Fics I Love

So You Live Under a Rock And Need To Know What Alchemised Is About

Alchemised is a story told in three parts, which I need to poorly summarize so that we’re on the same page. (Please note that this is a very simplified and vaguely sarcastic summary of events; I have neither the desire nor willpower to recount exactly how many subplots are in this dang thing.)

Part One is approximately 300 pages about Helena waking from a coma to find out that the bad guys, a group of undying necromancers led by a nefarious leader who must be named (Morrough), have won the war in the alchemy-heavy country of Paladia and are making the place increasingly awful to live in. Helena has no memories of how she ended up in said coma (it's actually this story's equivalent of carbonite, à la Han Solo), as some strange alchemy has been performed on her brain to give her magical amnesia. Morrough determines that his right-hand man, Kaine Ferron, should keep her prisoner in his house as Kaine tries to undo the amnesia to learn vital intel on the surviving resistance.

During all this, Helena decides that the only way to protect the Resistance is to kill herself. That’s the basic premise. Ostensibly, there’s a mystery as to who Kaine is, what her memories are, etc. The problem is that there is no actual effort put towards said mystery. Helena is an inert character. She doesn’t do anything, and her internal struggle is reduced to what I will unkindly describe as moping. To be honest, she doesn’t even try all that hard to kill herself. I feel crazy saying this, but she really should have committed to that much more than she did.

Kaine is also never truly depicted as a threat, which further hurts the plot from gaining any momentum. Instead, we drag our feet through repeating montages of gray weather and cold chambers until the story remembers that it's a Handmaid's Tale AU. Kaine is ordered to conceive a child in Helena so that the child can have access to her super special taboo form of alchemy powers, and therefore become a new vessel for Morrough (whose body is, of course, dying). Kaine rapes her, and she gets pregnant. Then, without anyone needing to do anything else, Helena's amnesia goes away, and she remembers her past.

Part Two takes us back in time to the middle of the war between the good guys and the bad guys. It is also about 500 pages of meandering subplots that really could have been cut.

Helena is a nurse for the war clinic when she starts moonlighting as a contact for a Resistance spy: Kaine, who, despite fighting for the Necromancers, has decided that he actually wants to see the bad guys fail. He has a personal vendetta. It’s a thing.

They proceed to make slow, slow progress into becoming genuine allies. Like I said: there are a lot of subplots, each motivated by a different off-brand Harry Potter character. I'm genuinely trying to think of any that are totally vital in a quick and dirty plot summary like this one, but I'm coming up short.

During this time, Helena does a risky medical experiment on Kaine to save his life. Don’t worry about that right now. Eventually, they fall into a torrid love affair. When the good guys lose, Kaine attempts to smuggle Helena to safety, but she insists on going back to erase evidence of his treachery to protect him from Morrough’s wrath. While she succeeds, she gets caught by the bad guys and is quickly cast into her magical coma. She is also the one who did the alchemy on her brain to give herself amnesia so that no one would read her mind and learn that Kaine was the spy.

Part Three is a 300 page limp to the ending.

Helena and Kaine are now on the same page about what’s going on and who they are to each other. This is also the point of time where the author blatantly decides that they want the story to end as soon as possible. Helena quickly does another experimental procedure on Kaine to unbind his life from Morrough. Now free, Kaine and Helena flee to this world’s equivalent of Argentina where no one will realize that Kaine committed so, so many crimes against humanity.

Off-page, the bad guys are overthrown and the country is saved. Helena and Kaine have their child, and the ending sort of… happens. There’s a few pages summarizing the ways in which Paladia was reformed, then an epilogue where their child arrives in Paladia as an adult in order to start school.

To be fair, this is where Alchemised has its most effective moment: the final lines, which affirm that Helena and Kaine’s story will remain unknown to the rest of the world, meaning no one will know how much Helena had truly suffered during the war. It was a good point to end on. Kudos.

What Is There To Like About Alchemised?

A review I read on GoodReads made the best possible defense of Yu’s writing: Yu had to disassemble a perfect piece of art and reassemble it again with new parts; it will never be as good as the original Manacled, but it's impressive to see how they jigsaw it together. Even though I haven't read the original, I can see that. There are two very good parts of this story that get drowned out by the lingering, fanfiction-heavy plot threads.

The first: their original world. You can clearly see what world-building ideas are meant to paint over Wizarding World specifics (like the details about the Institute), but overall, the world of Paladia is really cool. The alchemy system is thoroughly thought out. There is a well-developed history and lore, and a fantastic sense of place.

However, the story being told does not support the world. Instead of the world building shaping the nature of the world, details about the world are shoved in between details about the war. It's a clear side effect of its fanfiction origins: the plot is trying to present a twist on a world the reader is supposed to be already familiar with. When the world is new, there are details we are forcefully fed that don’t matter to the actual plot or characters.

You can also see it in the way the story clears its initial moments of exposition. Instead of organically building the sense of a fully fleshed-out world to the reader, Yu clunkily dumps passages from their story bible into the prose. The first many chapters are filled with dry explanations of everything from the magic system, to the map, to the school, and even the role of women in society. While these dumps become less frequent, they never go away. Yu is trying to fit seven books' worth of world-building into one and is clearly struggling.

The second good thing is the inspiration for the romance plotline. A few weeks ago, I vague posted about an author who I thought did not sound as intelligent as they made themselves out to be in a podcast. This was about SenLin Yu in their appearance on the Barnes and Noble-sponsored podcast. In listening to that podcast, I learned that Yu was inspired by Frankenstein.

Our female lead, Helena, performs an experimental medical treatment on an already experimented on Kaine to save his life. That, combined with how she blackmails/manipulates him and makes him devoted to her, transforms him into a “monster.” That’s a really cool idea. I like that.

But you also get the sense that Helena didn’t do much to actually change him. He was already messed up like hell, and there’s the sense that he would have been this obsessed with her even without her intervention. Saving him didn’t make him worse; she saved him despite how clearly messed up he was. If he is a coyote with rabies, she is the neighborhood girl begging her father not to shoot the poor thing. Her culpability is minor, which is a shame: a story where the ML becomes the archetypal obsessive, dark romantic hero because our FL made him that way is really good.

But Yu isn’t really interested in doing a committed, thematic play on Shelley’s Frankenstein. Yu really wants to write about war.

Both the world-building and the romance would have shone far more in a plot that could fully engage with them. But, again, Yu wants to write about war, so both get lost.

I have thought about filing the serial numbers off of my fanfiction before. I want to be a published author, and I have spent 4+ years of my life on a story that will most likely end when it hits 1 million words. I would be an idiot not to consider it. But when it comes down to divorcing my original ideas from their context, something is lost. It's like translating a novel from one language to another—you cannot translate the words directly without losing the cultural connotations. You have to add the meaning back in.

I can’t change the copyrighted details without losing the heart of the story. When I add original details to fill up the holes, that story I've slaved away at changes irrevocably. There is no way to maintain the integrity of the original plot without the skeleton of the video game I was riffing on. Without it, every character, every plot point, every original detail I added breaks.

Essentially, I have to gut my fanfiction for parts. What I like has to be put into a brand new story with brand new characters. In doing that, those parts morph into something new. If I ever publish that non-fanfiction version of my story, no one would recognize it.

All that’s to say that even if Yu’s call to fame is Manacled, Yu’s debut should not have been Manacled-without-the-Harry-Potter. Everything Yu invented for the story should have been transplanted to a new novel. Unfortunately, the powers that be (the book publishers) deemed that Yu's success in fanfiction does not translate to success as a novelist. If Yu wants to be a real author, Yu has to prove that the audience who read Manacled would buy Manacled.

So Manacled was transformed into Alchemised with the fewest possible edits. The story cannot be revised to wash away the traces of being a serialized fanfiction. What is good and original has to remain buried under the facsimile of Rowling's story, where it will languish as unfulfilled potential.

Instead, there’s a war.

This Is a War Story, Allegedly

I harp on how Alchemised is ostensibly a war story because that is what Yu claimed in their podcast appearance. They wanted to write about how horrible war is and how people deal with that trauma. Or, really, trauma in general. The mass acts of impersonal violence seen in war and the smaller-scale acts of terror conducted by an individual are given the same weight, especially in terms of thematic messaging. This is a book where everyone and everything is miserable. It is also where Alchemised fails the most.

This book’s definition of trauma is neither interesting, in-depth, nor compelling. There is no before. We enter the story in media res, after every character has already suffered through tragedy. When Part Two rolls us back in time, it's only to the beginning of the war's end. There is no before to reference. Every character had suffered, is suffering, and will continue to suffer. They're sad in nearly identical ways. If you do not mope, you are mean. The Helena who is struggling as a medic in the war does not wear her depression any differently from a Helena who is imprisoned with no memories. Similarly, Kaine's struggles with morality in a moral-less situation are not different in any of the story's three parts.

Every character outside of our main duo can be charted on the same X and Y axis with very little contrast between each: you are sad or mean, you are a victim or a perpetrator. I won't say there is no dimension found in any of the characters; it's just not a rich one.

This is in part because no character is truly fleshed out in their own right. Yu consistently tells the reader everything we need to know about a character without allowing the character to show. There is a past beyond the war, but it's only ever articulated in narration. With every character getting a wiki's worth of background explained by the author, you have to wonder why there isn't a book or seven that naturally establishes and grows these dynamics. Even if Yu has to erase all traces of Rowling's books, there is still a better way of establishing character.

For example, Helena is so dedicated to an organization that outright hates her for being a foreigner who uses a vaguely taboo form of alchemy because her friend, Luc, is the hero of the organization. Why is she so dedicated to Luc that she is willing to die for him? She just is. You have to trust the narration (if you remember that Luc is Harry Potter and Helena is Hermione Granger, you also have seven books to explain her dedication).

Imagine instead that the narration telling us about Luc and Helena’s friendship is replaced by a conversation where the two reflect on their friendship. Maybe there is a memory that they both remember differently, and the argument foreshadows not only their future falling-out, but suggests that Helena's loyalty is too naively blind. By doing this, you would be erasing all evidence that you have, in fact, completely divorced from the source material and properly reformulated every possible plot element. By choosing to show, you would be leaving the readers to draw their own conclusions about the characters, but it’s not like telling fully erases the traces of fanfiction left all over this story. As I said— without knowledge that Luc is Harry Potter, Helena's devotion is inexplicit.

Authors can’t show all the time. Sometimes, it's necessary to tell the reader something outright. But everything in this story is told. Just as the world-building is overexplained, so too is every character's past and development.

This means that when Yu says that we are exploring the effects of trauma, it’s not in the internal but the external. The trauma of war is, at best, a backdrop, and an edgy, grimdark one at that.

The enemy army is made up of nercomancers who, in the book's own words, are explicitly sadists. They torture because they enjoy torture. There is a visceral pleasure they derive from performing horrific human experiments— to a cartoonish degree at that.

Part One features Kaine’s wife (don’t worry about her; the plot certainly doesn’t) ripping Helena’s eye out of her socket in a fit of jealousy. Part Two concludes with a scene where pseudo-Mr. Weasley’s corpse is reanimated solely so that he can chop off parts of Mrs. Weasley’s body and eat her alive while she helplessly screams in agony. Every scene, war and beyond, is drenched in punishing bodily misery, and every Necromancer who is not Kaine Ferron relishes it.

I don't dislike gore, horror, or even body horror, but while reading Alchemised, I hit a limit I rarely hit. The world was just too cruel, too cynical. That is a weird stance for me to take when one of my favorite pieces of art ever is Berserk, a manga which is famously cruel and violent, especially to women. I had to ask myself: where does Berserk succeed where Alchemised falls flat?

Berserk’s cruel world is a part of the story’s larger discussion on morality. While much of the graphic violence in Berserk stems from demonic forces, it is also enacted by common humans. Some of the humans are so evil that they seem to lose their humanity, while others seem to take on angelic affects. It thematically poses a significant question as to what is evil and what could drive someone to lose their humanity. It poses a way to survive that cruelty: love and kindness. In a world as unforgiving as Kentaro Miura’s Midland, you have to build community and be kind to others, because that is the only way you will survive. Broadly, it's a manga about the human condition. Its violence feels purposeful.

In Alchemised, the necromancers are sadists because the process of becoming an undead being damages a part of the brain. So whatever evil or war crime you see depicted on the page is, in part, caused by a physiological defect.

Yu, if you are reading this (and I hope you are not), I am going to phrase this in the gentlest way possible so that you can reevaluate a few things: attributing a person’s evilness to biological factors is not the hot take you think it is.

I shouldn't have to explain that. I shouldn't have to even explain why that cripples, if not outright invalidates, any true commentary you could have on why the war is as comically grim as it is. At least Rose In Chains attempted to explain its cruelty with a poorly thought-out history of prejudice against doing the same magic, but slightly to the left— which in itself was an attempt to recreate the circumstances of the mudblood/pureblood divide without diving into race politics.

Alchemised presents itself as a self-important, intellectual dive into morality, and your most cruel characters are just wrong in the brain. That's it. Nothing deeper.

One may argue that Kaine and Helena’s arcs are meant to be that exploration of morality. And, sure, there is something there. While I can nitpick, I think they are overall good depictions of gray morality. But it’s nothing I care to take seriously when no other Necromancer or ostensible good guy is given the same degree of care.

Many of Helena's superiors make shrewd decisions to manipulate their inferiors or torture prisoners, ultimately so that Yu can say that both sides are bad in their own ways. Sure, that's true in the most literal sense, but I can’t take that argument seriously when the nercomancers are biologically-driven sadists who are evil in the most nefariously over-the-top ways. This isn’t a both-sides-are-bad scenario! If I was going up against a Nercomancer army violating that many laws of humanity, I would allow a little torture. Sorry, I can’t condemn that. Come back to me when the Necromancers have at least one reasonable stance on anything, and then I’ll reevaluate.

In a similar note, in a story that wears its supposed complexity on the sleeve, where are the other morally complex Necromancers? Besides Kaine, there are no good Necromancers. They are all indisputably evil with no token sympathy. Kaine’s wife is the closest Yu comes to sympathizing with another Necromancer, but while her cruelty is given a rarely provided justification, she functions as nothing more than a jealous interloper on Helena and Kaine's love affair who tries to gouge out Helena's eyes as revenge.

The stringent adherence to black and white morality is baffling when one remembers that Yu did explain why normally reasonable people joined Morrough’s army. See here, Paladia had all these guilds who were in conflict with the monarchy because— it does not matter. After joining the Necromancers, all of these people got their brains damaged and now they're super evil. Like, mega evil. Makes one wonder why you would go through the effort to justify the guild system’s treachery when, again, it ultimately does not matter.

So, if you’re keeping track: some of the good guys are bad because they’re a little mean to Helena, but Helena is morally complex because of her circumstances. Kaine is the only Necromancer worth sympathizing with because he's the male lead, and the rest are ontologically evil and deserve to be killed.

In light of that, you can only view the war backdrop as exactly that: an aesthetic. How else can either male or female lead be sufficiently sad and poetic if the world they are in wasn’t this outlandishly terrible thing? So we have a war plotline that intrudes, trips, and spills itself all over the place until anything that is good about the story is drowned out. Every character who is not a perpetrator of misery becomes a victim of it themselves while being graced with none of the interiority to process and respond to that horror.

In her Pulitzer-winning denouncement of Hanya Yanagihara’s A Little Life, Andrea Long Chu wrote a cutting critique of books that try so fucking hard to be meaningfully sad that you resent it: “The first time [the main character] cuts himself, you are horrified; the 600th time, you wish he would aim.”

Alchemised is confused at best, and all of its characters are blindly fumbling for their knives. No one can hit the damn artery because no one knows what Alchemised is trying to be, least of all Yu. Is it a pulpy gothic horror, or a complex exploration of difficult topics? I don’t know. All I know is that it is trying really hard to make me feel something.

And for what?

The Handmaid Called and She Wants Her Tale Back

Did you really think I wasn’t going to circle back around to the whole pregnancy storyline?

Full transparency: I have never read Margaret Atwood's extremely important feminist novel A Handmaid’s Tale. I also have never watched the television show. In an effort not to show my entire ass while writing my critique, I did a little research about the basics. I also have the book on hold at my library, but I am third on the holds list. I assume the two people ahead of me are doing the wise thing by reading the source material before putting an opinion online. Nevertheless, I persist.

