing your hands over the wound, feeling the warmth of her life slipping away.
And then—
Light.
Soft and golden, glowing beneath your fingertips.
Her body jerked.
The wound began to close.
Her breath steadied.
And when her eyes fluttered open, the fear had turned into something else entirely—something like awe.
“You’re—” she gasped. “You’re one of them.”
Your stomach twisted.
Footsteps pounded against the pavement. Sirens screamed in the distance. And before you could react, a shadow loomed over you.
“Damn,” a familiar voice murmured. “You really don’t do anything the easy way, do you?”
You looked up.
Natasha Romanoff.
Her green eyes flickered with something between amusement and exasperation as she crouched beside you. Behind her, Steve Rogers and Clint Barton stood at the alley’s entrance, watching with unreadable expressions.
“You followed me,” you whispered.
Natasha tilted her head. “Technically, I was just keeping an eye on you. But then you went and made things interesting.”
The woman you had healed was staring, still shaken but clearly alive.
And for the first time in a long time, you felt it—that undeniable pull toward something bigger than yourself.
Destiny had caught up to you.
And this time, you weren’t sure you could run from it.
The ride back to the Avengers Tower was quiet.
Too quiet.
Natasha sat beside you in the car, arms crossed, staring out the window like she was giving you space—but you knew better. She was waiting.
Steve was driving, his jaw set, while Clint Barton sat in the passenger seat, occasionally glancing back at you through the rearview mirror. You avoided his eyes.
Your mind was still reeling.
You had saved that woman.
Without thinking, without hesitation.
Your whole life, you had treated your ability like something delicate, something to be kept secret, only to be used when absolutely necessary. And yet, when faced with that moment—when someone’s life had been slipping away in front of you—you hadn’t hesitated.
You had chosen to help.
And now, there was no undoing it.
With a deep breath, you broke the silence.
“How long?” you asked, voice quiet.
Natasha didn’t look at you. “How long what?”
“How long have you been watching me?”
Clint snorted. “Would you be mad if we said a while?”
Your stomach clenched.
“You were never exactly off our radar,” Steve admitted, his voice even. “We knew you didn’t want to be involved, but that didn’t mean we could just ignore you.”
You turned to Natasha. “You never told me.”
Natasha finally met your gaze, her expression unreadable. “Would it have changed anything if I had?”
You hesitated.
Would it have?
You wanted to say yes. You wanted to say that you would have been furious, that you would have cut her off and disappeared, made sure they never found you again.
But deep down, you knew the truth.
You wouldn’t have left.
Because no matter how much you tried to pretend otherwise, Natasha Romanoff had become your friend.
And part of you had known—somewhere, deep down—that this day would come.
The car pulled up in front of the Avengers Tower, the massive structure looming over you like a reminder of the life you had refused for so long.
You weren’t ready for this.
But maybe you never would be.
“Let me be clear,” you said as you stepped into the tower, arms crossed tightly over your chest. “I haven’t said yes to anything.”
“Sure,” Tony Stark’s voice rang out as he stepped into view, a smirk playing at his lips. “You keep telling yourself that, kid.”
Your eye twitched.
Tony thrived on being insufferable, and it had been no different the handful of times you had met him in the past. He had never been subtle about wanting you on the team, but this time, his smirk held something else—something like satisfaction.
Like he already knew you were going to say yes.
You hated that he was probably right.
Bruce Banner was already sitting at the long table in the common area, watching the interaction with mild amusement. Thor was standing by the windows, gazing out at the city as if he had better things to do, while Clint was lounging on the couch with a beer in hand.
And then—
Your gaze landed on Maria Hill.
She was standing near the corner of the room, arms crossed, watching you like a hawk.
“Agent Hill,” you said stiffly.
She nodded once. “Glad to see you again. Took you long enough.”
You sighed. “I haven’t said yes.”
Tony clapped his hands together. “Uh-huh. And yet, here you are, in our very fancy, very top-secret superhero lair.”
You rolled your eyes.
Steve cleared his throat. “Look, we’re not here to pressure you into anything. We just—”
“She already knows why she’s here,” Natasha cut in, her voice cool.
Your jaw clenched.
She wasn’t wrong.
No one had dragged you here. No one had forced you into that car.
You had chosen to come.
Just like you had chosen to use your powers in that alley.
Just like you had chosen to save Natasha a year ago.
You had spent your whole life believing that everything happened for a reason, that destiny had a way of leading you where you were meant to be.
And yet, you had spent the past year fighting that destiny.
Maybe it was time to stop running.
You exhaled slowly.
“…Fine.”
Tony blinked. “Wait, seriously?”
You shot him a flat look. “Yes, seriously.”
A slow grin spread across his face. “Huh. That was easier than I expected.”
You groaned. “I already regret this.”
Natasha smirked. “Too late.”
You definitely regretted this.
But beneath all of that—beneath the sarcasm, the nerves, the overwhelming reality of what you had just agreed to—there was something else.
Something terrifying.
Something exhilarating.
Something that felt a lot like finally stepping into the life you were always meant to live.
You had told yourself you wouldn’t stay long.
You had told yourself that this was just temporary—that you would train with SHIELD, help out where you could, and leave when it became too much.
And yet, two years later, you were still here.
Still an Avenger.
Your first few months had been brutal.
SHIELD didn’t believe in easing people into things, and neither did Natasha. She had taken your training into her own hands, dragging you into the gym at ungodly hours and pushing you until your muscles ached and your lungs burned. You had never been a fighter, never been the kind of person who threw punches and broke bones, but Natasha had made sure you learned how to defend yourself.
“You might be able to heal yourself,” she had said after knocking you flat on your back for the third time in a row, “but that doesn’t mean you should get hit in the first place.”
Steve had been gentler. He had taken the time to show you proper form, correcting your stance, teaching you how to move efficiently. He had been patient in a way Natasha wasn’t, explaining things until you understood, never rushing you.
Clint had made it his personal mission to throw you into ridiculous scenarios. “What do you mean you don’t know how to hotwire a car? What if you’re being chased and you need to steal one?” He had taught you how to pick locks, how to disappear into a crowd, how to improvise when things went wrong. “Nat and Cap are teaching you how to fight. I’m teaching you how to survive.”