In an effort to be fair to Alchemised, I tried to read it without viewing it as a fanfiction. While there are a lot of before-mentioned reasons why that is ultimately impossible, the very first one I found was the ill-placed Handmaid’s Tale allusions. If you forget that this is a AU that pulls plot and aesthetic from Atwood's novel, the initial few references are clumsy at best and intrusive otherwise. How Helena got the iconic red dress plays out like a modern reboot trying to justify a design choice made in the 1980s to sell toys. Congrats, you managed to find a convoluted way to dress her in red that isn't because it's a uniform for a breeding program. The focus group is pleased.

And, yes, there is a breeding program. One of the prominent Necromancers in the story is a doctor who wants to find the best way to breed alchemy-strong children in a post-war, low-population society. You might be wondering why I failed to mention the breeding program earlier in my summary. You see, it ultimately is just set dressing. It does not tangibly affect either the plot or the characters.

The most obvious counterargument to that accusation is that Kaine is tasked to rape Helena to provide an heir as a part of the breeding program. While that’s true, that plotline does not hinge on the breeding program’s existence. Morrough is established to have such unmitigated power and command over Kaine's life that he could have ordered this without the breeding program's preexistence. The breeding program can be removed without damaging that storyline.

Beyond providing unnecessary bureaucratic justifications for Morrough's orders, the breeding program has no apparent purpose. Why is it there, if not to lend the aesthetics of Atwood's dystopia? It certainly does not provide a depth of complexity to the role of women in a post-war society; Yu is frankly uninterested in what it means for any woman to be stripped of her agency and reduced to her reproductive functions.

There is a lot that can be written as to how extremists who gain political power can withdraw human rights from women, and how the subjugation of women reinforces conservative ideology. Rose In Chains, which is more prone to unabashed pulp— which had a woman’s virginity take a physical form that can be magically removed from the body and stored safely away in a glass jar—was at least willing to give some political commentary about how sexual slavery affects women in society at large. Julie Soto even went the extra mile to have a woman perpetuate that system, offering a new dimension as to who can be at fault for reversing feminism. Was it complex? No, but Soto at least had the awareness to realize that you can’t write about sexual slavery without acknowledging it as a topic that needed to be thoroughly addressed.

Yu only cares about Helena. There are no other women in the system worth empathizing with. That the program was started and operated by a woman is insignificant. The breeding program only matters because it hurts Helena. An ungenerous critic would say that it provides a fetishistic excuse to have Kaine rape Helena (which is a take I have seen online elsewhere); I won’t go that far. Yu does not want to fetishize or romanticize rape. The rape itself is given the weight of horror that it is due. That is not the issue.

(I would also go the extra mile to say that if Alchemised was a rape fantasy, so what? Am I to be scandalized? Is that morally wrong? Are you a Protestant? Come back to me with a real issue, please.)

My issue is not the rape, but the pregnancy that follows it.

Helena initially labels her pregnancy as an extension of the trauma caused by her rape. To cope, she largely disassociates from it. When her memories come back and she remembers that she and Kaine are in love, she re-evaluates her pregnancy as a positive experience. While Kaine insists that she could and should abort the fetus to mitigate her trauma, she instead insists that the child is worth carrying to term because it is Kaine's child.

Kaine, who raped her.

Obviously, this is a complicated moral situation. There are plenty of stories out there where a victim of rape finding joy and love in carrying a child they conceived during rape would be touching and meaningful. Part Three is clearly rushed, which means that the arc needed to fully explore those emotions is not present. Instead, the reason for Helena wanting to carry the child is not from a place of self-actualization or healing. It's from a place of love for Kaine, who raped her.

In Alchemised, the trauma from having your agency violently ripped away from you is cured by your love for your attacker. It's tasteless. You cannot romance your way out of the context of A Handmaid’s Tale.

When you consider how the imagery of A Handmaid’s Tale is used today as political shorthand for how conservative lawmakers are trying to strip away reproductive rights, it’s also tone deaf.

There is another character we see pregnant in this story: Lila. However, she was not a part of the breeding program. She actually conceived her child and escaped during Part Two. She is the only other woman in Alchemised who has some form of a happy ending, one of which involves having been saved exclusively because she was pregnant with Luc's child. In the context of Luc being an important political figure and the child being the heir to Paladia, it makes sense.

However, when compared to how Helena's pregnancy plays into her happy ending with Kaine, it reads as distinctly Evangelical moralizing. Despite every horror these characters are subjected to or commit against others, they can still embody a traditional nuclear family structure where the mom and dad can love their child very much.

Whatever argument you can make about Helena and Kaine being products of trauma is weakened by how their happy ending is the most standard, traditional one possible. Neither Kaine nor Helena's ending has any resonance with their character arcs. They suffer, and they are rewarded not with a reckoning but with normalcy. In a competition between writing morally complex characters and a satisfying romance, Yu prioritized the romance at the expense of their characters.

What about the breeding program? That too is unceremoniously brushed aside. In the limp to finish the story somewhere, Morrough is deposed and the breeding program is shut down. It turns out that a bunch of women were being imprisoned for this program, where they were systemically assaulted. They and their children were then made the test subjects of inhumane scientific experiments. The people who ran the program were put on trial and sentenced, and the poor victims were brushed aside. All this is explained in-story in under a page of text.

If Yu wanted to write about terrifying horrors, this is what should have ended up as the main focus of the story. Forget about brain-damaged torture or cannibalism— this breeding program was horrifying, thematically resonant, and a clear reflection of real-life war crimes. But, no. Yu would rather write about anything else than something that would require real dexterity of skill. So we have multiple scenes of Kaine ripping out people's hearts or reanimated bodies eating people alive, but not any of the human rights violations your story is supposed to be actually about.

A Handmaid’s Tale is truly nothing more than an aesthetic. To ask the allusions to a highly awarded, culturally significant novel to not be vital to the story reveals Alchemised to be devoid of depth and scared of its own shadow. Yu makes a point about how the women who were subjected to the breeding program were shamed into not speaking about it, until it becomes a dirty little secret in Paladia’s society. While true to life, it is laughably ironic— who is Yu to criticize when Yu themself does not want to address what they created.

Concluding Thoughts: Why Does Alchemised Matter?

After finishing this book, I was asked if I would read more from SenLin Yu. Honestly, I would. I would go as far as to declare their second book their real debut novel. Alchemised carries too much of its fanfiction origins to truly ever succeed by its own merits. I want to blame the editors or the publishers for not forcing Yu to change more of the story, or at least expand it to encompass multiple books. In a sense, I sympathize with Yu, who was given an impossible task that could never succeed.

All that’s to say that Alchemised is not very good. There are good ideas, but most of the execution fails on levels of both craft and taste. In comparison to the other Dramoine pipeline novels, it is unfortunately the lesser. This wouldn’t bother me so much if Alchemised didn’t represent a change in the publishing industry.

In a market where books are becoming shorter and more sanitized, a dark gothic romance that is over a thousand pages long is an anomaly. If it can be wildly successful, we can expect more long books from debut authors with more challenging material.

But as previously discussed, Alchemised isn't actually challenging. For all of its boasting of morally gray, complex characters, it has a black and white view of the world. Yu discussed wanting to challenge dominant ideologies in their podcast appearance, yet wrote a story that adhered to traditional Christian sensibilities.

It's indicative of a false intellectualism I see pop up every now and then. The popular culture decides that there is a common symptom of intellectualism in art, which is then used by popular artists to elevate their own work. Think non-linear storytelling. Before, to tell a non-linear story suggested that you were challenging the audience in an intellectually novel way. Now it's used by everyone in stories that don't necessarily gain any meaning by being told non-linearly. But we've come to associate it with high-brow storytelling, so it continues to be used when not needed.

Alchemised is a story with a works cited. Yu emphasizes that they looked towards philosophy, cultural criticism, and literature as sources of inspiration for their writing. They (probably at the behest of the marketing team) are positioning themselves as the next R.F. Kuang, who famously incorporates her academic research into her books. Unlike Kuang, that research does not actually reflect in the quality of their writing. Nonetheless, Alchemised is positioned as a book for intelligent readers who like to be challenged.

Despite every scene of gore or awkward exposition dump, Alchemised is uncomplicated. You can skim it. Unfortunately, that does not stop the discourse from being about fighting moralists or anti-intellectualism. I won’t argue that there are no bad faith actors who misinterpret everything they don't like as the work of the sexually impure (see my earlier jab about people accusing Alchemised of romanticizing rape). But to not like Alchemised does not mean you are anti-intellectual. There are those of us who criticize Alchemised for not being intellectual enough.

Here, the argument diverges into two paths. On one hand, I can talk about the aesthetics of literary intellectualism. I have a rant saved up about Sally Rooney's books and the plague of literalness. But that's ultimately not helpful. Instead, I can celebrate the fact that readers want to be challenged.

Surprisingly, I have a knee-jerk reaction to support authors like Colleen Hoover who write messed-up stories for the masses. Are any of them good? No, but her popularity suggests that there is an under-served desire to read about darker topics. As more art gets caught up in the increasing moralization of storytelling, where every story is expected to instruct the masses on the correct way to love and live, there is a greater desire to read stories that don't moralize. It's not a failing of literature that people read pulpy romances where the characters are awful to each other. That serves an important function.

That takes us back to Alchemised, which, for all of its faults, succeeds in highlighting a desire for more complex fiction. While we're most likely going to get more Dramoine pipeline novels in the future, I can only hope that publishers will take note of the growing appetite for more well put together, dense fantasy storytelling. For that, I cannot help but admit that Alchemised has its merits.

I still don't like it, though. Genuinely, this book pisses me off, and I hope that the general population feels a little embarrassed for liking this in a few years. Fuck.

Seriously, learn how to fucking aim.

“Come on,” you smiled as you took his hand and pulled him toward the pumpkin patch entrance.

The two of you took turns regarding date nights and outings. Today, you chose a pumpkin patch. You told him it wouldn’t feel like Fall if you didn’t go and listed off the fun things to do. There was a hayride, pumpkins and apples to pick, a corn maze, and much more. He obliged since he knew it would make you happy. He even gave you a small smile when you told him the website claimed that the maze was tricky, but you knew he’d find his way out easily.

You stopped and inhaled the cool air, the scent of warm apple cider drifting your way from the stand nearby. The temperature dropped just enough that you were comfortable in a sweater and the sun peeked out through the clouds to greet you. It wasn't overly crowded and it was the perfect weather. Even better because you had the perfect man by your side.

It was going to be a good day.

“Where should we start?” You asked, smiling when a small group of kids headed toward one of the tractors. “Hayride? Pick a pumpkin to carve later?”

“Where do you want to start?” Bucky replied, a small breeze blowing some of his dark brown hair back.

Your answer died in your throat as you gazed at him. His hair was the third thing you noticed about him, long enough that it almost touched his shoulders and soft to the touch. You loved running your fingers through it, whether it was to soothe him and pull it when he was between your thighs. The second thing you took notice of was the massive size of your now boyfriend. Over 6’4” with broad shoulders, a puffed out chest, and thighs made for riding, he intimated most while he excited you.

His cool blue eyes, of course, were the first thing. Gazing into them was like swimming in a private sea, ready to ride a gentle wave or get swept away in a storm depending on his mood. You could handle the entire range of emotions because you were his girl. It was that simple.

“You’re staring, doll,” he smiled, your cheeks warm at being caught. If any other guy called you "doll", it would've sounded silly. It was endearing coming from him.

“Well, I can't help it. You’re gorgeous,” you said.

“You are gorgeous,” he argued, the compliment sending more heat to your cheeks.

“You said that this morning,” you teased. The two of you moved in together recently and you had a hard time getting out of bed some days. Waking up beside him was like a dream, but it was your reality.

“And I'll say it again,” he smiled before a girl stopped in front of the two of you with a tray.

“Hi,” she greeted with an ear-to-ear smile. “Would either of you care for a sample of cider? We have warm and chilled.”

“Ooh,” you smiled, glancing between the cups. You loved apple cider. “I'll take warm, please.”

“Same. Thanks,” Bucky said, selecting cups for each of you. He blew on his before he drank it, a weird look crossing his face as he swallowed. “Is something on the bottom of my cup?”

“Nothing on mine,” you said, glancing at his cup once you tried your cider. “I think it's a sticker. Is it a cauldron?”

“Oh! You got the lucky, special sample!” the girl grinned as you and Bucky shared a confused look. She balanced the tray in one hand as she handed your boyfriend an orange coupon and took the empty cups from you. “Free cider for two. Enjoy!”

“Thanks,” Bucky said before she went to give samples to others.

“Lucky guy,” you smiled, raising an eyebrow as he slowly licked his lips. “You okay?”

He blinked and nodded. “Yeah. Was just warmer than I expected.”

“You didn't burn your tongue, did you?”

“No, but you should massage your tongue with mine anyway,” he half joked.

You smiled and nodded toward the maze. “Why don’t we check that out first?”

“So, you’d rather check out a maze instead of soothing your boyfriend's tongue?”

You giggled as you made your way to the start, grabbing a small sheet of paper. There were different sets of “animal tracks” to find throughout the maze. Anyone who found them all got a prize. “Why check out a maze when I can check you out?” You asked, unable to keep a straight face. “That was cheesy.”

“It wasn’t cheesy,” he said before his smile widened. “It was corny.”

“Oh, my god,” you laughed more. One thing about your boyfriend, he could always bring a smile to your face. “You think you’re so…”

A little boy ran out of the maze with a smile before he lost his footing and pitched forward, his sheet of paper floating to the ground as it flew from his hand. You rushed over to help when he began to cry, carefully helping the poor child sit up. “Ouch,” he sniffled.

“Hey. You okay?” you gently asked, making sure to keep your demeanor calm as you brushed some of the dirt away. You also grabbed his sheet before it could blow away. “Can you tell me where it hurts?”

He wiped his face and pointed to his knee once he rolled up his pant leg. “Right here.”

“Okay. Let’s take a look,” you nodded as Bucky joined you, crouching down on the other side of the boy. He looked worried, too. Minus the small scrape, he looked fine overall. “Poor little guy. Scrapes are no fun. But you know what? You’re a strong little boy.”

“I am?” he asked in a small voice.

“Yeah. Very strong,” Bucky agreed. "My girl wouldn't lie to you."

It was sweet how he spoke of you. “And you found all the animals, so you get a prize,” you smiled, showing him his paper where all of them were shaded. “You’re strong and smart,” you added, which brought a smile to his face, too.

“Timmy!” a woman shouted as she jogged out to the maze. “I told you not to run off. Are you okay?”

“I’m okay,” he replied, taking your hand so you could get him to his feet. “Hurts, but I’m strong and smart.”

Timmy’s mom bent down to inspect his knee herself before she gave you a relieved smile. “Thank you for helping him. How can I repay you?”

“That's not necessary. We're glad we could help,” you said, making sure he had his sheet. “You enjoy your prize and listen to your mom, okay?”

“Okay,” he nodded, waving as he went with his mom. “Thanks!”

“Cute little guy,” you smiled as Bucky slowly stood up. Your boyfriend had a few expressions that you were used to seeing, but you couldn’t read the current look he gave you. It was as if he was seeing you in a different light. “What?”

“Why haven't I knocked you up yet?"

You opened your mouth to say something, a feverish and unexpected heat moving through your body. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You heard what I said,” he said, his piercing gaze rooting you to the spot. “Just wondering why I haven't."

Though you knew Bucky was the man for you, the topic of kids hadn’t come up much. Partially because you hadn’t been together a year yet. Wouldn’t it be too soon to have a little one running around when you weren’t even engaged? Not that the two of you had to get married to have kids.

Maybe him seeing me comfort Timmy brought it to the front of his mind.

“I don’t know, Bucky. Why haven’t you knocked me up yet?” you teased. You almost shrank under his gaze a moment later when he didn’t laugh or crack a smile.

“Maybe I should. We can go home and get started right now,” he said. There was no hint of a joke in his tone. “This would be a fun place to bring our kids one day. Don't you think?"

“Why don’t we talk about it after the maze?”

He looked hurt for a split second and you almost assured you weren’t blowing him off. You wouldn't do that. It was merely a serious talk for another time. “Sure. After the maze,” he agreed, taking your hand as you made your way back over.

A chill ran down your spine when you walked through the entrance. It was strange. You weren’t afraid, especially since it wasn’t dark outside. So where did the unexpected chill come from?

“You okay?” Bucky asked, his voice a little rougher than usual as his grip tightened on your hand. Did he feel weird being in here, too? “I didn't freak you out, did I?”

“I'm fine and you didn't freak me out. You know you can tell me anything,” you replied, shaking it off the chill as the two of you began to walk through. The maze took up almost a third of the entire place, the stalks high enough that neither of you could see over them. “I think we should find the werewolf tracks first. Because they're one of your favorite animals.”

Before you could turn right down one of the paths, he brought his mouth close to your face. “That and I wouldn’t mind sinking my teeth in and leaving my mark on you.”

The breath rushed out of your lungs when you turned your head and caught the darkness in his eyes. His pupils were larger than normal as he stepped closer, almost backing you into the corn. “Is that right?”

“And you’ll let me,” he said, your heart racing as he leaned in. His kisses stole the breath from your lungs and your eyes slipped shut just before his lips touched yours. “Won’t you?”

“After we find the first set of tracks,” you whispered, pressing your hands to his chest so he’d back away.

He didn’t budge.

“Seriously, doll. Why haven’t I knocked you up yet?”

This again?

“I thought we were going to talk about that after we got out of here,” you reminded him, stepping to the side to go further down the path. “Where is this coming from anyway?”

“Been thinking about it for some time. I just haven’t said so,” he answered as he followed close behind. Was he afraid to say something before because it was too soon? That admitting it would scare you off? “Now that I'm talking about it, I can't stop.”

You were tempted to make a joke that there was something in his special cider sample making him talk. “You're serious about this?”

“You moved in with me. We love each other. I want a life with you. Of course, I'm serious.”

Glancing over your shoulder to find him watching you, you couldn’t help but smile. “I love you, too, Bucky,” you promised before you focused on the path again. You weren’t sure just how far the two of you had walked through. “But something like that is-”

You shrieked when Bucky spun you around by the shoulder, a wild look in his eyes before his mouth met yours in a persistent kiss. Compelling desire moved through you, but it didn’t matter how much you wanted him. The two of you were still in public. There were families around.

This wasn’t the time or place for this.

He broke the kiss before he shoved you almost painfully to your knees. He was never that forceful. “I’ll lose my mind if I’m not inside you.”

“Bucky, what the hell?!” you asked as he moved behind you and dropped to his knees, too. He yanked your pants and underwear down before you could stop him. Did you want to stop him? “We’re in a maze. What if someone catches us?”

He scoffed as he pushed you forward, forcing you to brace yourself with your hands. The cool breeze touched your exposed pussy, sending another chill down your spine. “You think I care if anyone catches us? I need you and they can’t stop me. They'll see that you're mine.”

The corn seemed to move in closer as you heard him unbuckle his belt, as if to give you some privacy. It had to be your mind playing tricks on you. “I'm already yours. Can you just slow down for a second?”

“I’m sorry, doll,” he swore, clamping a heavy hand over your mouth. “I’m tired of waiting.”

Bucky sheathed you in one hard thrust, your cry smothered by his hand. You admitted to him once that he was the largest you’d ever had, which he both loved and hated. While it made him feel good that your ex-boyfriends weren’t as big as him, could never stretch you the way he could, he hated thinking of anyone else being inside you. He liked to remind you that no one else ever would be. And because of his size, he usually took great care in prepping you.

His need must’ve clouded him, the burn from the stretch more intense than usual.

“I’m sorry, doll. I don't know what's come over me. I can’t help myself,” he apologized again as if he sensed your discomfort, your cunt gripping his cock like a vice as you breathed through your nose. “But it’s okay. I’ll make you feel good. Just take me.”

You whined as he nearly pulled out completely and shoved himself back in as deep as he could go. That was your only warning before he set a steady pace, your hands fisting the dirt and your ears ringing as blood surged through your veins. It wasn’t long before your wetness coated his cock, the burn fading to pleasure from the friction. He fucked you before, but it was nothing like this. Bucky was like a man possessed. No, not even a man. More like a wild animal rutting into you, claiming you.

Where anyone could stumble along and find you.

“So soft. So warm,” he groaned, leaving sloppy kisses along your neck. “So fucking good.”

You tried to push yourself higher on your hands and knees for better support, but the force of his thrusts surged you forward. Removing his hand from your mouth, he placed it on the back of your neck as your cheek hit the dirt. The hold gave him leverage to fuck you deeper with your ass in the air. The soil felt cool in contrast to the hot palm against your skin.

“Better keep quiet,” he warned you, even as the angle sparked ecstasy within you. All you could do was bite your lip to try and keep the sounds in as much as possible. “Or do you want someone to catch me breeding you?”

“What?” you gasped, unable to lift your head as a new sensation hit you.

“You heard me,” he growled, draping himself over your back and maintaining his harsh pace as he breathed against your ear. “Gonna breed you. Gonna fucking drown your womb with my seed. ‘Cause you’re mine. All. Fucking. Mine.”

The sweet doting boyfriend you were used to was nowhere to be found as his cock wrecked your cunt. Was there something unexplainable causing him to act this way or had he been holding back? You would question him later. For now, you could only go limp as he fucked you into the dirt with vigor. And it felt good. You couldn't deny it.

“Gonna be so full of me. Fuck, you’ll look so beautiful carrying my baby,” he grunted, barely able to make out his words his thrusts increased in speed and strength. The slap of skin on skin filled the air and you almost had to cover your mouth yourself to stop your mewls. “Your belly round. Your tits nice and full. Might keep you knocked up so you remember who you belong to.”

The image of Bucky with his hand on your belly filled your mind, sending jolts of unexpected pleasure down to your toes. “I can’t take it, Bucky,” you gasped, even as you felt the tug of your building climax ready to snap. “It’s too much.”

With a deceptively soft kiss to your neck, followed by a small nuzzle, Bucky let out a deep moan. “You can take it. You always do ‘cause you’re mine. My good girl,” he rambled on as you whined, the wet slide of your pussy squeezing him tighter as you got closer. “Need to pump you full. Need your cunt to milk every drop from me. You want it. I know it. Come.”

You couldn’t hold on any longer, your fingers curling in the dirt again as you came with a cry. You were overwhelmed by the pure bliss, shocked at just how powerful your orgasm was. He hadn’t teased your clit, yet you gushed around him like he had. The squelching sound blended in with your whimpers as he fucked you through it.

Maybe you liked the idea of him breeding you more than you realized.

“That’s it, doll,” he groaned as he chased his release. “Take it. Every. Fucking. Drop.”

Bucky's rhythm faltered as his cock pulsed, spilling inside you with a growl. He kept his hips flush against yours as he breathed raggedly against your neck, keeping your bodies joined together for as long as he could. He didn’t move until he began to soften, making a whimper spill from your lips when he pulled out of you. His fingers quickly replaced his cock to keep his spend from sliding out of you.

“You okay, doll?” he asked, his voice still a touch of gruff mixed with softness. “I didn’t mean to be so rough.”

“Mmm,” was the only response you could give him.

It was like a switch had gone off as he helped you up, keeping you from collapsing as he got your underwear and pants up. He wiped as much of the dirt away with his hands as he could, softness in his eyes once again. Minus his disheveled hair, he looked fine. Like he hadn't just fucked you in the corn maze.

You two were lucky you hadn't gotten caught.

He hugged you as close as he could while you tried to make sense of his behavior. Whatever raging beast was inside him was satisfied for the time being. But what came over him?

Large hands framed your face as you tried to get your shaking under control. “I love you.”

“Love you, too,” you mumbled.

“I’ll draw us a bath when we get home, okay? Get you cleaned up and make sure you aren't too sore,” he offered with a tender kiss to your lips. “After I throw out your birth control pills. You won’t need those anymore.”

So, how are we feeling? What do we think? Love and thanks for reading! 🧡

“Why are you always so annoying!” You voice rang loudly through the safe apartment in Moscow. “I’m not annoying! You just don’t do your job! And now thanks to your fuck up last solo mission Nicholas Fury dragged my ass to baby sit you on this one!” Yelena’s voice followed as the two of you stormed into the room after having yet another unsuccessful lead on the mission. “Well sue me for wanting to save my life last mission! It’s not my fault I got ambushed by an insider!” You spun around to scream at her only to realise she was already looking for a bottle of vodka in the kitchen. “Did Shield teach you nothing cytka. My god you are just as dumb as I thought” she mumbled the last sentence and if it weren’t for the fact that your face was already red from pure frustration, you would have had a hard time hiding the way her words affected you.

“I’m not that dumb and plus you failed our lead today too! If it weren’t you and running your stupid mouth we could’ve have had him by now!” You seethed and she turned to face you after nicking a bottle from the back of the pantry. “My mouth isn’t stupid, you should ask Kate what she thinks of it” she smirked amusedly and bypassed you straight to the couch, turning the TV on. “Oh my god you’re so, ugh! Can you not talk about sex for one fucking moment! You failed us today! Not me! You! And the fact that this is all on my ‘probation’ as fucking emo captain Jack Sparrow called it is a goddamn joke! Know your place in this field Belova and own up to your fuck ups!” you rounded the couch as you pointed a finger at her and she snapped her head up from the screen glaring at you.

“You watch your fucking mouth Y/n. You’re forgetting that I’m here to fucking baby sit not complete your mission. You told me that it was safe to go through. If I had listened and not bought us time by talking to that street rat I would have been attacked. Do not tell me I am wrong when you haven’t assessed your pathetic skill sets yet” her voice was shockingly low and calm. Something you knew she did when she was furious. Your eyes looked away briefly when the Russian insulted you before huffing and laying it down on her again “I’m not pathetic! You’re so invested in making me look awful that you’re giving yourself such an ego! News flash Widow! You’re not that far off pathetic either!”

What happened next was all a blur as she stood up and her palm came down right across your cheek. Hard. She fucking slapped you. “Cytka” her eyes were blown out and she growled lowly. “All you do is brat out. You think your words are so tough and bad. Someone really has to put you back in fucking line” her words were sharp and cold but your face was as red as ever and you looked away from her, gulping down the embarrassment of yet another unspoken emotion. “No one has to fucking do anything you hypocritical bitch. You’re such a spoilt brat! Always ‘I want this and don’t do that’ or ‘I’m not doing this cause I don’t feel like it’ is that all your stupid mouth can do?! Always talking shit, always wanting the world to be your bitch! Life doesn’t happen like that princess! Get used to it!” You stepped back from her, chest heaving with frustration and she just stalked towards you.

“Stand down” she ordered and you huffed and rolled your eyes. Who was she to boss you around? “Stand down” her Russian accent came through and you shuddered. A bold hand made its way to your now bruising cheek, gently brushing the hairs out of your flushed face before another slap echoed the room. The way her eyes darkened when an involuntary moan slipped out of your mouth was enough for you to know you were so fucked. “Oh you poor thing. Underneath that little bratty girl is just a dumb little toy” she teased and you were trying so hard to control yourself. You and Yelena hated each other! Why was she doing this?!

“Dumb baby don’t think too hard. I’ll be gentle I promise” your eyes closed as her hand came up to squeeze your throat. “Yelena stop” you whispered and quite truthfully you had no idea if you really wanted her to stop. “Oh is the brat asking for something again? I don’t think so” she mocked as two fingers from free hand came up to your lips. “Suck” she instructed and you did it with no hesitation. “You need to a) learn your lesson and b) know your fucking place” she hummed as she started slowly pushing her fingers in and out of your mouth. She pulled out of your mouth and grinned at the dazed look in your eyes. She had you right where she wanted. “Pathetic” she mused and you had to hold back a whimper as a rough hand squeezed your tits. She was yet to kiss you and if it weren’t for the hand resting on your neck you would have stolen a few already. She slipped your t-shirt over your head and and basically tore your bra off as well as slipping your shorts off with ease.

“Yelena we can’t” you breathed out and arched your back into her palm as her thumb brushed over one of your nipples. “Who’s to know” her voice was short and you let out a little grunt as she pushed you against the wall. Without warning, her lips crashed onto yours and instantly the two of you fought for dominance. A particular harsh nip from her caused you to gasp and moan as she slipped her tongue inside, a faint metallic taste following. “Oh pretty girl you liked that? What a sick twisted bratty bunny you are hmm? I bet you would like it if I dragged my cute little switch blade across your pretty little skin” She talked dumbly as she pulled away from the kiss, wiping away the drops of blood on your lips with her thumb.

“Red looks so pretty on you toy” she grinned and watched your features change slightly as she pulled her switchblade out from her thigh clasp. “Don’t act like you weren’t just moaning from it bunny” her voice was breathless and the hand around your neck dropped to your hands, now pinning them above your head. “Yelena please” You whimpered not sure if you wanted her to stop completely or completely fuck you senseless. “Ah uh, pets don’t speak. You’re going to be a good girl and learn your fucking manners before you get anything from me” she mumbled as she leaned in and sucked along your jawline. Helpless whines escaped your mouth and you bucked your hips, forgetting that Yelena had her blade in the other hand. You let out a sharp gasp as your hip caught her blade and she pulled back completely, her hands still holding you in place.

“So desperate, look what you’ve done baby. You couldn’t wait just a little longer hmm? My dumb bunny made me mark her. Oh pet you’re just too cute” she feigned sympathy and slowly dragged her blade towards the mark you’ve just created. “Seeing as though you’re too dumb to wait I guess I’ll have to finish you off then” she pouted innocently and put a little pressure on the blade, perfectly carving her initials YB on your hip. Eyes shining with mischief, she swiped away the red drops and your eyes rolled back as she dropped the blade and kicked your legs apart. “You’re going to be so much fun hmm?” She mused and slipped a hand between the two of you. Her eyes never left yours, they were just watching. The way your chest heaved and yet you were short of breath. The dazed look behind your eyes, she was right. Underneath your bratty little self was a needy little girl. Her hand cupped your pussy and your back arched as her thumb ran lazy circles over your clit. “Please please please” you almost panted and she just chucked.

“No. You don’t get to have it your way again” she released your hands from her hold and stepped away from you, smirking at the way you almost toppled over. “You can’t just- Yelena!” you huffed in frustration as she made her way back over to the couch. “Good girls don’t whine Y/n” she rolled her eyes and flicked the TV on, pouring another shot of vodka in the shot glass. You took a moment to regulate your breathing before narrowing your eyes at the smug assassin. Two can play this game. A faint smirk rested on your lips as you sauntered your way over to her and blocked her view. “Move” she instructed as she looked up at you with a raised eyebrow. “Make me” you whispered and straddled her, your hands pushing against her shoulders so she was against the couch. A soft grunt was heard from her as you subtly rolled your hips and you smiled proudly. Finally you were getting to her.

“Oh you think you’re so smart don’t you?” She grabbed your hips and stilled their subtle movements. Your brows furrowed in annoyance and you pushed your hips harder. You were gonna make your point one way or another. Her eyes darkened and she pushed on the carving she did just moments ago, effectively making you shudder and ease up on your moments. “Know your place and who you belong to pet” she growled and finally slipped two fingers down your panties, toying with your pussy and dragging your slick up and down your folds. “You wanna cum so bad? Fine. We’ll see how much you wanna play bunny” she barely waited to finish her sentence before thrusting two fingers in with one hand and pulling you closer by the throat with the other. “Stupid toy cant even ask nicely” she mocked and brought you in for another bruising kiss as faint whimpers and desperate moans were spilling out of your mouth.

“Yelena please” you pleaded again and she for once, smiled genuinely and you were so sure she’d say yes. “No” you could have cried then and there, you were so close and she knew it too. “Look at you little toy, where’s that back talking bratty girl now hmm?” She slowed her fingers down and returned to lazy circles over your clit. “I can’t- Yelena plea- oh please Lena” you threw your head back and squeezed your legs together to try and trap her hand but the harsh slap across your thigh made you think twice. “Do you think you’ve learnt your lesson?” she pushed three fingers in your cunt and her circling quickened. “Nghhh yes yes yes I ha- Lena- please I can’t- please” she just smiled as she took in the sight. You begging on her lap with your head back and eyes closed as you’re taking her so well. If only she was packing. There’s always a next time. “Is my bunny gonna cum? Has she learnt her manners?” the Russian leaned up to suck on your neck leaving dark bruises along your throat.