Tony, on the other hand, had treated you like an exciting new puzzle. He had poked and prodded at your abilities, running tests, making snarky comments, throwing you into simulations that forced you to think on your feet. “You heal people, but can you un-heal them? What happens if you—ow, okay, okay, don’t hit me, I was just asking.”
Bruce had been the only one to ask if you were okay.
If you were overwhelmed.
If you needed time.
And you had, at first.
But the missions had come quickly, and there had been no time to hesitate.
Your first real mission had been terrifying.
It was supposed to be a simple retrieval—go in, grab the stolen SHIELD tech, get out. You weren’t even supposed to fight. You were just backup.
But nothing ever went according to plan.
Gunfire. Smoke. The sharp, metallic scent of blood.
You had been crouched behind cover, heart pounding in your throat, hands shaking. People were screaming. Someone was bleeding out just a few feet away from you. You could hear Steve shouting orders, Natasha moving like a shadow through the chaos, Clint firing arrows with deadly precision.
You could have stayed hidden.
You should have stayed hidden.
But you hadn’t.
Instead, you had scrambled toward the injured agent, pressing your hands to his wound, willing him to live. The warmth of your power had spread through your fingers, golden light illuminating the darkness. The wound had closed in seconds, and the agent had gasped, eyes wide with disbelief.
Then, an enemy soldier had spotted you.
You had barely registered the gun aimed at your head before Natasha had taken him down with a clean shot.
Later, when the mission was over, when you were back at the Tower, she had cornered you in the training room.
“Don’t ever do that again,” she had said, voice like steel.
“He was dying,” you had argued.
“And you would have been dead if I hadn’t been there,” she snapped.
You had clenched your jaw, refusing to look away.
Natasha had sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Just—be careful, okay?”
You had nodded.
And after that, she had trained you even harder.
It had been during one of those late-night training sessions that you had told her.
You hadn’t meant to.
It had just slipped out.
You had been sprawled on the mat, sore and exhausted, when she had asked, “Do you ever date?”
You had snorted. “Not much time for that.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
You had hesitated, wiping sweat from your forehead. “I like girls.”
She hadn’t reacted right away.
Then—
“Huh.”
“Huh?”
Natasha had smirked. “I was wondering why you never looked twice at Steve.”
You had groaned, covering your face with your hands. “Oh my God, don’t start.”
And that had been it.
She hadn’t treated you any differently.
She hadn’t made a big deal out of it.
She had just accepted it, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And somehow, that had made all the difference.
Telling Tony had been… a mistake.
You had mentioned it casually one night, expecting a similar reaction.
Instead—
“Oh my God,” he had said, eyes lighting up. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I know people. I could set you up. What’s your type? Redheads? Blondes? Do you like scientists? I know a couple of biochemists—”
You had regretted everything.
Clint had found the whole thing hilarious.
Bruce had just sighed. “Tony, leave her alone.”
Thor, bless him, had simply nodded solemnly. “Love is a gift, regardless of where it is found.”
And Steve had patted your shoulder. “I know a nice girl from Brooklyn—”
“Oh my God,” you had groaned again.
After that, Tony had made it his mission to introduce you to every woman he thought you might like. “You need to have a social life,” he had insisted.
You had started avoiding him.
But despite everything, despite the teasing and the meddling, there had been something comforting about it.
About having a family again.
About belonging.
Two years later, you still weren’t sure if you were cut out for this life.
You still had nightmares.
You still doubted yourself.
You still froze up sometimes, remembering the first time you had ever seen someone die, remembering what it felt like to be powerless.
But you weren’t powerless anymore.
You weren’t alone.
And when Natasha smirked at you after training, when Steve handed you a cup of coffee before a briefing, when Clint dragged you into ridiculous pranks, when Bruce asked if you were sleeping enough, when Thor clasped your shoulder with a grin—
You knew you were exactly where you were meant to be.
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clary fairchild | the mortal instruments
“As far as Julian was concerned, no girl had ever been born who could compare to Emma, but when Clary smiled, she was very pretty. Her whole face lit up. It was something she and Emma had in common, actually.”
Taylor Swift x daughter
Taylor is your biological mom, who was separated from you since you were born, since your dad wanted sole custody, your dad was a player on the Seattle Seahawks, and he overdosed a few weeks before now, he died, you are 13 but you turn 14 soon Taylor gets a call from CPS, Taylor also hasn’t seen you since you were born.
COMING BACK TO YOU | taylor swift x daughter!reader
summary: after losing the father who raised you, you’re placed in the care of your biological mother. as you struggle with trust, grief, and self-worth, taylor patiently proves that love isn’t conditional—and she’s never letting you go.
a/n: thanks for the request. hope you like it!
word count: 3,7k
warnings: angst but with a happy ending.
Taylor Swift was used to unexpected calls.
From record labels, producers, friends needing advice, and even fans who had somehow gotten a hold of her number. But when her phone buzzed on a quiet afternoon, she never expected to hear the words—
"Ms. Swift, we need to talk to you about your daughter."
Her what?
Taylor nearly dropped her phone. “I—I think you have the wrong number.”
The woman on the other end, a social worker named Margaret Carter, sighed. “I know this must be a shock, but this is about your biological daughter.”
Daughter.
A word she hadn’t allowed herself to say in thirteen years.
Taylor’s chest tightened. She had always known this day might come, but she had convinced herself it was a distant possibility.
“Her father recently passed away,” Margaret continued. “There are no immediate family members able to take custody. You were listed as next of kin.”
The room spun.
She had spent over a decade not being your mother—because your father had fought for sole custody and won. He was an NFL star, a household name, and had resources far beyond what she had at the time. The court had ruled in his favor, and by the time she had the means to fight back, you were already growing up in his world.
And now, just like that, he was gone.
Leaving you behind.
“I—I need a second,” Taylor whispered, gripping the kitchen counter.
“Of course,” Margaret said kindly. “But I need to be honest with you. Your daughter is in a vulnerable state. She’s grieving, and she barely knows who you are.”
Taylor closed her eyes. The pain of losing you all those years ago came crashing back.
“Where is she now?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
“In temporary foster care. But if you want custody, we can start the process immediately.”
Taylor inhaled sharply. There was no hesitation.
“Yes,” she said firmly. “Tell me what I need to do.”