All you could answer was a jumble of whines and whimpers. “Oh alright pet, since you’re taking me so well and clearly you’re too dumb right now” she mumbled against your throat and bit down just under your jaw “Cum for me bunny” she whispered as she found your sweet spot both on your neck and in your pussy. You saw stars. Truth be told you had no idea how long you were out for. It was all a blur but it felt so good. She felt so good. She let you ride out your high and quite literally just admired the way you fell apart because of her. The way you moaned her name like it was natural, the way your hips fit perfectly onto hers. Your little branding atop your hip bone. You were completely hers. “That’s it bunny. God you’re such a good little pet now hmm? I told you you just needed someone to put you back in line” she grinned as you came down from your high and looked away from her, face red both from your high and embarrassment.

Summer was always your favourite time. It meant avid beach trips, ice cream dates and - most importantly - bestie sleepovers. You enjoyed staying at Natasha's house, which was much larger than yours. Wanda, her mother, was always very kind to you, even more so than your own. Because of this, throughout high school, you found yourself always at the Maximoff’s. When you were going through a difficult time, you would always turn to her for support; she was a solid shoulder to cry on as her hushed whispers soothed you.

Much like your house, Natasha’s dad was never in the picture. And because Wanda never seemed to date, it was always just them two and sometimes you. Their house was your safe haven and Wanda was your beckoning angel. Now in your last year of college, you still find yourself coming to the older woman…

Countless nights, you wished she was your mom instead.

Reaching into your pocket, you fumble around for the front key, feeling its familiar shape between your fingertips.

This was your usual routine – Natasha would text when she was nearly home from work, and you’d arrive shortly after, letting yourself in with the spare key she had given you months ago.

The door swings open with a soft creak, revealing the warmth of the home beyond. The living room is empty, just the faint hum of the TV can be heard.

As you step into the kitchen, the warm aroma of burnt vanilla envelops you. Wanda stands against the island, dressed in a large, red sweater and black skirt, with one hand scrolling through her phone as the other holds a glass of red wine. She looked radiant as ever. A grown woman confident in her own skin and her ability.

“Hey, Wanda.”

She places her phone down and greets you warmly. “Hey there, sweetheart. How are you?”

“I’m good.” You take a seat next to her and she busies herself with pouring you a glass of red. You watch her, marvelling at how effortlessly she moves around the kitchen, her movements always graceful and fluid.

"So," Wanda begins, setting the glass in front of you, "another bestie sleepover?"

“Yep! Natasha’s going to be busy with Bucky next week so we’re spending as much time together.”

Wanda scoffs at the mention of her daughter’s partner, “Yeah, she said something about going to his parent’s lake house for the week.”

You hum, reaching for a sip of the wine, awkward in the revelation of Wanda’s distaste for her daughter’s boyfriend. I mean, it’s not like you like him either. You hate him actually. He was always so weird about your friendship with the redhead, always starting arguments around how much you guys hang out together and how he thinks you have a crush on her.

Plus, Natasha was way out of his league and he sometimes treated her like shit. It was only last week when Natasha was complaining about how they had an argument during their date and Bucky left her to find her own way home…

“I really don’t know what she sees in him.”

You sigh, setting the glass back down. “Me neither. He’s an asshole.”

Lost in thought, you fail to notice Wanda’s approach until an arm laid upon your shoulder, and a hand twirled around your curls.

“You know, I always thought Natasha would end up with you.”

Shocked by her confession, you try to respond - to deny that nothing would ever happened - but your mouth is unable to move as her nails scratch against your neck.

Wanda settles down in the stool beside you, hand retreating to stroke down your arm.

"I just don't understand. He’s boring and doesn’t deserve Tasha, whereas, you’re… you’re so much better than him.” She admits softly, her gaze fixed on you.

"You’re so much more than him.”

You shrug, expelling a shaky breath as you watch her manicured nail draw patterns against your exposed skin.

Silence envelopes you both, Wanda deep in thought and you pretend to act calm about the fact that Wanda’s touch has trailed down to your hands, resting in your lap.

“You know if I were her…” Her breath flutters against your ear, “I wouldn’t even think about anyone else… when I have you.”

Your heart skips a beat at her admission.

"I..." you begin, your voice catching in your throat as you struggle to articulate the jumble of thoughts and emotions swirling within you.

It felt so wrong, and yet you didn’t want her to stop.

To keep stroking your hand,

To keep whispering in your ear.

To keep close to you.

“I think… I want to kiss you.” Wanda murmurs, her thumb gently running over your lips.

But before you could say anything, she leaned in, her lips meeting yours in a soft, tentative kiss.

“So pretty.” She whispers, lips closing in once again, but the sudden closing of a door upstairs startles you both as you pull away. Eyes wide in fear that Natasha could’ve seen you kissing her mom.

Wanda leaves her seat, an unreadable expression on her face, and disappears into the living room, Natasha’s thundering footsteps break you from looking at her as she comes downstairs. Her hair is wet, her bangs clinging to her forehead. She must’ve been in the shower.

“You made it!” Natasha exclaims before briefly hugging you and dragging you with her upstairs, “Come on. Let’s watch a movie.”

…

A few hours later, and a few movies down, you end up back in the kitchen, in search of a drink. You spot Wanda in the living room watching a show, her presence both comforting and unnerving. No longer elegantly dressed, she lounges in a maroon satin night gown. The thin fabric barely covers her long legs as it glows complimentarily against her pale skin.

Summoning as much courage, you take a seat on the other end of the sofa. The drink long forgotten. She recognises your presence but you both don’t say anything, engrossed in some reality show on TV. This distraction works for a while but then, like a shadow in the morning sun, the memory of the kiss surfaces. Heat blossoms against your cheeks but you feel it weighing on your mind, a heavy burden demanding acknowledgement.

“Wanda,” your voice so quiet she almost didn’t hear it, ‘I think we should talk about earlier.”

With a delayed hum, she turns towards you, waiting patiently for you to continue. Your words stumble out clumsily, faltering as you try to convey the complexity of your emotions. You want to explain that the kiss was wrong, that she was your best friend’s mom and that nothing like that could happen again, but you don’t want to hurt her feelings in the process.

Her expression was unreadable, you could almost hear the pounding of your own heart, the uncertainty hanging thick in the air between you. And then, finally, she speaks.

“I’m sorry, darling. I thought- it was silly and inappropriate of me.” She reaches over to briefly squeeze your hand.

“Let’s forget it happened.”

You exhale with relief, “Yeah, okay. Thank you.”

Quick to change the conversation and clear the awkward tension, Wanda asks, “How come you’re down here anyways? Where’s Natasha?”

“Oh she fell asleep.” You giggle at the unattractive image of your best friend, snoring somewhat loudly and taking up your side of the bed.

“Besides, I’m not really tired, so I thought I’d come down for a drink.”

Wanda hums, a smile on her face at the sight of you giggling so cutely.

But you notice her hands run over bare arms, soothing the goosebumps and the slight shiver, “Are you cold?”

She looks at you for a moment, eyes taking in your concerned features before she nods.

“I’ll get you a blanket.” You move to stand but a grip on your wrist halts you.

“Don’t bother. Just sit here.”

She leans back against the pillows, legs parting slightly. Your brows furrow in confusion.

She tugs your wrist softly, “Don’t think, just come here.”

She pulls you to sit between her thighs, flush against her front as she winds her arms around you. It wasn’t uncommon being hugged by the older woman but it’s never been like this. But despite earlier, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of comfort wash over you. The room even felt cosier now all that tension was gone. So, you lean back into her embrace, feeling her steady heartbeat against your back and her warm thighs brush against yours.

“Hm, much better. You’ve always run hot.” Her face snuggles into your curls and you giggle.

Her large hands dip, holding softly onto your hips, pulling you even closer with a silent groan, before descending to your thighs. A shiver of anticipation runs down your spine, but you maintain composure, thinking nothing of the surely innocent touch as you focus on the TV screen in front of you.

Her touch is gentle, sending a warm current through your body with each stroke. You feel your legs widen, following in the direction of her strokes, not wanting the caress to stop. The show on the TV fades into the background as your attention becomes solely fixated on her.

She leans in closer, her breath warm against your ear as she whispers, “Pretty girl... feels good, doesn’t it?”

You nod, allowing yourself to melt further into her embrace, your head resting against her shoulder instead of watching her hands.

Wanda tuts, “No, baby, head up.”

A single hand moves from your thigh to hold the back of your head, forcing you to look down at your entwined legs. Another hand wanders higher than expected, tracing small circles into your inner thigh, jarring you out of your trance as you go to wiggle free from her grip. “Wanda… that’s-”

Your speech is cut off as fingers slip under your shorts, and you gasp, squirming with renewed vigour. But her hold refuses even the feeblest motions as she wraps an arm around your waist.

“Wanda… please!”

“Don’t think, baby.” She warns again, fingers gliding further into your shorts. “Just let yourself feel good.”

You fight harder, hips snapping away from her touch as hands pry at her wrist. “Get off me!”

“No, you’re not getting up.” You squirm again, and without warning, she digs her nails harshly into your soft skin. “I said, you’re not getting up.”

You whimper in pain and stop your movement. Instantly, her nails pull back from your skin, leaving red angry crescent marks. Those fingertips gently caress the marks to soothe them before moving up under your shirt.

“Good girl.” Those words bring an odd warmth to your body and suddenly you think that letting Wanda have her way with you couldn’t be as bad as you initially thought…

But light fingers caressing up and down your stomach, inching closer to your breasts reminded you of the position you’re in.

This was your best friend’s mom.

Natasha didn’t deserve this.

“Wanda, we can’t… it’s not right. What about Nat-?”

“It’s fine, princess.” She interrupts, placing a few chaste kisses against your neck. “She won’t find out.”

Suddenly, those hands slide up over your bare breasts and gently squeeze. You take in a deep breath and exhale slowly with a soft whimper. Pleased with the response, she begins to knead them kindly alternating between light and firm pressure.

“You like that, baby?” Wanda coos then nibbles on the side of your ear, descending your neck carefully to not leave bites and marks in place.

Your back arches slightly, pressing your breasts deeper into her adept grasp, and your defiance fades ever so quickly with each breathy moan.

“Hm, so needy, so responsive…” thumbs swipes over your perked nipples, “and all I’m doing is playing with your tits, princess.”

Your increased whines answer in reply and Wanda doesn’t bother wasting time anymore. Lifting a hand from its spot under your top, she glides down under your shorts. Her lithe fingers ghost over the soaked underwear, travelling low enough to feel the wetness seep from your slit, and she moans lowly at the sensation. “You’re so wet… fuck, is this all for me?”

Battling between not wanting this and giving in to her, you also fight the urge to thrust your hips upwards, to search for some needed friction, to end the maddening ache between your thighs.

The older woman’s light touches feel like heaven and hell as nimble fingers slide up and down the fabric that clung to you, purposely missing where you needed her most.

“That’s it, baby. Relax… let go for me.”

A strange fuzziness washes over you completely as you relax - moral sobriety long forgotten - as your legs spread apart limply for Wanda to grope in every direction.

 “M’kay.” You reply, barely hearing yourself, lost in the moment.

Wanda sighs contently, forever pleased she’s put you in this headspace with such little fight.

Focusing back on your neck, she licks along the flushed skin, and as she bites against your pulse a little harder, the slight pain has you quivering.

You melt into the warm heat below you, head resting against a firm shoulder, as you let out a moan laced with pleasure and slight frustration. Hips bucking slightly back into Wanda’s hoping she’d take the hint and get on with it.

The quicker you gave her what she wanted, the quicker it would be done.

Finally, her index finger slides higher, the tip of her nail just brushing against your clit slightly. Your thighs shake at the motion, wanting to clamp shut around her but never doing so in fear she would stop. A cry falls from your mouth in surprise as her finger finally reaches, circling your swollen nerve endings in a slow yet firm motion.

Your words stumble out clumsily, unable to string a full sentence together as Wanda practically purrs against your ear.

“Oh, you’re doing so well, baby.” She coos, before pressing open-mouthed kisses against your jaw, “So well for me… come here.”

Tipping your neck up, she dips forward, pressing her hot lips against your own. A choked note of dismay comes from you as Wanda forces your mouth open and shoves her tongue inside. The older woman dominates the clashing of tongues, making sure that you know your place.

You fail to notice Wanda pull your shorts and panties down from your hips until her fingers press against you harder, and you can’t help but grind against it with such aching desperation. She marvels over how pathetic you look… one minute begging for her to stop and now humping against her like a bitch in heat, swallowing her tongue down your throat.

Such a depraved mental image and yet it only feeds into her desire for you.

To claim you as hers, no matter if you wanted it or not.

Because she didn’t care.

She could feel herself getting wetter, as she met your grinding with her own thrusts, your ass pressing flush against her soaked panties.

The kiss eventually comes to an end, a few hungry strands of saliva briefly clinging to your lips, linking you together. Wanda gazes lovingly at the sight of you, a growing smile on her lips, as you writhe in building pleasure.

“Can you look at me, princess?”

Wanda asks in a sultry tone and you struggle to open your eyes, squinting against the light as her blurry face comes into focus. Her pupils are blown out, partly consuming those emerald irises, her cheeks painted a flushed pink, and her lips part as she pants freely.

She looks so beautiful.

Her green eyes shine clouded over in a different colour than Natasha’s…

Natasha.

Dread seeps into your bones, your body ripped from its relaxed trance as you recall your best friend and how she’s sleeping upstairs as you’re fucked by her mom.

You don’t want to think about how upset she would be to find you like this.

“Baby…” She reels your mind back to focus on her, noticing you’re beginning to spiral. “You ready to come for me?”

Her fingers speed up perfectly but you shook your head in defiance, your mind no longer free to just enjoy Wanda’s touch.

“No,” she coos, “you don’t want to come for me, baby? Don’t want to come for Mommy?”

A whiny no leaves your lips, not giving in to the beautiful temptress behind you.

Annoyed, Wanda rolls her eyes, clearly upset that you wouldn’t just give in to her and that you’re not nestled in that special little headspace anymore.

Without warning, she twists your thigh over the other, ass on show as she lashes out with a sharp slap. You cry out at the unexpected blow, your hands grabbing tightly onto whatever part of the woman you can reach. You weren’t sure if you were trying to push her away or pull her close.

“I thought we were done with that, baby.” She unleashes a few more spanks, “Thought you were going to be my good girl, hm?”

You gasp for air at the same time Wanda gropes your marked flesh, pulling your cheeks apart as she rubs in soothing circles. The breath turns into a choked moan as Wanda spanks you one more time, before returning you to your original position, back to pressing firm circles against your clit.

Once again, you fight her touch. Hips wiggling in each direction until ankles wrap around your legs, locking you in place.

Tight circles turn to quick taps, the once pleasing hand now bringing pain upon your pussy in rapid succession, not allowing you to writhe in her generosity for too long before returning to cruelty.

A beautiful blend that muddled all of your defying thoughts until there was nothing left.

Your body betrayed your mind. Your legs fell completely limp, as you lay at the mercy of the older woman. Taking whatever she deemed necessary to give.

Finally, she had you.

“I don’t care if you don’t want to. You’re going to cum all over my fingers for me.” She concludes with a kiss on your cheek.

And not caring if you cry loud enough to wake up the rest of the house, her fingers speed up for the last time, sending you headfirst over the edge.

…

After what felt like hours, Wanda was done with you. You had moved into her bedroom, deciding the sofa was not adequate to continue. Now her head rests against your stomach after she had spread you open to lap up your next orgasm.

Your body spasms randomly, wave after wave of aftershock rolling over you. A warm hand cups your core firmly, and you buck away from the sensitivity, not wanting her touch anymore. But her fingers remain, gliding slowly up and down your slit, marvelling at your swollen skin, before pushing against your entrance.

You’re overwhelmed. What little fight you have left mentally can’t keep up with the fatigue of your exhausted body. If she wanted to, she could have her way with you. Again and again. Fresh tears fall from your eyes as you sob inconsolably into hands covering your face.

Wanda leaves you be, moving up your body to grab onto your wrists.

“Hey, baby… it’s okay, you’re okay…” she coos, fingertips wiping away your tears, “Mommy went too hard on you, didn’t she?”

You struggle to find the words, and Wanda shushes you, stopping you from thinking too much in such a delicate headspace.

You feel movement, feel Wanda get off you, and your eyes snap open in a slight panic but she sits beside you and swiftly draws you onto her lap.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. Don’t cry.” She says gently, reeling you in with false empathy. She was glad she pushed you too hard you broke.

“Mommy couldn’t help herself.”

You scoot closer, close enough to bury your head into her neck as fingers trail up and down your back.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you, baby. Can you forgive me?”

Her soothing words are music to your ears as you whimper softly against the woman, not willing to talk or move away. You just want her to hold you.

“Say it, princess. Say you forgive me.”

She guides you out of her neck to look at her.

“I forgive you.” You choke out, upset you’re no longer buried in her chest, as your hands run back to cover your eyes. Too ashamed to even look at her.

“Sweet girl, come here.” Wanda doesn’t wait, moving your hands to wrap around her neck as she kisses you hungrily, swallowing any little disapprovals as you push languidly against her chest, trying to force her mouth off of you.

It’s fine, it’s fine,” she ushers against your swollen lips, “I just want to make you feel better.”

You whine in disapproval but your arms wrap tighter around her.

“You love me, don’t you?” She whispers against your cheek, but doesn’t let you reply, as you choke on her tongue, stroking deep against yours.

“Say you love me, baby.” She moves to kiss your forehead, before moving down against your collarbone.

Hands groping your ass as she rocks you steady against her thigh.

“I love you,” a few tears burn down your throat as you hiccup,” I love you, I love you.”

Wanda mumbles her gratitude into your skin, fresh marks blooming against your chest as she fucks you against her.

“Keep saying you love me, baby.”

“I love you, I love you, I love you…” flies from your mouth in quick succession, your mind once again empty as the tell tale signs of another orgasm come into view.

“I love you too, princess.” She returns to your lips, tongue prodding past them as she coaxes your tongue into her mouth.

“Come on. Be good for me.”

It slams into you, body tense as you fall over the edge, pressing your face deep into her neck. She shushes you, not letting go of your body until the convulsions stop, and even then, you’re curled into her chest. Unwilling to part from her.

She allows you to sob freely, your body shaking uncontrollably as hands stroke all over until you calm down. Almost asleep in her arms.

A hand runs through your damp hair, “That’s it, baby. We’re done.”

“No more.” You mumble out, eyes already shut as exhaustion washes over.

“No more, baby. Go to sleep.” Wanda shifts you down her body, your face now against her chest, as she covers you both with her duvet.

Unable to resist any longer, you drift off in Wanda’s warm embrace.

“Too much…y/n- baby,” Wanda panted helplessly. Despite the words she was hardly able to speak, her legs tightened their hold on you whilst you pushed your newest toy deeper. The Sokovian whined as her back arched off of her King sized bed and her fingers clawed into your back. 

  You grinned, gazing down at the beautiful view you had created. “All that power yet you can’t take a few extra inches,” you remarked. “And there I thought this poor neglected pussy would be desperate for it after being left alone for so long,” you continued, drawing your hips back only to thrust in further. She was so close to taking it all, she just needed some extra encouragement. 

  “Please,” she uttered, eyes connecting with your own the way they always did. She was so influenced with lust she was practically at your mercy, so you filled her to the brim with a grunt. “Fuck!” Wanda hissed, nerves ablaze. You felt her slick against your thighs when your pelvises pressed together and acknowledged the signal she was ready. 

  You fucked Wanda like it was the last time you’d do it, because that was always in question. She had an unpredictable life and her marriage was even more so. As though the absence of planning wasn’t challenging enough, the fact that Wanda was married to the world’s best spy (and assassin) was constantly looming over you. 

  “I bet she never makes you feel this way,” you said, watching Wanda’s blissed features as she moaned breathlessly. She looked insatiable when you had her like that, cheeks flushed, hair messed, pupils blown. All from your actions. “You like when I fuck you with this big cock?” You questioned with a smirk, as though you couldn’t hear how wet she was. 

  “I love it,” she cried out, mind frayed. “So good.” She just couldn't help herself. Neither could you. 

  “Better than her?” She met your cocky grin with a mere flash of hesitation before the carefree smile returned. 

  “So competitive,” a voice behind you mused. Your recognition was instant and you didn’t even turn around when you made to scramble out of the bed. You didn’t get the chance. With a distressed whine, Wanda’s magic entangled with your frame and pulled you flush against her until the strap was buried to the hilt once more. 

  “Wanda,” you gasped, unsure if she had heard her wife come in. “Let go,” you hissed as you heard the widow’s boots thud across the floor. Wanda didn’t oblige and instead began to move your hips for you to resume her pleasure. 

  “Stop that,” Natasha demanded and you stilled, unable to escape. “She was just saying how I could never make you feel this way, so by all means, let her go ahead,” she told her wife, gliding her cold fingertips over your hips and pushed you down. You registered Wanda’s hitch at the action. 

  “Please, I-” you tried but the spy wasn’t interested. 

  “Shut the fuck up.” You knew better than to argue with the Russian, especially once she rounded the bed to kiss her wife tenderly. 

  “Welcome home,” Wanda greeted, still very flushed to her wife’s amusement. You eyed the pair warrily, your heart hammering against your chest so hard you felt your ribs bruise. It almost stopped short when Natasha’s glaze turned cold and locked in on you. 

  “Fuck her,” she ordered. You didn’t dare object but had to tear your eyes away as you dutifully began to thrust into the woman beneath you. You focused on Wanda’s sweet noises of pleasure in an attempt to forget your fear, but it was difficult with Natasha’s stalking behind you again. 

  “So you’re the one who’s been fucking my wife while I was saving the world,” she commented casually. “Such a big strap on you too,” Natasha continued as she watched the soaked toy leave Wanda’s pussy only to be driven back in. “Does it make you feel tough to use this on her? How would you feel if I used this nasty cock on you?” You felt Wanda clench around you at her words. 

  “I’m sorry!” You tried again, imagining all of the different weapons that she could be carrying on her. 

  “You’re sorry you were caught,” she corrected. “If you make my wife cum I might consider letting you leave here with all of your limbs,” she considered, delivering a hard smack to your ass. You jolted forwards and heard Wanda cry out, falling into the rhythm Natasha pushed you into in a desperate attempt to please them both. It wasn’t hard, you had fucked Wanda countless times before, but you momentarily regretting bringing such a large toy to use under pressure. Still, it didn’t seem to be an issue for the Sokovian who gasped into your shoulder, peering at her wife with a knowing glint. Unknowingly to you, Natasha winked back with the same smirk she had stripped you of. 

  “ты хорошо себя чувствуешь, дорогая?” You frowned at the Russian’s words, knowing they were directed at Wanda but still feeling like you should know what they say. 

  “Wha-” you turned to question Natasha only to be met with the barrel of her handgun pointed at your head. You instantly cowered away but knew that even if you had tried to leap out of the bed again, it was pointless against the assassin. 

  “так хорошо!” Wanda answered, entirely unphased by the weapon she happened to be in the firing range of. Natasha hummed, seemingly pleased with her partner’s response.

  “I’m not gonna hurt you,” she told you pitifully. “As long as you do what you came here to do.” You figured there wasn’t much point protesting any longer, so you turned back to the woman beneath you and tried to pin all of your focus on her as you usually wouldn't without prompt. Even with a gun pointed at your head, you couldn’t stop admiring how much Wanda looked like some tainted angel that had succumbed to her desires. 

  “Don’t stop,” she called to you. She was breathless, desperate and despite her partner’s looming presence, entirely under your influence. You fucked Wanda relentlessly, just the way you knew she went crazy for until it became hard for you not to grow smug at the sounds you were drawing from her infront of her wife. Soon, the gun became a lingering thought and Wanda returned to the forefront of your mind as she had a habit of doing. 

  “I’m gonna cum,” she announced as your hips slapped against her own. You felt the tension in the room rise accordingly but didn’t let it affect you as you drove your fake cock into Wanda’s pussy harder. 

  “That’s it, fuck,” you encouraged, feeling the harness rub against you with every thrust that Wanda tried to meet. She dug her nails into your back as she came, soaking the toy that she clung to with such might that you had a challenge fucking her through her high. You rocked your hips against her as you coaxed her through her orgasm and felt yourself become impossibly wetter. Her slick was running down both your thighs and you wanted nothing more than to throw the harness off and rub your cunt against her ruined one. Perhaps you might have if it weren’t for the eyes on the both of you. 

  You grinned down at Wanda, your arrogance gradually making its way back until Natasha cut it short by dragging the harness off from your waist, as though she could read your mind. For a moment, you really did wonder if she was going to have you do what you were thinking of, until you noticed her tightening the harness to her own hips with practised ease. Somehow, seeing it on the widow made the strap look bigger. 

  You snapped your head back to Wanda when she began to shuffle herself out from under you and up towards the headboard that she rested against with heavy eyes. You made to follow until the barrel of the gun was pressed into the centre of your back and you were forced back down into the mattress with a grunt. 

  “You think we’re done?” Natasha scoffed. “What do you think, detka?” You peered up at Wanda with wide eyes only to see her fingers had returned to the space between her legs that was still red and leaking. The mischievous glint in her eyes was one you didn’t trust one bit. Your instincts were right. 

  “Make her take it,” the Sokovian husked. 

  “как скажешь,” Natasha replied simply, tossing the unnecessary gun to the side so that she could place both hands on you waist and lift your ass into the air. 

  “Wait,” you tried, knowing how large the toy was and how tight the fit would be. It was rare that you were on the receiving end so you were sure you weren’t ready for such a toy. At least you had worked Wanda up to it. Her wife didn’t seem to care because barely a second passed until you felt the head nudge at your exposed pussy. You could show your fear as much as you wanted, but you all heard the sound of the toy against your wetness. You whined into the bed, accepting you were made. 

  “I bet you wanted this from the start,” Natasha mused, pushing the toy past your reluctant entrance. You held the sheets in a death grip and cried out into the mattress at the immediate stretch. “You just need to be put in your place. Made to feel like the bitch you are,” she spat, pushing inch after inch into your dripping pussy without any consideration. 

  “Please!” You wailed inaudibly, needing a moment to adjust to the intrusion. Apparently you hadn’t earned that yet, because Natasha forced the rest of the toy in with a low groan that was overshadowed by your pleas of protest. It felt like you were being split apart, walls stretched to accommodate the cock you had such a thrill using just minutes prior. Needless to say, that power had been stripped. 

  “What happened, tough guy? Is it too much?” The Russian laughed. You registered Wanda’s breathy moans picking up again. “Too bad.” She drew her hips back only to slam them back into you along with every inch of the toy. You whined, high in your throat, and tried to close your legs but Natasha held them firmly apart. “No, no. Take it all. It’s only fair,” she pointed out, slamming herself against you. 

  The pain was prominent and stubborn, enhanced with every sharp thrust into your cunt that was soaked beyond belief, and you were powerless against it. Your slick only served to allow Natasha to fuck you as hard as she wished as your walls obediently parted for her to reach your depths in ways you had never felt. With that, the pleasure was finally able to peek through the haze of pain. 

  “Such a fucking whore letting me use you like this,” Natasha hissed but you hardly registered her over your burning sensations. She grabbed ahold of your hair and hauled your head up enough for your neck to ache and forced you to stare at her blissed out wife who sat pleasuring herself at your defeat. “You like being turned into a brainless fucktoy?” She asked. You didn’t respond as you looked at Wanda, knowing it would counteract with everything you had ever uttered to her but the harsh slap to your ass rid you of that final secret. 

  “Yes,” you whimpered. At the confession, Wanda fingered herself harder though it was clearly nothing compared to what her wife had you subject to. 

  Natasha’s thrusts were harsh, deliberately pushing as far inside you as she possibly could each time to make you bask in how large the toy was and how much it filled you up. You were stretched out perfectly around the toy, reshaped to take it as much as Natasha pleased. She was cruel, etching the words of ‘slut’ and ‘dumb’ into your mind as she ruined you in every sense of the word. 

  “I know you’re getting close, you’re clenching around me like a desperate bitch in heat,” Natasha told you, feuling Wanda’s arousal. 

  “Make her cum, make her know how good it feels,” the Sokovian called. Natasha huffed.

  “You’re lucky she’s here,” she muttered, clearly having planned on leaving you hanging despite the ruthlessness of the way she pounded into you. 

  Your moans grew along with Wanda’s and a matter of moments later, you were cumming around the unforgiving cock as hard as she had, pushing your own face into the bed to avoid meeting her eye in your moment of complete helplessness. You pushed back against Natasha as you came, desperate to have as much of her inside of you to cling to as your mind went blank. Your chest heaved and the world went quiet as your orgasm rushed through you. It was so much. Too much, all at once. 

“You are always about being on time,” Mel supposes, deciding to move on from the gorgeous line so she can continue to function. “And you didn’t hire me just to look at.”

“No,” Valentina sighs, “You’re frustratingly competent.”

“Do I need to create a meeting with someone you can berate?”

Valentina waves her hand. “No, no, I’m about to get plenty of stress relief.”

“You are?”

“One of the main things puppies are good for.”

Mel taps her finger on the side of her tablet. Does Valentina mean yelling (or worse) stress relief or the nicer kind? Either way, she’s thankful for how sound proofed this room is.

“So I don’t need to prepare anything?” Mel checks.

“Not especially, no. Only yourself so you don’t freak out.”

“I’ve been working with you long enough to have very little freak me out,” Mel says, only half sure.

“You wouldn’t have freaked out at a puppy-human hybrid?”

“…hybrid?” Mel hesitates.

“One of the experiments you aren’t meant to know about. Something just for the elite. Initially intended as a special kind of solider but you know what rich people are like.”

Mel’s mouth hangs open. Valentina stares at her straight faced for several moments before her mouth splits into a smile.

“Kidding, Mel. You know I don’t hide any experiments from you. I certainly wouldn’t hide one with the possibility to be so fun.”

And messy, Mel adds mentally. She’s also not sure about Valentina not hiding anything from her but she doesn’t say anything.

A knock at the door has her turning. She feels strangely nervous. Valentina calls out to give permission to enter. The new hire, you, walks in wearing a crisp button-down shirt, a thin black tie, slacks and shiny boots. Mel would say it’s stereotypical if she didn’t know how many wrinkled shirts she has to witness a day.

You nod in Mel’s direction as you walk towards Valentina. You stop directly in front of her desk, your full attention now on her. Valentina is leaning forward, her elbow on her desk and her chin in her palm.

“Good morning,” she says, voice notably lower than it was before.

“Good morning.” You stand with your hands folded in front of you, your back perfectly straight. Valentina drinks in the sight of you.

She turns her chair to the side and points at the floor in front of her. You obediently follow the directive. Mel watches your face closely. It’s suspiciously relaxed. She thought an interview, especially one of this nature, would bring a bit more second guessing out of someone. 

Valentina runs her eyes critically over you. She gives a considering hum as she reaches out and pulls at the cuffs of your shirt before trailing her sharp nails up your sleeve. They run across before sliding down your chest parallel to your tie. They stop before the bottom of your tie. Mel notices that your breathing is no longer even but she hasn’t seen you so much as twitch. Valentina grabs the end and twists her wrist to wrap the tie around her hand. She yanks you down. A choked sound escapes you. She doesn’t pull you to eye level. No, she drags you lower so you’re forced to peer up at her. Mel internally winces at the angle.

“You will do everything I say, do you understand?” Valentina says.

“Yes, Contessa,” is your obedient reply. 

“I do not suffer traitors.”

“I understand, Contessa.”

Valentina’s resulting smile is sharp. She tugs on the tie again just to watch you strain.

“This will work for now but we’ll need to find something a bit more fitting soon. Mel?” Valentina turns to her. 

It takes Mel a moment too long to understand what Valentina means. Mel tears her eyes away from the unexpectedly captivating sight and swipes her tablet to pull up the more discrete shopping method Valentina uses when things absolutely cannot be linked back to her. It clears her head enough to mentally note the use of Contessa without prompting.

“What design were you thinking?” she asks, her voice more affected than she was hoping.

Valentina doesn’t ease her grip as she thinks. Mel’s suspicion is confirmed when you don’t start to struggle. No sane person would allow this treatment without a hint of intentions or expectations and Valentina would not risk having someone who melts at the first sign of dominance from anyone but herself, considering the company she keeps.

“Why don’t you pick something out?” Valentina suggests. “You’ll have to spend almost as much time as I will looking at them. You can decorate them too. Maybe we can even try co-owning in the future.”

Mel pauses. She’s gotten used to Valentina sharing her things with her, mostly. It’s a privilege she brushed off as a necessity of being her assistant until the items shared were too unnecessary to ignore. This is something different though. ‘Co-owning’ would be opening a few doors she didn’t think they talked about.