You sat on the edge of the unfamiliar bed, staring at the peeling wallpaper of the foster home. The place wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t home either.
Not that you even knew what home meant anymore.
Your dad was gone. Just like that. One moment he was larger than life, a hero in the eyes of Seahawks fans. The next, he was a headline on the news.
And you? You were just left behind.
You clenched your fists. Your dad had never been perfect—far from it. He had been distant, always too busy with games and endorsements. But he was all you had.
Now? Some stranger was coming to get you.
Your mother.
A woman you had never met.
You barely even knew her name, other than the whispers from tabloids and social media.
"Taylor Swift’s Secret Daughter—Where Is She Now?"
You had seen the articles. People speculating about you like you were some mystery to be solved. But none of them knew you.
And neither did she.
So why did she want you now?
Taylor’s heart pounded as she stood outside the foster home, hands trembling.
The door opened, and a social worker led her inside. “She’s in here.”
And then—
There you were.
Sitting on the bed, arms crossed, guarded.
Taylor’s breath hitched.
You looked so much like her.
The shape of your eyes. The way you furrowed your brows, the same way she did when she was nervous.
But there was distance in your gaze.
You didn’t run into her arms. You didn’t cry or say “Mom.”
You just stared.
And she didn’t blame you.
Taylor took a tentative step forward. “Hi,” she said softly.
You didn’t respond.
She swallowed. “I—I know this is a lot. And I don’t expect you to be okay with this overnight.”
Still, you said nothing.
Taylor felt her heart sink.
But then, so quietly she almost missed it, you whispered, “Why now?”
Her throat tightened. “Because I should have fought harder for you.”
You finally looked her in the eyes.
And for the first time in thirteen years—
Taylor felt like a mother.
The car ride was silent.
You sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed, staring out the window. Taylor didn’t push you to talk. She just gripped the steering wheel tightly, sneaking glances at you every few minutes.
It was surreal.
She was your mother—but you didn’t know her.
You had imagined this moment before. Back when you were younger, you used to wonder about her. You’d picture a warm smile, soft hands braiding your hair, a voice singing lullabies at night.
But that had never been your reality.
Instead, she was a stranger sitting beside you, trying to act like she knew you.
You sighed and turned away, eyes fixed on the passing buildings.
Taylor finally broke the silence.
“I, um, I didn’t know if you’d be hungry, but I stocked up on some food at home,” she said cautiously. “I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I got a little of everything.”
You didn’t respond.
“I also made up a room for you. But if you don’t like it, we can change it. Whatever makes you comfortable.”
Nothing was going to make this comfortable.
But still… you couldn’t ignore the slight warmth in your chest at the fact that she was trying.
After a long pause, you finally spoke.
“You don’t have to try so hard,” you muttered.
Taylor’s grip on the wheel tightened.
“I just… I just want you to know that I care,” she said softly. “Even if I wasn’t there before.”
You turned to look at her.
And for the first time, you noticed something in her eyes—guilt.
Real, raw, aching guilt.
It made something inside you waver.
But you weren’t ready to let that wall down. Not yet.
So you just looked away again, resting your forehead against the cool glass of the window.
And Taylor, respecting the silence, just kept driving.
When Taylor pulled into the driveway, you blinked at the massive house in front of you.
It was nothing like what you were used to.
Everything about your dad’s house had been modern—gray, cold, minimalist.
But this?
It was warm. Soft yellow lights glowed from the windows. A porch swing swayed slightly in the evening breeze. Flower pots lined the steps.
It looked like something out of a movie.
Taylor hesitated before stepping out of the car. “Come on,” she said gently.
You followed her inside, dragging your duffel bag behind you.
The moment you walked in, you were hit with the scent of vanilla and cinnamon. It smelled like freshly baked cookies.
You hated that it made you feel safe.
“This is your room,” Taylor said, leading you down the hall.
When she opened the door, you froze.
The room was decorated in soft tones—warm beige, deep blues, and fairy lights strung along the ceiling. There was a cozy reading nook by the window, shelves lined with books and records, and a big bed covered in plush blankets.
She had put effort into this.
Like she had been preparing for you.
Your fingers grazed the bookshelf.
There were titles you loved. She must have asked someone about what you liked to read.
A lump formed in your throat.
“You can change anything you don’t like,” Taylor said from the doorway. “This is your space.”
You swallowed hard and turned away.
“It’s fine,” you mumbled.
Taylor nodded. “Okay.”
An awkward silence stretched between you.
Then, hesitantly, she added, “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything.”
And with that, she left you alone.
For a long time, you just stood there, staring at the room.
You wanted to hate it.
You wanted to hate her.
But as you sat down on the bed, fingers running over the soft comforter, you realized something terrifying.
A small part of you didn’t want to hate her at all.
Taylor was nervous.
She had performed in front of thousands of people. She had given speeches at award shows. She had stood in rooms filled with industry giants and held her own.
But sitting across from you at the dinner table?
That was terrifying.
You poked at your food with your fork, barely eating.
Taylor had made pasta—simple, safe. She wasn’t exactly a five-star chef, but she had tried.
She cleared her throat. “So… how was your day?”
You gave her a look.
Taylor winced. “Right. Probably not the best question.”
You sighed and set your fork down. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Do what?”
“Pretend like we’re some normal mother-daughter duo catching up after school.”
Taylor swallowed. “I’m not pretending.”
You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms. “Then what are you doing?”
She exhaled, gripping her napkin tightly. “Trying.”
Something about the way she said it made you pause.
You expected her to be fake. To be distant. To be like every other adult who had tried to act like they understood what you were going through.
But there was something in her eyes.
Something real.
You glanced down at your plate, suddenly feeling uneasy.
“I wasn’t expecting this,” you admitted quietly. “Any of this.”
Taylor nodded. “I know.”
You hesitated before asking the question that had been sitting on your chest since you got in her car.
“Why didn’t you fight harder for me?”
Her breath hitched.
She set her fork down carefully, as if the weight of your question had knocked the air from her lungs.
Then, in a voice so soft it almost broke, she said, “Because I was young. And scared. And not strong enough.”
You blinked.
You had never heard an adult admit something like that before.
Taylor’s fingers twisted in her napkin. “I tried, but your dad… he had more power. More influence. And when I lost, I thought maybe… maybe you’d be better off without me.”