“…If you think that wise,” Mel settles on. Valentina snorts quietly at the diplomatic answer and releases your tie. You don’t straighten until she flicks your shoulder. She points at the ground in front of her again and you shuffle closer. 

“Kneel,” she clarifies. You drop to your knees. Your head dips in a bow. “Time for the skill test portion of this interview.”

Mel lowers the tablet to her side. Her attention fully on the scene in front of her. She can only just see the top of your head. She wants to move but can already imagine what Valentina will say. Her brain also files away the fact that Valentina has been talking like she’s already hired you, which means she’s somehow confirmed your skills for herself before.

Valentina stands and you calmly unbuckle her belt and pull down her slacks. Your excitement is betrayed by your face and twitching hands. Valentina sits down again and you immediately lean closer but stop yourself before you can touch. Valentina makes you wait. The room becomes silent enough that Mel can hear your heavy breathing. Your eyes haven’t left Valentina’s cunt. Finally, Valentina grips the hair at the top of your head and pulls your face down to her cunt.

“Don’t disappoint.”

Based on Valentina’s reaction, you don’t but Mel can’t see much of what you’re doing. So she focuses on Valentina’s expression, on the way her shoulders slowly begin to relax, her mouth falling open slightly as her breathing gets heavier. Mel can hear how wet she is. She swallows roughly.

Valentina’s head turns suddenly to look at Mel. Mel’s mind screams at her to look away but she can’t. Blown pupils and flushed cheeks are such a rare treat she can’t help but devour it.

“Can you see, Mel?”

Mel thought she had faded into the background like she usually does. She didn’t realise Valentina wants her to watch. Throat too dry to talk, she shakes her head. Valentina clicks her tongue and Mel sees the top of your head move back again.

It seems Valentina is also struggling with words because she directs Mel to stand on the other side of the desk using her finger. Mel obeys, legs feeling wobbly from desire. She stops where Valentina had pointed, several steps behind you. Valentina makes a frustrated gesture.

“Where you can really see, Mel,” she says. “I don’t know how you’re meant to be handling this interview if you can’t see the interviewees work.”

Mel moves to stand beside Valentina’s chair. She’s much closer than she needs to be but Valentina doesn’t make her step back. You haven’t so much as twitched during the whole conversation. Back straight, head bowed, perfectly obedient puppy. 

Valentina snaps her fingers. Mel watches, mouth dry, as you lower your head again. This time she can see your tongue work through Valentina’s folds. The way you nose her clit and tease her entrance. She also notices your fingers twitching upward before clamping down on your own thighs. Your own desire growing and conflicting your orders. Mel easily gets lost in it all.

Valentina’s hand tightens in your hair. Mel’s close enough to see your eyes flutter. She makes a mental note even as the heat within her rises.

You do something with your tongue that she can’t quite make out from this angle and Valentina can’t stop the moan that escapes her. Her body tensing a moment later tells Mel she’s coming. Mel’s eyes flicker between Valentina’s face and yours, unable to decide which to look at. 

When Valentina relaxes, as much as she ever does in the office, Mel settles her eyes firmly on you. She ignores the envy that flares as you get to clean Valentina up.

“Passable,” Valentina says once her breathing has calmed.

Your smile is wide and Mel can easily imagine your tail wagging. Valentina pulls out a couple of wet wipes, ones Mel had ordered for her two days ago, and roughly wipes your face clean. You hold perfectly still, that smile never fading.

Valentina has her own smile playing about her mouth but she doesn’t allow it to show fully.

“Dismissed,” Valentina says. You scramble to your feet, the first sign of lack of composure, give her a short bow before turning to Mel and repeating the action. You leave as calmly as you entered, shirt now untucked and with a few wrinkles.

“Well that was…easy,” Mel says, still staring at the spot you had been.

“When don’t I do my research?”

“True, but usually you have me do the research. You really didn’t tell them?”

“Who needs to include it in the contract when I have their search history.”

“Alright,” Mel makes a note to herself to change the policy to knocking only for entering Valentina’s office, even in emergencies.

“There may have been some prior communication,” Valentina admits reluctantly into the silence. “I could hardly risk them running out screaming. Not that that would have happened given their interests and my being their type. The results would have been the same, maybe a bit more hesitance.”

“I have complete faith you would have them on their knees within moments of meeting you, Val.” Mel pretends not to see Valentina’s pleased smile. “Also, I knew the moment they called you ‘Contessa’. New hires automatically address you as Director.”

The smile drops into what Mel has deemed Valentina’s version of a pout. A blank face apart from the smallest downturn of the left corner of her lips.

“You live to ruin my fun, don’t you Mel?”

“I schedule time for it every day.”

“Of course you do,” Valentina sighs, this side of fond. Another quiet pause before Valentina says, “Would you have interest in playing with them?”

Mel almost drops her tablet. “Me?”

“I wouldn’t allow anyone else.”

“I—“ would she? “I wouldn’t feel comfortable at the office.” No one is dumb enough to enter without Valentina’s permission but that wouldn’t stop the worry of someone walking in. Not to mention the windows.

“They’ll be joining us on our late nights at my home office.”

Mel swallows roughly. The idea isn’t exactly upsetting but it’s more than a little overwhelming. 

“I’ll think about it,” she says. Valentina nods.

“I’ll hardly be upset if you don’t want to,” she says. “More puppy for me.”

Mel bites her lip. Valentina had obviously enjoyed herself and she’s notoriously hard to please. Mel barely gets any time to herself let alone to find someone else. 

For a long time, Wanda lay still, listening to the hum of the forest. She thought maybe this was what dying felt like—quiet, cold, a fading world. She welcomed it. She wanted it. But her body, stubborn thing that it was, kept clinging on.

That’s how you found her.

You had gone to fetch water from the stream that cut across your land, bucket swinging loosely in your hand. When you saw the figure in the grass, for a moment you thought you were seeing things—a body broken, face streaked with grime, eyes half-shut against the light.

She looked dangerous. There was something about her, even in that ruinous state, that warned you not to get too close. And yet, you couldn’t walk away.

“Hey,” you called softly.

The woman stirred, her body jerking with the effort of staying conscious. Her eyes opened a fraction—red-rimmed, wary. She tried to push herself upright, but her arm gave out, and she fell back with a sharp breath.

“Don’t touch me,” she rasped, though you hadn’t moved. Red mists sparked around her hands then fizzled the next second. As though you were only imagining it.

You crouched a few feet away, keeping your voice steady. “You’ll die if I don’t.”

“I should,” she whispered, barely audible.

The words cut something through you—an echo of your own thoughts from nights past, the ones you never spoke aloud. But you swallowed it down, straightening your shoulders.

“Lucky for you, I don’t take requests like that,” you muttered, stepping forward before she could protest again.

She tried to shove you away when you slid her arm over your shoulder, but her strength was gone. The fight drained from her, leaving only trembling limbs and shallow breaths. By the time you dragged her inside your farmhouse, she was more weight than willpower.

You laid her down on the worn couch by the hearth. She flinched when you pulled back her sleeve to check her arm—ugly bruises bloomed beneath pale skin, a fresh gash torn across her shoulder.

“Don’t,” she hissed through clenched teeth, eyes narrowing.

“You need stitches,” you said simply, reaching for your kit. “And water. And food. Unless you’d rather bleed out on my floor.”

Her glare was sharp, but it wavered. She said nothing when you cleaned the wound, though her body went rigid beneath your hands. She didn’t thank you. Didn’t ask who you were. She only stared at the ceiling with a hatred so raw it made your chest ache.

When you finished, you pressed a cup of water to her lips. “Drink.”

“I don’t want—”

“Good thing I didn’t ask what you wanted.”

Her eyes flicked to yours then—tired, furious, but also… lost. She drank, if only to shut you up.

Later, when the fire dimmed and her breathing steadied, you sat at the edge of the room and studied her in the half-light. Whoever she was, she wasn’t just a traveler who’d stumbled too far. There was a weight to her, an aura of grief that filled the air.

But you didn’t ask. You didn’t speak at all. Because if she stayed, even for one night, maybe the silence in your house would feel a little less heavy.

And if she left in the morning… well, you were used to being alone anyway.

~~~

It was raining the following morning. The farmhouse roof groaned against the steady drizzle, and the fields outside glistened in muted gray. You had always liked the rain. Until you stopped liking anything.

You stirred from the floor where you had slept awkwardly, your neck stiff, and found the door to your bedroom ajar, just how you left it the other night.

You peered inside quietly, slightly hoping it was only a part of your imagination, hoping she had already left.

But there she was. Alive and breathing under your blankets.

A stranger from the dark. Someone who once belonged to another life, another world, before ruin carved her down. Her body twitched faintly in restless dreams, her brow furrowed.

You fetched a basin of fresh water, and set it on the table beside her. By the time you returned with a loaf of bread, she was awake—sitting up too quickly, hissing in pain as her shoulder pulled.

“You should rest,” you said, voice careful.

Her eyes snapped to yours, sharp and wary. “I should leave.”

You set the bread down. “You won’t make it past the road in your condition.”

“Then I’ll crawl.”

The bitterness in her tone might have driven anyone else off. But you only tilted your head, unimpressed. “Suit yourself. Though I’d hate to see the trail of blood on my floor. I just scrubbed them.”

Something flickered across her face then—annoyance, yes, but also fatigue. Her pride warred with her body, and her body was losing. Slowly, grudgingly, she leaned back against the headboard.

You tore off a piece of bread and handed it to her. “Eat.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “I’m not your responsibility.”

“No,” you agreed. “But you’re here. That’s enough for me.”

She took the bread, eventually, chewing with a stiffness that made you wonder when she had last eaten.

The hours passed with her watching you. You could feel her eyes follow as you moved about the house—sweeping, tending the fire, mending a shirt with frayed cuffs. At first, her stare was hostile, as though daring you to slip, to reveal why you were doing this. But gradually, the sharpness dulled, curiosity seeping through.

Finally, she spoke. “Why do you live alone?”

Your hands paused over the fabric in your lap. For a second, you almost told her the truth—that the silence was easier than people, that the world had been too heavy, too loud, and you’d nearly let it drown you. But the words stuck in your throat.

“It’s quieter this way,” you said instead, keeping your voice even.

She didn’t believe you. You saw it in the slight narrowing of her eyes. But she didn’t press.

By nightfall, her breathing was shallow again, the effort of healing draining what little strength she had. She tried to rise at one point, mumbling about leaving, but you guided her gently back down.

“Stop fighting me,” you murmured.

She stared at you then, truly stared, as though trying to read the edges of your soul. “You don’t know what I’ve done.”

Your throat tightened. “And you don’t know what I almost did.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them. Wanda’s gaze sharpened, but you turned away, busying yourself with the fire. The silence between you grew heavy, thick with unspoken truths.

For the first time since you’d found her, Wanda didn’t argue.

She simply lay back, closed her eyes, and let you keep watch.

~~~

The days bled into one another. Rain gave way to weak sunlight, and the woods beyond your land thickened with the scent of pine and damp soil. Wanda’s wounds knit slowly, stubborn as she was, and though she still tried to push her body harder than it could bear, she no longer collapsed every time she stood.

There was one time you swore you saw the plates hovering in front of her as she ate.

You noticed she didn’t thank you. Not once. But she didn’t leave, either.

It happened one afternoon when you were stacking firewood by the door. Wanda leaned against the frame, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable.

“You don’t… know me?” she asked, almost carefully.

You glanced up, wiping your hands against your trousers. “Should I?”

Her jaw tightened. “The Avengers. The news. Sokovia. Westview.”

The names fell between you like stones, heavy with meaning you didn’t reach for. You squinted at her, head tilting. The face was familiar, yes—you’d seen it once or twice on grainy TV clips, fiery eyes, scarlet power blazing. But recognition didn’t stir awe in you. Only a dull ache.

“I think I’ve seen your face before,” you admitted. “But heroes never meant much to me.”

Something flickered in her expression—confusion, maybe anger. “Why?”

You picked up another log, tossing it onto the stack. “Because none of you ever showed up when it mattered. And even if you had… some things can’t be saved.”

Her silence was sharp, but when you looked up, you found her watching you differently—not with suspicion, but with something like wariness. As if she couldn’t decide whether your indifference was a kindness or an insult.

“My name is Y/n,” you added.

“Wanda.”

You nodded. “Beautiful name. Sokovian?”

She didn’t reply.

Later, when you stepped out to fetch water, Wanda wandered through the quiet farmhouse. She didn’t mean to pry—at least, that’s what she told herself—but her eyes caught on the edge of the shelf, a picture frame on the floor. She picked it up and noticed the glass was broken. But what caught her attention was the photograph.

A younger you. Smiling, arms wrapped around a girl with dark hair, the two of you kissing, blurred sunlight painting your faces gold.

Wanda’s chest tightened. She stared too long, until the sound of your boots on the porch pulled her back. She turned sharply away, but the image clung to her mind like smoke.

That evening, over the quiet crackle of fire, you insisted again she eat more, drink more, rest more—your usual gentle demands.

Something in her snapped.

“I’m not interested,” she bit out suddenly, slamming the cup onto the table. Her voice was sharp, colder than the night air.

You blinked, taken aback. “Interested?”

“In you,” she spat, though her eyes betrayed the crack in her certainty. “In… girls.”

The words hung heavy, jagged between you.

You didn’t argue. You didn’t defend. You only studied her for a moment, then said quietly, “I never asked you to be.”

And then you stood, carrying the dishes away without another word, leaving her alone with the fire and the echo of her own fury.

Wanda pressed her hands to her temples, heart pounding. She hated how shaken she felt—not by you, but by the mirror you had unwittingly held up.

~~~

You didn’t take her anger to heart. Not really. You’d lived too long with your own bitterness to mistake hers for truth. So you carried on as you always had—warm, steady, gentle in the ways she pretended not to need.

When she refused your help, you offered it anyway. When she turned her face away from your cooking, you set the plate down in reach. When her voice sharpened with edges meant to cut, you met her with the same even calm.

And when silence pressed in, you filled it with stories.

You told her about the orchard at the back of the property, where the trees grew wild and dropped fruit faster than you could gather. About the stubborn rooster who terrorized the hens until you finally learned to swing a broom at him. About the winters so brutal the pipes froze, and how you survived on soups and layered blankets until spring thawed the land again.

Wanda rarely responded, but she listened. You could tell by the flicker of her gaze, the small tilt of her head.

One evening, as the fire dwindled low, you spoke of the stars—how you used to lie out in the field as a child, counting them until your eyes blurred. How you once swore you’d leave this place behind, follow them somewhere brighter.

And to your surprise, Wanda answered.

“I used to do that too,” she murmured, her voice soft, distant. Her eyes stayed fixed on the flames. “My brother and I… when we were children, before the war. We thought the stars were wishes, scattered across the sky. He said if we counted enough of them, we’d be safe.”

The ache in her voice stilled you. She didn’t often speak of herself. You wanted to ask more, but the look on her face warned you not to press.

So you simply said, “Then you must have counted a lot. Because you’re here.”

She glanced at you then, something unreadable in her gaze, before turning back to the fire.

For the first time since you’d found her, the silence between you felt less like a wall and more like a bridge.

But the next morning, she was cold again.

She rose before you, wrapped in the same brittle pride as when she first arrived. She moved about the house without a word, refusing breakfast, her answers clipped when you spoke.

It was as though the night before hadn’t happened, as though the small fracture she’d shown you had been sealed shut.

Still, you didn’t let it wound you. You only smiled faintly and set her untouched plate on the table. “It’ll be here if you want it.”

Her back stiffened, but she said nothing.

You knew better than to expect her to stay open. People like you—and like her—didn’t let their walls fall all at once. They cracked, slowly, piece by piece.

And you had time.

~~~

The storm rolled in before dusk, a low growl across the mountains that rattled the shutters. You were used to nights like this. The old farmhouse creaked and groaned with every gust of wind, but it had stood longer than you had lived, and you trusted its bones to hold.

Wanda didn’t.

She lingered near the window as the rain hammered down, arms folded tightly across her chest. Every crack of thunder pulled her gaze sharper, her body rigid as if preparing for an attack. You watched her from the hearth, concern threading through you.

“It’s just weather,” you said gently.

Her eyes cut to you, sharp and defensive. “It sounds like war.”

Your heart twisted at the rawness in her voice. You set aside the book you hadn’t been reading and rose, crossing the room. “Then we’ll treat it like war. Candles, blankets, supplies—sound like a plan?”

For a moment, she stared at you like she couldn’t quite believe you’d turned her fear into something manageable. Then, reluctantly, she nodded.

When the power snapped out, plunging the house into shadow, you were ready. Candles flickered to life, bathing the room in gold. You pulled blankets from the chest, spreading them over the couch. The storm outside raged, but here, in the small circle of light, it felt almost… safe.

The wind blew the candles out. And then a flicker of scarlet appeared from her fingertips and it floated towards the candle. It danced with the wind.

You weren’t imagining things.

Wanda sat stiffly, wrapped in a blanket like armor. You settled across from her, cross-legged on the rug, letting the fire’s glow paint her in shades of amber and shadow.

“Storms used to terrify me,” you admitted, voice low, almost swallowed by the rain. “When I was little, I thought the sky was angry. I used to hide under the bed until it passed.”

Her lips twitched faintly, though she tried to smother it. “You don’t seem like the hiding type.”

You smiled, leaning back on your palms. “You learn to stop hiding when no one comes looking for you.”

The words slipped out before you could catch them. You froze, but Wanda only studied you, her gaze unreadable in the candlelight.

Hours bled together in the storm. You traded quiet stories—harmless things, mostly, though once she mentioned Sokovia again, her voice barely above the patter of rain. You didn’t press.

It was later, when thunder cracked so loud the walls shook, that she flinched violently, pulling the blanket tighter. Without thinking, you reached across the space, your hand brushing her wrist.

She jerked as though burned, eyes wide, breath caught in her throat.

“I’m not—” she began, but her voice faltered.

“I know,” you said softly, holding her gaze. “It’s just… you don’t have to sit through this alone.”

For a heartbeat, she didn’t move. Then, slowly, she let your hand linger. Not grasping, not holding—just touching.

The thunder rumbled again, but neither of you flinched this time.

The storm finally eased toward dawn, leaving the house damp and hushed. You had drifted against the couch sometime in the night, half-asleep, the warmth of Wanda’s presence close enough to feel but not close enough to claim.

When you woke, she was gone from the couch, standing at the window with her back to you, staring out at the pale light breaking over the wet fields.

You said nothing. And neither did she.

But the air between you was different now, charged in a way you couldn’t name.

~~~

It had taken you days to convince her. Wanda hated the idea of going into town, bristling every time you suggested it. “Too many eyes,” she said. “Too much risk.”

But you persisted, gentle as always. “No one’s looking for you here. And if they were, they’d never see past a disguise.”

She scoffed at that, but when you draped a faded scarf around her hair and handed her your old jacket, something softened in her expression. She didn’t thank you. She only muttered, “This is ridiculous,” as she tugged the fabric close.

And yet she came with you.

The town was small, ordinary. A place where neighbors nodded at one another and gossip lingered longer than the weather. You led her down the modest rows of stalls, the scent of fresh bread and fruit filling the air. Wanda’s eyes darted restlessly at first, but when no one stared—when not a single person called her by name—her shoulders eased.

“They don’t know me,” she murmured, almost surprised.

You smiled faintly. “Told you.”

For the first time, she let herself linger at a stand, fingers brushing over apples, lips parting slightly as though the simple act of choosing fruit felt foreign. Watching her, you realized how long she must have lived on the edge of survival, where even ordinary moments like this became luxuries.

Inside the little grocery store, you headed for the shelves while Wanda trailed close. The clerk, a boy in his twenties with a too-bright grin, looked up from behind the counter. His eyes flicked to Wanda, and his smile widened.

“Afternoon,” he said, leaning a little too casually on the counter.

Wanda startled, then—hesitated—and smiled back. Small, but genuine.

You blinked. It was the first smile you’d seen on her face that wasn’t laced with bitterness or exhaustion. And it wasn’t meant for you.

When you brought the basket to the counter, the clerk’s gaze never left Wanda. “Haven’t seen you before,” he said, clearly flirting.

“Visiting,” Wanda answered quickly, her cheeks flushed.

You dropped the money on the counter, sharper than you intended. The clerk barely noticed. His eyes were still on her as he handed over the bag.

The walk back to the farm was quiet. Wanda carried the basket, her expression unreadable. You kept your eyes on the road, fighting down the hollowness twisting in your chest.

Straight as a ruler.

The thought stung more than you wanted it to. You told yourself it didn’t matter. She was your guest, nothing more. A wounded stranger you’d taken in, someone who would leave as soon as she healed.

You had no right to want anything else.

And yet, when you glanced at her—at the way she tilted her head to watch the sky as if searching for something—you knew you cared anyway.

That was the problem.

~~~

Wanda hadn’t meant to stay. Her powers had gone back, alive yet weak. But she had nowhere else to go.

Vision. Her children. All gone as they were created.

No one would dare invite her at their house knowing what she had done.

But there was you.

The rhythm of the farm steadied into routine. You chopped firewood in the mornings, the crack of the axe splitting through the still air. Wanda usually lingered nearby, pretending to busy herself with small tasks—folding blankets, cleaning dishes already clean.

That morning, she didn’t pretend.

She sat on the porch, wrapped in her scarf, eyes following the swing of your arms as you brought the axe down again and again. Your muscles shifted beneath your shirt, sweat gleaming across your skin in the sunlight. It should have been mundane, but something in her chest stuttered.

She hadn’t felt this before. Not with Vision—never with Vision. He had been gentle, constant, but his body had been made of circuitry and vibranium. There was no pulse to quicken beneath her touch, no warmth to radiate from skin to skin. Watching you, flesh and blood and human, Wanda felt something stir she thought she’d buried with him.

She forced her gaze away, nails digging into her palms.

Maybe it was the loneliness. It had been too long since she had touched herself.

Later, you called her inside to change her bandage. She grumbled at the fuss, but didn’t resist as you sat her down and carefully unwound the gauze from her shoulder.

Your fingers brushed her skin, feather-light, careful not to press too hard. Wanda’s breath caught before she could stop it. She told herself it was just the sting of healing flesh, just the ache of the wound. But when your hand steadied her arm, grounding her, the jolt that shot through her was something else entirely.

Your head was bent in concentration, lips parted slightly as you worked. You didn’t notice the way her eyes lingered too long on the curve of your mouth, the soft line of your jaw.

When you tied the fresh bandage in place, you looked up, smiling faintly. “Better?”

“Fine,” she muttered too quickly, pulling her arm back.

But her heart was pounding, a treacherous rhythm she couldn’t ignore.

The next morning, she was distant again. Cold. She wanted to leave.

But she also hated the thought of leaving. She had grown accustomed to the presence of you.

Wanda avoided your eyes, refused your help with breakfast, retreated into silence whenever you tried to speak.

You let her.

You’d learned not to take it personally. Wanda’s moods shifted like the weather—warm one night, icy the next. Whatever storm raged inside her, it wasn’t one you could chase away with stories or smiles.

So you gave her space, chopping firewood alone, letting her keep her distance.

Even if part of you ached at how quickly the closeness had slipped through your fingers.

~~~

The wound on her shoulder healed slower than the rest. No matter how many times you cleaned and dressed it, the angry scar refused to fade. Wanda muttered once, bitterly, that it was dark magic—damage that lingered, as stubborn as her guilt.

You didn’t argue. You only kept tending to her, bandage after bandage, refusing to let her rot.

When you needed more supplies, she came with you. Maybe it was boredom, maybe the need to see the world outside the farm again. She said nothing as you split away, promising to be quick while she lingered near the edge of the market.

That’s when she saw him.

The clerk from the grocery store. He lit up when he spotted her, weaving through the crowd with that same eager smile.

“Hey,” he greeted, a little shy this time. “I, uh… wanted to say sorry. For being so forward before.”

Wanda blinked, caught off guard.

“I didn’t know you were… dating Y/N.”

The words hit like a slap. Confusion flared, then anger. Her voice cut sharper than she intended. “We’re not.”

The boy’s eyes widened. “Oh—I just… she told me. When I asked.”

Before Wanda could reply, you returned, bags in your arms. She said nothing, not then. But the silence on the walk back to the farm was suffocating, heavy with something unspoken.

The confrontation came as soon as the door closed.

“What the hell did you tell him?” Wanda snapped, eyes burning.

You froze, then set the bags down with deliberate calm. “That you were taken. So he wouldn’t waste his time trying to find his way here.”

Her laugh was sharp, bitter. “So you decided for me? Answered for me like I’m—what—your responsibility? Your property?”

“No.” Your voice was steady, but your chest ached. “I was protecting you.”

“I don’t need your protection,” she spat, stepping closer, her face twisted in disgust. “And I don’t need you pretending there’s something between us. I’m not—” her breath hitched, anger trembling through her—“I’m not gay.”

The words fell like a blade, cutting deeper than she knew.

You swallowed, keeping your voice quiet. “I never said you were. I never wanted anything from you, Wanda. Not like that. But if you’d rather have some boy showing up at the farm, sniffing around—fine. Next time, I’ll let him.”

Her eyes flared, but she didn’t answer. She only turned away, shoulders rigid, as though furious at you, at herself, at everything she couldn’t name.

You stood in the kitchen long after she left the room, the taste of her rejection thick in your throat.

You told yourself again: She’s just a guest. She’ll be gone soon.

But it didn’t stop the wound from bleeding.

~~~

The farmhouse felt colder the next morning.

You still chopped wood at dawn, tended the fire, swept the floors, moved through every task with the same practiced rhythm. But you didn’t speak. Not to her. Not in the way you used to.

No gentle questions. No stories to fill the quiet. No soft smiles when you caught her watching.

Only silence.

Wanda noticed.

At first, she told herself she preferred it—no fussing, no hovering, no warmth she didn’t deserve. But as the hours stretched on, each quiet moment scraped rawer against her skin.

When you sat across from her to change her bandage, your hands were careful but distant. Efficient. Professional. Gone was the gentle brush of fingers that steadied her arm, the murmured reassurances. You did the job and tied it off, meeting her eyes only briefly.

“Better?” you asked, your tone flat.

She nodded, throat tight. “Fine.”

And that was it. No more.

By evening, the weight of it pressed harder than any wound she carried. She found you on the porch, staring out across the fields as the sun bled into the horizon.

“You’re quiet,” she said finally, standing in the doorway.

You didn’t look at her. “Guess I ran out of stories.”

The words stung more than they should have.

Wanda clenched her fists, fighting the urge to snap again, to tear down whatever wall you had built between you. But this time, you weren’t reaching across the silence. You were leaving it there.

And for reasons she didn’t want to name, that unsettled her more than the storm, more than the clerk, more than the shadow of her own past.

For the first time since she’d crawled out of the rubble, Wanda Maximoff felt… abandoned.

~~~

Wanda searched for you that afternoon. You hadn’t come back from chopping wood, and the yard was strangely empty. For a heartbeat, panic seized her chest—until she caught sight of ripples glinting in the distance.

The lake.

She slowed as she reached the water’s edge, the hush of the forest wrapping around her. There you were, waist-deep in the silver-blue water, head tilted back, eyes closed. The sun caught on droplets rolling down your skin, the surface broken only by the slow movement of your arms.

Wanda stopped, frozen.

It should have been innocent. A dip to cool off after work. But something about the stillness in your face unsettled her—like you weren’t swimming for relief, but for release. She didn’t know the truth. That moments before, you had slipped beneath the surface, lungs burning, pulse racing, welcoming the ache of water filling your chest. You had surfaced only because instinct, cruel and stubborn, dragged you back.

You hadn’t seen her watching. Wanda turned away, forcing the tension in her shoulders to ease. You’re imagining it, she told herself. Just swimming. But she carried the image back with her, unable to shake it.

That night, the silence stretched again, heavy at the dinner table. For once, it was Wanda who broke it.

“My father,” she began, the words halting, foreign, “he used to tell stories about Sokovia before the war. About the summers, when the orchards were full and the air smelled like… like earth and sugar.”

You blinked at her, caught off guard.

She didn’t look at you, staring instead at the flicker of the fire. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

“Because you remember,” you said softly.

Wanda’s lips twitched, but it wasn’t quite a smile. She went on, voice low, remembering fragments of her past—the nights under a broken roof with Pietro, the taste of bread from the market, the lull of a language that had nearly disappeared.

You listened, quiet as always, but something inside you cracked. She was opening up, slowly, painfully. And all you could think of was how you almost let yourself sink beneath the water that very afternoon.

You wanted to tell her. To say you were drowning in ways she couldn’t see. But instead, you just nodded, letting her words wash over you, trying to keep your own hidden.

But later, alone in your room, the lake called again. The thought of slipping under, this time for good, pulsed through you like a promise.

And Wanda, in her room across the hall, lay awake—restless, unsettled—haunted by the way she had seen you floating in the water, too still, too silent.

Neither of you knew how close the other was to breaking.

~~~

The knock came just as the sun began to bleed into the horizon.

You opened the door to find a girl—young, maybe not far from your own age—dirt-smudged, her pack slung heavy on her shoulders. She looked lost, exhausted, and when she asked in a trembling voice if there was any place nearby to rest, your heart clenched.

“Come in,” you said without hesitation. “You’ll stay the night. I’ll make you something warm.”

The girl’s relief was immediate, her gratitude spilling from her lips as she stepped inside.

Wanda, sitting at the table with her bandage half-loosened, stiffened. Her eyes narrowed as she watched the stranger cross her threshold.

Dinner was simple—vegetable stew and bread. You laughed lightly as the girl ate like she hadn’t had a proper meal in weeks. You asked her questions. She was traveling alone, running from something she didn’t name.

You gave her the spare bed, offered blankets, assured her she was safe.

All the while, Wanda stayed silent. Her face was impassive, but her jaw worked, her fingers tight around the spoon she never lifted to her lips.

When your eyes met hers across the table, she looked away sharply.

The girl left at dawn, after breakfast, hugging you briefly in thanks before she disappeared down the dirt road. You stood at the door, watching her vanish into the trees, something wistful tugging faintly at your chest.

When you turned back, Wanda was there, arms crossed, eyes like ice.

“You seemed to enjoy the company,” she said, her voice cool, laced with venom she didn’t bother hiding. “Maybe if you want someone to talk to so badly, you should have left with her.”

The words slammed into you, harsher than any blade.

Your lips parted, but no sound came. For once, you didn’t try to explain yourself, didn’t soften your tone to soothe her moods.

You only nodded once, sharply, and brushed past her, leaving Wanda rooted to the floor—angry, unsettled, and unable to understand why the thought of you leaving with someone else made her chest ache like loss.

Wanda knew she had to leave. Before it would all come too much, she wouldn’t be able to.

~~~

It began with a cough.

Then another. By the next morning, Wanda was pale, her body shivering beneath sweat-damp sheets.

You had seen the signs—the way her voice rasped, the way her shoulders sagged as if carrying more than the wound alone. She tried to dismiss it, as always. “It’s nothing. I’ll be fine.”

But by evening, she was curled in bed, trembling despite the fire roaring in the hearth.

You brought broth she barely touched. You pressed a cool cloth to her forehead, and she swatted it away weakly.

“I don’t need your fussing,” she murmured, voice hoarse. “I’m the Scarlet Witch.”

“You need rest,” you replied evenly, replacing the cloth. “And medicine. Which I got because I fuss.”

She closed her eyes, unwilling to argue, but her body betrayed her. The fever climbed. The fire could not keep the cold from her bones.

Sometime past midnight, her teeth chattered hard enough to wake you. You came quickly, kneeling by her side, but the blanket did nothing, nor the fire.

“Wanda,” you whispered, urgent now, “you’re burning. Your body can’t regulate the fever.”

“I said I’m fine,” she snapped through clenched teeth, trying to roll away.

Something in you hardened. “Fine. Then I’ll ride into town. I’ll fetch the doctor. And when he asks why your wounds don’t heal the way they should, maybe I’ll tell him—oh, I don’t know—that you used to be an Avenger.”

Her eyes shot open, panic slicing through the fevered haze.

“You wouldn’t—”

“I would,” you cut in, firm. Then, softer, “Or you let me help you the only way I can.”

She swallowed, weak and cornered, and finally gave the smallest nod.

So you slipped beneath the blankets beside her, the heat radiating from her skin near unbearable. Carefully, gently, you wrapped your arms around her trembling frame.

At first she was rigid, every muscle tense, her breath sharp with resistance. But gradually, the warmth of your body began to soothe the violent chill wracking hers.

Her forehead pressed against your collarbone, damp with fever-sweat. Your hand rubbed slow circles across her back, grounding her.

Then—

“Don’t think this is some… way to get into my pants,” she muttered, her voice cracked but edged with sarcasm.

A startled laugh escaped you, soft and breathless. “God, Wanda.”

The sound hit her unexpectedly, a balm even warmer than your touch. She felt it vibrate through you, felt how unguarded it was. It tugged at something deep in her chest.

She wanted to hear it again.

Before she could stop herself, a small, shaky laugh escaped her too, low and fragile, but real.

And in the dark, with fever still clinging to her and your arms holding her steady, she realized how long it had been since she laughed with anyone. How much she had missed it. How beautiful your laugh was—and how dangerous it felt to want it.