Silence stretched between you.
Finally, you muttered, “That was stupid.”
Taylor let out a short, breathy laugh. “Yeah,” she agreed. “It was.”
You looked at her again. Really looked.
And for the first time, you saw something more than just the famous pop star.
You saw someone who had lost just as much as you had.
You still weren’t sure what that meant.
But for the first time since you had arrived, you picked up your fork and took a bite.
Taylor noticed.
And though she didn’t say anything, you saw the small, relieved smile on her lips.
That night, sleep didn’t come easy.
You lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling like a stranger in a borrowed life.
Your dad’s old house had always been cold, but it had been yours.
This place? This person?
It was all unfamiliar.
You reached for your phone and scrolled mindlessly, trying to distract yourself.
That’s when you saw it.
A post on some sports gossip page.
"NFL Star’s Daughter Reunites with Taylor Swift—Is She Just Another Publicity Stunt?"
Your stomach dropped.
The comment section was worse.
“She just wants to look like a hero.”“Where was she for the last 13 years?”“Bet she’ll write a song about it.”
You squeezed your phone tightly, anger bubbling in your chest.
This wasn’t her story.
This wasn’t some PR move.
This was your life.
And now the whole world thought they had a right to judge it.
You threw your phone onto the bed and buried your face in your hands, trying to push away the familiar ache creeping into your chest.
Why did it feel like you didn’t belong anywhere?
A soft knock on the door made you freeze.
Taylor’s voice was hesitant. “Can I come in?”
You quickly wiped your eyes and sat up. “Yeah.”
She stepped inside, holding two mugs of hot chocolate.
“I, uh, used to drink this whenever I couldn’t sleep,” she said, handing you one.
You took it cautiously, letting the warmth seep into your fingers.
Taylor hesitated before sitting down at the edge of your bed. “I saw the article.”
Your jaw clenched. “It’s stupid.”
“It is,” she agreed. “But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.”
You stared into your mug, watching the tiny marshmallows slowly melt.
“I just hate that people think they know me,” you admitted. “They don’t. They never have.”
Taylor was quiet for a moment.
Then, softly, she said, “I know exactly how that feels.”
Your grip tightened around the mug.
Of course she did.
Taylor Swift had spent years being picked apart by the world.
You glanced at her.
For the first time, you wondered—
Had she ever felt this alone, too?
The next few weeks were hell.
It didn’t matter that you barely posted online. It didn’t matter that you tried to ignore the noise. The world had found you.
And now, it wouldn’t let go.
Paparazzi camped outside Taylor’s house. Articles were published daily, analyzing everything from your relationship with her to the way you dressed.
Worst of all, people from your past—kids from your school, people who had never cared before—suddenly started reaching out.
“Hey! I didn’t know you were Swift’s kid. That’s crazy! Wanna hang out?”“Wow, guess you were hiding this the whole time. No wonder you acted like you were better than us.”“Bet you’re rich now. Lemme borrow some money.”
You never responded.
You weren’t stupid.
They didn’t care about you.
They just cared about Taylor Swift’s daughter.
And the worst part?
You weren’t even sure who that was supposed to be.
Because the real you?
The one who had spent her whole life feeling like an afterthought? The one who had spent years fighting to be seen by a father who never really looked? The one who had learned to bury her emotions because it was easier than being disappointed?
The world didn’t care about her.
But she was the only version of you that existed.
It started small.
The first panic attack came when you saw your father’s name trending online again.
"NFL Tragedy: Remembering the Career and Downfall of a Football Legend."
People painted him as a hero. A lost talent. A misunderstood man.
But they didn’t know.
They didn’t know how many times he had forgotten you at school.
How many times he had brushed off your tears with a distracted, "Not now, kiddo."
How many times he had left you alone in a house that never felt like home.
Now, suddenly, everyone wanted to talk about what a great father he had been.
Your hands had started shaking. Your chest had gone tight. It felt like you couldn’t breathe.
And for the first time in years, you had felt small again.
The second time was worse.
A reporter had shoved a microphone in your face outside a bookstore.
"Do you think Taylor Swift is a better parent than your father was?"
The words had slammed into you like a truck.
You had frozen.
Because how were you supposed to answer that?
How were you supposed to explain that one of them had abandoned you, and the other had never had the chance to be there at all?
You had run.
Not even caring that cameras caught it.
You ran until your legs burned, until your chest ached, until you found yourself sitting on a cold park bench, hugging your knees to your chest.
And that’s where she found you.
Taylor.
She had searched for you.
And when she sat beside you, she didn’t demand answers. She didn’t scold you for running off.
She just… sat there.
Like she was giving you permission to fall apart.
And maybe that’s why, for the first time in your life, you did.
The tears came before you could stop them. Silent at first. Then shaking, gasping, unstoppable.
And then—warm arms around you.
Taylor pulled you into her chest, holding you like you were something precious.
Like you weren’t a burden.
Like you weren’t too much.
And for the first time in your life, someone didn’t tell you to stop crying.
She just held you.
“I’ve got you,” she murmured into your hair. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”
And for the first time in a long time…
You let someone have you.
Things didn’t magically get better overnight.
You were still angry.
At your father. At the media. At the unfairness of it all.
And Taylor?
She was patient.
She never pushed. Never demanded.
She just showed up.
When you couldn’t sleep, she left a light on in the hallway.
When you felt like you couldn’t breathe, she sat with you until you could.
When you got overwhelmed, she gently reminded you that you weren’t alone.
And little by little…
You started believing her.
You still had scars.
But for the first time, you weren’t carrying them alone.
And that?
That was something worth holding onto.
You weren’t sure what brought it on.
Maybe it was the weeks of tension building up.
Maybe it was the way Taylor never pushed, never forced you to talk.
Or maybe it was the simple fact that, for the first time in your life, someone actually wanted to listen.
Either way, it happened one night, completely out of nowhere.
You were in the kitchen, staring blankly at a bowl of cereal, appetite gone.
Taylor walked in, wearing an oversized sweater and fuzzy socks, looking more like a tired mom than a global superstar. She poured herself some tea, glanced at you, then casually sat down across from you.
She didn’t say anything at first.
And then, softly:
“Can I ask you something?”
You tensed. “…Sure.”
She took a careful sip of tea. “Are you okay?”
That was all she said.
Three words.
Not “You should be grateful.” Not “Talk to me.”
Just—Are you okay?
You weren’t.
And suddenly, you couldn’t pretend anymore.
Your hands clenched around the edge of the table, knuckles white. Your throat felt tight.
And then—it all poured out.
“I don’t know how to do this,” you admitted, voice shaking. “I don’t know how to be your daughter. I don’t know how to let you care about me.”
Taylor didn’t flinch.
She just set her mug down and nodded, like she had been expecting this.
So you kept going.
“My dad never… he never wanted to know me. He said he did, but he didn’t.” Your voice cracked. “I used to think that if I was better, if I was easier to love, then maybe he’d see me. But he never did.”
Taylor’s eyes filled with emotion. She didn’t interrupt.
And you… you just kept unraveling.
“So now, you’re here. And you keep trying. And I don’t know what to do with that.” You met her gaze, heart pounding. “What if you wake up one day and realize I’m not worth it? What if you change your mind?”
Silence.
For a second, you felt stupid. Exposed.
And then—
Taylor reached across the table, covering your hand with hers.
Her fingers were warm, steady.
“I will never change my mind about you,” she said quietly. “Never.”
Your chest ached.
Tears burned behind your eyes.
She squeezed your hand. “I missed everything, baby. Your first steps, your first words… I missed all of it. But I’m here now. And I want to be here.”
You swallowed hard. “But what if I mess up?”
Taylor gave you a soft, bittersweet smile. “Then you mess up. And I’ll still be here.”
Something broke inside you.
Something you had been holding in for too long.
And before you could stop yourself, you whispered, “Thanks, Mom.”
Taylor froze.
Her breath hitched, and for a second, you thought maybe you had made a mistake.
But then—
Her eyes filled with tears.
And she let out a soft, choked laugh, like that one word had just healed something inside her, too.
“Oh, sweetheart.” Her voice wavered. “Say it again?”
Your throat tightened.
“…Thanks, Mom.”
And just like that—Taylor broke.
She got up and pulled you into her arms, holding you so tight, like she was afraid to let go.
You buried your face in her shoulder, fists gripping her sweater.
For the first time, you let yourself believe that this was real.
That she wasn’t leaving.
That she wasn’t going to disappear.
That you weren’t alone anymore.
“I love you,” she whispered into your hair. “So much.”
And this time—
You let yourself believe her.
Things didn’t change overnight.
You still had bad days. Days where you doubted everything. Days where you flinched at kindness because you were still learning that love didn’t have to be earned.
But slowly, things got better.
Taylor taught you how to bake (even though you both sucked at it).
She let you pick the music in the car (and laughed when you played Taylor Swift songs just to mess with her).
She showed up to every therapy session, waiting outside with a hug and a milkshake afterward.
She let you take your time.
And little by little…
You started to trust her.
To trust that she meant it when she said she wasn’t going anywhere.
And one day, when the world wasn’t watching, when it was just the two of you on the couch, watching a dumb reality show—
You leaned against her, rested your head on her shoulder, and said, “Love you, Mom.”
Casual. Easy. Like breathing.
And Taylor?
She didn’t make a big deal out of it.
Didn’t push. Didn’t cry.
She just kissed the top of your head and whispered, “Love you too, baby.”
Like it had always been this way.
And maybe, in some way—
Maybe it always had.
i'm like, REALLY proud of myself. i already have about four chapters of threads of fate in the drafts, ready to be posted. i don't think i'm going to abandon the story like i thought. and ps: i promise to write all the requests as soon as possible <3
THREADS OF FATE | chapter 02
chapter summary: during the battle against loki, you unexpectedly heals natasha romanoff, catching the attention of the avengers and shield. despite their repeated attempts to recruit you, you resist, uncertain of your place in their world.
a/n: hope you like it!
word count: 2,3k
warnings: none.
New York City had always been loud.
Ever since you moved here for college, you'd grown used to the constant hum of life—taxi horns blaring, people shouting into their phones, the rhythmic clatter of subway cars below your feet. The city never stopped.
It had a heartbeat, a rhythm that pulsed through the streets, something chaotic yet comforting.
And today had been no different.
You had spent the morning working your shift at a coffee shop near Grand Central, serving overpriced lattes to businessmen in expensive suits and tourists who marveled at the station’s architecture. Then, after finishing a long afternoon lecture at Columbia, you took the subway back downtown, planning to grab some food before heading to your apartment.
You never got that far.
The first explosion hit just as you stepped out of the station.
The ground shook beneath your feet, car alarms wailed, and suddenly, the world around you erupted into screams.
You turned toward the source of the sound—just in time to see the sky rip open.
You stood frozen, staring upward as the air itself seemed to split apart, like someone had taken a knife to the fabric of reality. And from that gaping wound in the sky, creatures began to spill out.
Metallic, grotesque things with gleaming eyes and snarling faces, their long limbs ending in weapons. They swarmed the buildings, diving down into the streets, opening fire without hesitation.
People ran.
People screamed.
And still, you stood there, paralyzed, your breath caught in your throat.
Your mind struggled to comprehend what was happening. Was this a terrorist attack? An invasion? Some kind of apocalyptic nightmare?
Then, the building next to you exploded.
Glass and concrete rained down like deadly hail, snapping you out of your daze.
Move. You need to move.
Your feet obeyed before your brain did, sprinting down the street as debris crashed behind you. Everywhere you looked, chaos reigned. Cars flipped over, storefronts shattered, smoke billowed into the air.
And above it all, the creatures—aliens, you realized with growing horror—descended upon the city like a swarm of locusts.
Then, a streak of red and gold flashed past you.
You turned just in time to see Iron Man soaring through the sky, repulsors blazing as he took down several of the creatures in quick succession.
You barely had time to process the fact that Iron Man was real before a massive, hammer-wielding figure landed in the street a few yards away, the very ground shaking beneath him.
Thor.
Another explosion rocked the street, and suddenly, there was a man in a star-spangled suit, ushering civilians to safety with a commanding presence that left no room for hesitation.
Captain America.
This was no terrorist attack.
This was a full-blown war.
You weren’t a fighter.
You had no weapons, no combat training. The only thing you had was an ability you barely understood, one that had always felt more like an inconvenience than a gift.
But as the battle raged on, as people screamed and bled and died around you, you knew you couldn’t just stand there.
You had to help.
Ducking into the ruins of a crumbling café, you pressed yourself against the wall, trying to steady your breathing. You spotted a group of civilians huddled behind an overturned car, trapped as one of the metal creatures advanced on them.
Without thinking, you grabbed a loose brick and hurled it at the creature’s head.
It didn’t do much—barely even made a sound against its armor—but it was enough to get its attention.
The thing turned toward you, eyes glowing.
Shit.
You braced yourself for death, but before it could strike, a gunshot rang out.
The alien jerked back, a hole blasted through its skull.
Then, out of nowhere, a woman in black came barreling into view, flipping onto the creature’s back and twisting its head with a sickening snap.
It crumpled to the ground, lifeless.
And that’s when you saw her.
Natasha Romanoff.
Even with blood streaked across her face, hair tangled and wild from battle, she looked impossibly in control.
"Get out of here!" she barked at you, already turning toward her next target.
But you didn’t run.
Because as she moved, you saw it—the deep gash along her side, crimson staining her suit.
She was hurt.
And before you could think better of it, you were moving.
"Wait!" you called out.
She barely spared you a glance. "Go, now!"
"You’re injured!"
"I’m fine."
She wasn’t.
You could feel it—the pain radiating off her in waves, the sluggish way she was moving, the way she favored one side. She was bleeding out.
You didn’t think.
You simply acted.
Closing the distance between you, you reached out—placing your hands over the wound before she could shove you away.
And then, it happened.
The warmth, the golden glow, the pulse of life pouring from you into her.
You barely registered Natasha’s sharp inhale, the way her muscles tensed beneath your touch. You just focused, willing the torn flesh to mend, the wound to seal.
It took only seconds.
But when you pulled away, Natasha’s eyes were wide.
Her breathing was steady.
And her wound was gone.
"What the hell," she whispered.
You swallowed hard. "I—"
Before you could explain, before she could even process what had just happened, a voice crackled in her earpiece.
"Romanoff? You still alive?"
Natasha exhaled sharply, pressing a hand to where the wound had been just moments ago. Then, in a perfectly even voice, she responded:
"Yeah. I’m here."
Her gaze flickered back to you, something unreadable in her expression.
"Stay here," she ordered.
And then she was gone.
You didn’t stay put.
How could you?
The battle raged on around you, the city falling apart piece by piece, and the Avengers were the only ones standing between humanity and complete annihilation.
So you kept moving, dodging debris, helping whoever you could. You didn’t use your powers again—not until a man was crushed beneath a fallen beam, his breaths ragged. You healed him in a heartbeat.
And in doing so, you sealed your fate.
Because the moment he stumbled to his feet, still dazed from what had just happened, another figure landed near you.
A man in blue and red.
Steve Rogers.
Captain America.
His sharp, assessing eyes locked onto yours, then drifted down to the man you had just healed. Understanding dawned in them almost instantly.
You swallowed.
"…Hi?"
He didn’t respond.
Instead, he pressed two fingers to his comm.
"Stark, I need you to see something."
And just like that, you were no longer just a civilian caught in the crossfire.
You were something else.
Something they weren’t going to let walk away.
The moment Captain America took notice of you, everything changed.
One minute, you were just a bystander trying to survive an alien invasion, and the next, you were in the midst of the most elite force the world had ever seen.
You barely had time to process what was happening as Captain America placed a firm hand on your shoulder. "You need to come with us." His voice was calm, but his gaze was intense, assessing every inch of you.
There was no room for argument.
Before you could say anything, another figure appeared beside him—Black Widow. Natasha’s expression was still unreadable, but you could see the curiosity in her eyes as she took in the strange, golden glow still lingering faintly around your hands.
"We’ve got things covered here," Natasha said, glancing over her shoulder at the battle raging in the distance. "Get her to Stark."
"Understood," Steve replied, motioning for you to follow him.
You barely had time to question what was happening as they led you through the chaotic streets of New York, pushing through crowds of survivors, emergency responders, and Avengers.
Your mind raced.
What had you just done? You had healed Natasha—one of the most skilled agents the world had ever known—and now, you were being whisked away by two of the most powerful people on Earth.
For a moment, you considered running. It was instinct, something deep inside you urging you to escape before things escalated. But you knew that wasn’t an option. There was no going back.
The streets seemed to stretch endlessly as you followed them through the destruction. Finally, they led you to a narrow alley, where a sleek, high-tech van awaited. The SHIELD insignia was emblazoned on its side.
SHIELD.
The name had always been more of a myth to you, a whispered legend you had heard about in passing. Now, it was a reality—a reality that was about to swallow you whole.
You were ushered inside, and the doors shut behind you with an ominous hiss. The van took off at a speed that made your stomach flip.
"Keep your head down," Steve said, sitting across from you with Natasha beside him. "You’re coming with us to a secure location. We have questions."
You nodded, but your mind was still spinning.
As you sped through the streets of New York, the chaos of the battle felt like a distant memory. The city’s skyline blurred as you were taken farther and farther away from the carnage. The air inside the van felt thick, and the quiet was almost unbearable after everything you had witnessed.
Finally, the van came to a stop. The doors opened, revealing a sleek, underground facility with white walls, sleek metallic surfaces, and the hum of advanced technology. The air smelled sterile.
"Welcome to SHIELD," Natasha said, her tone still unreadable. "This is where we work."
It was the most intimidating place you had ever seen, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were about to step into something much bigger than yourself.
The moment you stepped out of the van, a team of SHIELD agents rushed forward to escort you inside, and you were taken into a small, sterile room with only a table and a few chairs. Natasha and Steve flanked you on either side.
"Do you know why you’re here?" Steve asked, his voice firm yet measured.
You swallowed hard. "No."
"We’ve seen your abilities," Natasha spoke, her eyes narrowing slightly. "You healed me in the middle of the battle. That’s not something you can just do."
You shifted uncomfortably in your seat. "I—I don’t really know how it works. It just… happens."
"And that’s what we need to understand." Steve leaned forward slightly, his gaze sharp. "You’ve been trained, haven’t you? You have to be. A power like that doesn’t manifest without purpose."
"No, I’ve never been trained. I just… I’ve always had this ability. I can heal. I don’t know how, but I can."
"How long have you had it?" Natasha pressed.
You hesitated, a brief flash of your childhood crossing your mind—how your parents had always told you that your gifts were part of a greater plan, that everything you did was in the hands of destiny. But you knew now wasn’t the time for such thoughts. "Since I was a little girl," you said quietly. "I just thought it was normal."
Steve and Natasha exchanged a glance. The tension between them was palpable, but neither of them spoke right away.
After a long pause, Steve leaned back in his chair. "You’ve been living in New York for a while now. You’re a civilian—no training, no connections. Yet you just healed one of our best agents in the middle of a battlefield. That’s no small feat."
Natasha continued, "We need people like you, people who have abilities that could turn the tide of a fight. People who could make a difference."
You stiffened. You understood the implication, but it didn’t sit well with you. "I’m not a soldier. I’m not a fighter. I just… I just want to help people."
"Which is why you’re exactly what we need," Natasha said. "You have no idea the kinds of threats we’re facing, threats that require… people like you."
Steve’s tone shifted, becoming more insistent. "We want you to join us. To be part of SHIELD."
You blinked, stunned. The words hung in the air like a heavy weight, and for a moment, you didn’t know how to respond.
Finally, you found your voice. "I’m not a soldier," you repeated, this time more firmly. "I don’t think I can help in that way. I don’t want to be part of your… war."
Steve’s expression softened slightly, but Natasha’s didn’t. "We’re not asking you to be a soldier," she said, her voice almost coaxing now. "We’re asking you to help us protect people—innocent people, the ones who can’t defend themselves."
You shook your head. "I can’t. I won’t."
There was a long silence. You could feel the weight of their disappointment, but you stood firm in your decision. You weren’t ready to give up your life and be thrust into a world of espionage, violence, and endless conflict.
And no matter how much they wanted you, you weren’t going to be the hero they hoped you would be.
After a long moment of quiet, Steve finally stood. "We understand," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "But we’re not going to stop trying to convince you. You have a gift, and the world is full of people who need it."
Natasha stood as well, her eyes never leaving you. "We’ll be in touch," she said, her tone colder now.
You didn’t say anything else as they left the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts.
The moment the door clicked shut behind them, you exhaled in relief.
You weren’t ready for this world. You weren’t ready for the responsibility that came with it. And no matter how much the SHIELD agents tried to convince you, you knew deep down that you weren’t meant to be a part of their mission.
At least, not yet.
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Fallaces sunt rerum species.
THREADS OF FATE | chapter 01
chapter summary: you move to north carolina at a young age, growing up with healing powers and parents who believe in fate and soulmates. as you graduate high school, you decide to pursue your dreams in new york city.
a/n: hope you like it!
word count: 2,1k
warnings: none.
The first memories you have are painted in golden light.
Sun-drenched afternoons in the rolling fields of Mexico, where the wind carried the scent of wildflowers and the earth was warm beneath your bare feet. You remember chasing butterflies with Daniela, your small hands outstretched, giggling as the tiny creatures danced just out of reach. You remember your mother’s laughter, the sound rich and melodic, as she called you both inside for dinner, her long skirts swaying as she moved. You remember your father humming a song while he carved delicate patterns into a wooden flute, pausing only to tap your nose with sawdust-covered fingers.
Life was simple then. Happy.
Your parents were not like other parents. They saw the world differently—not just in shades of black and white, but in the swirling colors of fate, destiny, and unseen forces guiding every moment. Your mother would sit with you and Daniela under the shade of the big ceiba tree in your grandmother’s backyard, weaving stories with her words as effortlessly as she wove the colorful threads of her embroidery.
"The universe speaks to us," she would say, her fingers dancing over the fabric, pulling threads through with careful precision. "Everything that happens, happens for a reason. We are all connected, you know? Like these threads. Some of us are meant to meet, to change each other’s lives. Some are meant to love, to suffer, to grow."
"Like soulmates?" Daniela would ask, her dark eyes wide with curiosity.
Your mother would smile then, nodding as if she knew some great cosmic secret. "Sí, exactly. Almas gemelas. Some people are tied together long before they ever meet. You will feel it when it happens—like something pulling you toward them, even if you don’t understand why."
You loved those stories. They made the world feel magical, full of possibility. You and Daniela would whisper about them at night, lying under thin cotton sheets, the air still heavy with the heat of the day.
"What if we already met our soulmates and just don’t know it?" you mused once, staring up at the ceiling, tracing patterns in the plaster with your eyes.
Daniela laughed. "That would be funny. Maybe it’s Mamá and Papá. Maybe soulmates aren’t just for love, but for family too."
"Maybe."
It was a comforting thought. That no matter what happened, you and Daniela were meant to be together, bound by something stronger than time.
But fate had other plans.
When you were three years old, your father received an opportunity—one he couldn’t refuse. A new job, a new life, far away from the only home you had ever known. Just like that, the golden fields and the ceiba tree and your grandmother’s house became memories, locked away in the corners of your mind.
North Carolina was different. The air smelled of pine trees instead of sun-warmed earth. The sky stretched wide, but it lacked the endless vibrancy of the Mexican sunsets you had grown up with. And the language—sharp and foreign—felt strange on your tongue.
At first, you didn’t understand why you had to leave. You cried when the plane took off, gripping Daniela’s hand so tightly that your fingers ached. But your parents, ever the dreamers, promised that this was part of the plan.
"The universe is guiding us," your mother said, her voice gentle as she stroked your hair. "We have to trust it, mi amor."
So you tried. You learned English, watching cartoons and mimicking the voices until the words didn’t feel so foreign anymore. You made friends at school, though you still clung to Spanish like a lifeline, whispering secrets to Daniela in the language that felt most like home. You adjusted.
But part of you always wondered if fate had made a mistake.
The summer you turned seven, something happened that changed everything.
It was a hot afternoon, the kind where the air felt heavy, sticking to your skin like a second layer. You and Daniela had spent most of the day outside, running through the grass, daring each other to climb the old oak tree in your backyard. It was the tallest tree you had ever seen, its thick branches stretching toward the sky like something out of a fairytale.
"Bet you can’t climb higher than me," Daniela teased, already scrambling up the rough bark.
"Watch me!" you shot back, gripping the trunk and pulling yourself up after her.
The two of you had always been fearless together, a team. If Daniela could do something, you could too. It was an unspoken rule between you.
But that day, the rule broke.
One moment, Daniela was laughing, perched on a thick branch, the wind rustling her dark hair. The next, she was slipping—her foot catching on a loose bit of bark, her arms flailing as she tumbled downward.
You screamed.
The world slowed.
She hit the ground with a sickening thud, her knee scraping against the dirt, blood welling up instantly. She gasped, eyes wide, as she clutched her leg.
"Ay, mierda, that hurts," she hissed through clenched teeth.
Panic bloomed in your chest. You dropped down beside her, hands hovering over the wound, unsure of what to do. The sight of blood made your stomach twist.
"Daniela—"
She waved you off. "It’s fine. It’s just—"
You reached out before she could finish.
And then, something impossible happened.
Warmth spread from your fingertips, a tingling sensation that sent a shiver down your spine. The cut—deep and jagged just moments before—began to close. The blood disappeared, as if rewinding time itself. Within seconds, the wound was gone.
Daniela stared at you.
You stared at your hands.
"That was so cool!" she exclaimed, her shock morphing into excitement. "Do it again!"
But you couldn’t move. Your heart pounded against your ribs, your breath shallow. What had you just done?
Your parents found out that night.
Daniela, never one to keep secrets, had rushed into the house the moment your mother called for dinner, blurting out everything before you could stop her.
Your father went still. Your mother’s hands trembled as she took yours, turning them over as if searching for some hidden mark.
"El destino," she whispered, awe and fear warring in her expression. "You were meant for something greater than you know."
After that, everything changed.
You learned to hide your powers, to keep them a secret from the world. Your parents made sure of it—explaining, in hushed voices, that people wouldn’t understand. That they would be afraid.
"The world is not always kind to those who are different," your father said one night, his voice heavy with something you couldn’t quite name.
Daniela, of course, had other ideas.
"You could be a superhero!" she whispered excitedly under the covers. "Like in the comic books! Imagine how many people you could help!"
"No one can know," you reminded her. "Papá said—"
"I know, I know." She sighed, rolling onto her back. Then, after a pause, she turned her head to look at you. "But I promise I’ll always protect you. No matter what."
You smiled, linking your pinky with hers.
"We take care of each other," you said, repeating the words that had become your shared mantra. "Always."
And for a long time, that was enough.
Until, years later, it wasn’t.
Because fate had a way of changing everything when you least expected it.
Leaving home was never easy, even when you had been preparing for it your whole life.
Growing up, your parents had always encouraged you and Daniela to dream beyond the horizon, to chase whatever destiny called to you. Education was important to them, not just as a means to a better life, but as a way to truly understand the world.
"Knowledge is the one thing no one can take from you," your father would say, tapping the side of his head with a knowing smile.
So when you got accepted into a university in New York City, it felt like fate was guiding you there.
At least, that’s what you told yourself.
The truth was, you needed to leave. You needed to know who you were beyond the quiet safety of your childhood home. You needed to learn what your powers meant, what you meant in the grand scheme of things.
But that didn’t make saying goodbye any easier.
The house smelled like cinnamon and burning wax, the way it always did when your mother was nervous. She had spent the entire afternoon lighting candles, muttering quiet prayers under her breath as she moved through the small kitchen, her hands gripping the rosary she had owned since she was a girl.
Daniela was sprawled on the couch, arms crossed, her expression stormy.
"I still don’t get why you have to go so far," she muttered, kicking at the old wooden coffee table between you. "There are colleges here. Good ones."
You sighed. "It’s not just about school, Dani. I need to—" You hesitated, trying to find the right words.
How could you explain the feeling that had been gnawing at you for years? The restlessness, the sense that you were meant for something more?
"I just need to," you finished lamely.
Daniela scoffed. "That’s not an answer."
"I know."
The silence stretched between you, heavy and unspoken.
Then, Daniela shifted, her expression softening just slightly. "Promise me something?"
"Anything."
"Don’t forget where you come from." She reached out, squeezing your hand. "And don’t let New York turn you into some stuck-up city girl."
You laughed, nudging her with your elbow. "I’d never."
She rolled her eyes but smiled.
Later that night, as you lay in bed staring at the ceiling, you felt a weight settle in your chest. You had spent your entire life with Daniela always within arm’s reach, your constant, your other half.
Leaving her behind felt like tearing away a part of yourself.
"We take care of each other, always."
The words echoed in your mind, but for the first time, you weren’t sure if you could keep that promise.
New York was nothing like home.
It was loud, overwhelming—a living, breathing thing that pulsed with energy at all hours of the day. The first time you stepped off the bus, dragging your single suitcase behind you, you felt like you had been dropped into a completely different world.
Back home, the stars stretched wide across the night sky, unhindered by the glare of city lights. Here, they were swallowed by towering buildings and neon signs, blinking advertisements for things you couldn’t afford. The streets smelled of exhaust, coffee, and something fried from the food carts on every corner.
It was exhilarating.
And terrifying.
Your apartment was nothing special—just a tiny dorm room shared with a girl named Mia, who greeted you with a lazy wave and a bored, "You snore, I’m kicking you out."
You liked her immediately.
Classes started the following week, and it didn’t take long for you to fall into a rhythm. Mornings were spent buried in textbooks, afternoons balancing a part-time job at a bookstore, and nights walking the city, letting the buzz of life around you settle your nerves.
For the first time in your life, you were completely on your own.
And you weren’t sure if you loved it or hated it.
The first few months passed in a blur of late-night study sessions, cheap takeout, and phone calls home that always ended with your mother telling you to eat more. Daniela texted constantly, sending you updates about home—Papá finally fixed the truck, Mamá started taking painting classes, the neighbor’s cat had kittens, why don’t you ever call me first, are you forgetting about me?
You never answered that last one.
Because no matter how much you missed home, you were changing.
New York had a way of forcing you to grow, to see the world differently. It stripped away the small comforts you had always taken for granted and pushed you into situations you never thought you’d experience.
Like the night everything changed.
It was supposed to be just another night—another shift at the bookstore, another walk back to your dorm. But fate had other plans.
And they came in the form of a god with a scepter and an army of alien soldiers.
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