~~~

Morning broke with the faintest streaks of pink, brushing against the farmhouse windows.

Wanda stirred slowly, awareness seeping back into her fever-fogged body. Her first sensation wasn’t the ache of sickness, nor the chill that had plagued her—it was warmth. Real warmth. Your arms were still around her, steady and protective, her cheek resting against your chest.

Your breathing was deep, even, threaded through with sleep. And for a dangerous moment, she let herself stay there. She felt the rise and fall of your ribcage, the gentle weight of your hand that had fallen against her waist. The world outside could have been nothing, rubble, silence—but here, she was held.

Her throat tightened.

How easy it would be to close her eyes again, to pretend. Pretend she wasn’t Wanda Maximoff, wasn’t a woman haunted by destruction and blood. Pretend she was only a fevered guest in the home of someone kind. Pretend she could be wanted, even now.

But as your breath shifted, as though you were waking, Wanda panicked. She slipped from your arms, careful not to wake you, retreating back to the edge of the bed. Her skin burned with more than fever—it was the memory of laughter, of wanting something she had no right to want.

By midday, the fever had broken. She moved through the rooms with her usual steadiness, her mask firmly back in place. When you offered her tea, she took it without looking at you. When you asked if she felt stronger, she muttered a noncommittal “fine.”

It was the coldest she’d been since the fight in town.

Later, you found her by the window, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the trees. “You don’t have to hover anymore,” she said flatly. “I’m not fragile. I don’t need you watching me.”

Something in her tone dug sharp into you, but you only nodded. “Alright, Wanda.”

You turned, leaving her in the quiet.

Only when you were gone did her shoulders slump, the mask slipping for the briefest second. Because the truth was simple, cruel, undeniable—

She missed the warmth already.

~~~

For two days, Wanda kept her distance.

She told herself it was necessary—that last night, the fever, the warmth in your arms, had been nothing more than weakness. She’d been vulnerable, delirious. Nothing more.

And yet.

Her eyes betrayed her. Every time you walked past, every time she heard your footsteps in another room, she found herself listening closer.

At dinner, she ate quickly, but lingered afterward just to hear the sound of your spoon tapping against the bowl. When you rose to clean, she wanted to follow. She didn’t.

At night, when she lay awake, she caught herself straining for the faint creak of floorboards down the hall, proof that you were there. Still there.

On the third evening, she gave in.

You were on the porch, mending an old fishing net by lantern light. The air was cool, the kind that carried the faint smell of damp earth after rain.

Wanda stepped out quietly, meaning to pass through—to breathe, to remind herself she wasn’t tethered to this place. But her feet didn’t carry her further. Instead, she hovered near the railing, her eyes tracing the rhythm of your hands working the knots.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked, voice calm, without looking up.

She swallowed. “No.”

Silence stretched, soft but fragile. Then—hesitant, almost begrudging—she added, “You… laugh too loud.”

You glanced at her, startled. “Do I?”

Her lips twitched, the faintest ghost of a smile. “Yes. But… it’s not unpleasant.”

Something in your chest loosened. You chuckled softly, shaking your head. “That’s the nicest insult I’ve ever gotten.”

To her own surprise, Wanda’s laugh slipped out—quick, unguarded, real. She pressed her lips together as if to catch it, but it was too late. The sound lingered in the air between you.

She looked away quickly, pretending to study the dark line of the trees. But her hands gripped the railing tight, as though holding herself back from stepping closer to you.

Because she knew it. Some part of her had already started leaning.

~~~

The house was quiet in the gray hush before dawn. Wanda hadn’t slept much—her body restless, her mind circling the strange gravity pulling her toward you. She gave up on sleep, wandering the hallway, intent on making tea.

That’s when she heard the bathroom door creak open.

She turned— And froze.

You stepped out, steam curling behind you, a towel wrapped around your body. Water still clung to your shoulders, trailing down the line of your collarbone. Your hair, damp and heavy, carried the faint, clean scent of soap and shampoo, drifting warm into the narrow space between you.

Wanda’s breath caught.

She hadn’t expected this. Hadn’t expected the punch of heat low in her stomach, the sudden thrum in her veins. For a split second, she was back in the fever-night—your warmth, your body against hers—but this time you weren’t holding her because she was sick.

This time, it was you, bare, real, alive.

Your eyes widened when you saw her. “Wanda—sorry, I didn’t realize anyone was up yet.”

You moved past her, casual, completely unaware of the storm inside her. But Wanda couldn’t stop staring—the droplets of water slipping down your skin, the warmth radiating from you. She clenched her fists, digging her nails into her palms until it hurt.

“Cover yourself,” she snapped suddenly, harsher than she meant.

You froze, glancing down at the towel. “I—sorry. I was just heading to my room.”

“You shouldn’t—” Her words stumbled, biting at themselves. “You shouldn’t walk around like that.”

You blinked, hurt flickering in your eyes. “It’s my house, Wanda.”

The air between you was tight, humming with something neither of you wanted to name.

Finally, Wanda tore her gaze away, storming past you toward the kitchen, every nerve on fire.

She hated it— How her body betrayed her. How your scent clung to her even as she left the hallway.

She hated that she wanted.

~~~

You avoided her the rest of the day.

Not obviously—you still chopped wood, stoked the fire, tended to the chores—but you moved around her as though she were something fragile you dared not touch. No laughter, no soft questions, no stories to fill the silence.

Just distance.

Wanda noticed. She noticed everything.

At lunch, she tried to sit at the table across from you, but you kept your head bowed, eating quickly. When she asked, stiffly, if the wound on her shoulder needed tending, you only said, “I’ll leave the bandages on the counter. You can do it yourself.”

Her chest tightened at the flatness of your tone.

That night, she caught sight of you outside, hauling wood to the shed. Your shoulders were tense, your movements mechanical. For once, you didn’t look warm, didn’t look inviting. You looked… small.

Her words from that morning replayed, sharper each time. Cover yourself. She’d meant it as a shield, a defense against the fire in her veins. But what if you thought it was disgust?

The thought sliced through her, deeper than she expected.

She lay awake long after the fire burned low, listening for your steps in the hallway. They never came.

By dawn, the house was silent but for the sound of you in the kitchen, moving with careful restraint. The distance between you was no longer silence filled with possibility—it was silence filled with absence.

And Wanda hated it.

Because if you thought she was disgusted by you— If you thought she couldn’t stand the sight of you— Then maybe you’d stop looking at her the way you once did. Stop offering warmth. Stop staying.

And for the first time, the idea of you leaving felt unbearable.

~~~

It happened quickly. One misstep, one slip of the blade while you were chopping wood. The sting came sharp and hot, blood rushing down your arm before you realized the cut was deep.

You pressed a rag to it and stumbled back inside. You didn’t call for Wanda—you never would. You set the rag on the table, reached for the bottle of alcohol, and hissed as it burned through the wound. Your hands shook as you tried to wrap it, the cloth slipping, blood smearing across your fingers.

“What are you doing?”

Her voice snapped through the room like a whip. Wanda stood in the doorway, eyes locked on the crimson staining your arm.

“It’s nothing,” you muttered, fumbling with the bandage.

“Nothing?” She crossed the room in seconds, snatching the bottle and cloth from your hands. “You’re bleeding like that, and you call it nothing?”

“I can handle it.”

“You can’t even tie it properly.” She shoved you down into the chair, not unkindly but firm, her expression fierce. “Sit. I’ll do it.”

You tried to argue, but the words died as she dipped the cloth into alcohol and pressed it gently to the wound. The burn shot through you, and a hiss escaped before you could swallow it.

Wanda’s lips curved, a sharp little smile. “Oh? You hiss from this, but you used to dab alcohol into my shoulder like it was nothing. And I didn’t complain.”

Your breath caught—not just from the sting, but from the warmth in her tone. Teasing, soft. Something almost fond.

She worked carefully, wrapping the cloth around your arm, fingers brushing your skin with deliberate precision. The same way you had done for her.

For the first time, you didn’t fight her help. You let her tend to you, let her hands steady yours.

And you didn’t admit the truth—that you weren’t even sure if it had been an accident. That maybe, just maybe, you were losing yourself again, slipping too close to the edge you’d almost gone over before.

Wanda tied the bandage snug and leaned back, studying her work. “There. Better.”

You met her eyes, saw the flicker of worry she tried to hide. And in that moment, you wondered—if she knew just how close you were to breaking, would she still look at you like this?

Would she still choose to stay?

~~~

Wanda lingered after bandaging your arm, her fingers still resting lightly against your skin. Too long, maybe, for it to be just care.

You shifted, uneasy. “It’s fine now. You don’t need to hover.”

But she didn’t move. Her green eyes searched your face, sharp yet soft, like she was reading the things you weren’t saying.

“What happened?” she asked even if she already knew the answer.

You stiffened. “It was an accident—”

Her hand slipped away from your arm, curling into her lap. “Quit lying.”

The air thickened. You opened your mouth, then shut it again.

Wanda’s voice dropped lower, quieter, as if afraid of the answer. “Did you mean to hurt yourself?”

Your heart thudded painfully. For a moment, you hated how much she could see. How her gaze cut through the layers you wrapped around your pain.

You forced a faint laugh, brittle at the edges. “You think too much.”

But Wanda didn’t smile. She leaned closer, eyes steady on yours. “No one ‘thinks too much’ when they see someone they care about bleeding like that.”

The word hung between you—care.

Your throat tightened. You looked away, staring at the fire. “Drop it, Wanda.”

Silence stretched, heavy and fragile. Then, softly—“You don’t have to carry it alone, Y/N.”

You swallowed hard, pressing your nails into your palms, forcing the words back down. Because if you opened your mouth now, if you told her the truth—that some nights the lake still called to you—you weren’t sure you’d stop.

So you only nodded once, brisk, shutting the door on the moment.

Wanda let it go, but not completely. You could feel her eyes linger on you long after.

And in her chest, something twisted—because she knew what it was to drown in silence, and she wasn’t sure she could watch someone else sink the way she once had.

~~~

Snow began to fall the week before Christmas.

It dusted the fields, clung to the branches of the pines, and softened the edges of the farmhouse until it looked like something out of a postcard. You strung a few lanterns on the porch, lit candles in the windows—not for festivity, really, but for light against the early dark.

Wanda noticed, though she didn’t say anything. She only lingered by the windows longer, watching the snow spiral down in the glow of the lamps.

You kept busy with winter chores, chopping wood with one arm bound, stubborn as ever. Wanda hovered at the doorway, pretending to be uninterested, but her eyes never left you.

Every wince you made when your wound pulled. Every time you paused to catch your breath. Every careless moment you shoved your hands into the snow without gloves.

Her jaw clenched tighter each time.

The following day, Wanda woke up before you. She chopped all the wood there was in the shed, red tendrils dancing through the air. She didn’t stop until you had enough supply to last until the next winter.

The look on your face when you saw what she had done was worth it.

When you came back inside, cheeks flushed from the cold, she was waiting with a mug of tea.

“Drink,” she ordered flatly.

You smirked faintly. “Since when do you make me tea?”

“Since you can’t seem to take care of yourself,” she shot back, thrusting the mug into your hands.

But when your fingers brushed hers in the exchange, she didn’t pull away.

At night, she grew restless. The farmhouse was silent, but she found herself awake, listening for the creak of the floorboards, for your soft movements in the other room.

Once, when she passed by, she found you asleep in the armchair by the fire, book fallen open on your chest. The flicker of flame lit your face in warm gold.

She should have turned away. Instead, she pulled the blanket from the back of the chair and draped it over you, fingers brushing your hair before she caught herself.

For a long moment, Wanda stood there, watching your chest rise and fall, her heart tight with something she couldn’t name.

And the thought terrified her.

~~~

You tried again, in the small ways you knew.

The farmhouse smelled of chocolate and cinnamon that night, steam curling from two mugs you set carefully on the table. You carried them out to the porch, where the snow lay deep and the sky glittered clear above.

“Come,” you said, offering one to Wanda. “The stars are brighter in winter.”

She hesitated—she always did when you offered closeness—but something in your eyes disarmed her. She followed, wrapping her shawl tighter around her shoulders as she sank into the chair beside you.

The world stretched quiet around you both. The whisper of wind in the trees, the crunch of snow settling, the endless sweep of stars overhead.

You sipped your cocoa, the warmth seeping through your chilled hands. “It’s easier to count them in December,” you murmured, tilting your head back. “Feels like they come closer in the cold.”

Wanda didn’t answer.

She was watching you.

The firelight from the window spilled across your profile, painting your skin in warm colors, your lashes trembling against your cheek as you gazed skyward. There was a softness to you then, a light she hadn’t noticed—or maybe she hadn’t let herself see until now.

Her lips parted before she could stop herself, the word falling in a whisper meant for no one.

“Beautiful…”

You smiled faintly, eyes still fixed on the constellations. “Yes,” you agreed. “They’re beautiful.”

You never saw the way Wanda’s breath hitched, the way she looked away quickly, as if burned. She pressed her mug to her lips to hide it, swallowing the warmth as though it could douse the storm inside her.

For once, she didn’t push you away. She just sat there in silence, shoulder close enough to brush yours, trying not to wonder how much longer she could lie to herself.

~~~

Snow kept falling as Christmas drew closer. You kept the farmhouse warm with firewood and lantern light, not bothering with decorations beyond a small pine you’d cut from the edge of the woods. A few candles glowed on its branches, and though it looked humble, the flicker filled the house with a quiet kind of magic.

On Christmas Eve, you cooked what you could from the pantry—roasted vegetables, bread, and the last jar of preserves you’d been saving. Wanda sat at the table, watching your hands move, her expression unreadable.

You caught her staring once. She didn’t look away.

After the meal, you poured hot cocoa again, and the two of you sat by the fire while the wind howled outside. You leaned back into the chair, tired but oddly content, and Wanda seemed softer than usual, her sharpness dulled by the glow of the flames.

When the clock struck midnight, you whispered, “Merry Christmas, Wanda.”

Her eyes flickered, and for once she didn’t harden. “Merry Christmas, Y/N.”

The next morning, you found her already awake, sitting at the table with something in her hands. A small bundle wrapped in cloth.

“What’s that?” you asked, still half-asleep, tugging your sweater tighter.

She hesitated, then pushed it toward you across the table. “It’s nothing. Just… something I made.”

Inside was a delicate charm—twine woven through with a bit of copper and crystal, glowing faintly in the light. It hummed against your palm, not dangerous, just warm.

You blinked up at her. “Wanda, this is—”

“Don’t make it a big deal,” she cut in quickly, almost defensive. “It’s just to… keep you safe. From small things. Cuts, burns, accidents. That’s all.”

You smiled, touched in a way you didn’t have words for. “It’s the best gift I’ve ever gotten.”

Her gaze flicked to yours, sharp and searching, as if to check whether you were mocking her. But your warmth was genuine. Slowly, almost reluctantly, Wanda’s mouth curved into the faintest smile.

Later that night, you sat outside together again, counting the stars. Your fingers brushed the charm absently in your pocket. Wanda’s shoulder brushed yours in return.

Neither of you said anything, but something shifted—delicate, fragile, and impossibly real.

~~~

The town square glittered with lights and laughter, strings of lanterns swaying above the street as music echoed between the buildings. Children darted past with sparklers, their mittens bright against the snow.

You smiled, almost forgetting the heaviness that usually clung to your chest. “I told you the parade was worth it,” you said as you nudged Wanda’s arm.

She didn’t answer right away. Wrapped in her shawl, she kept her gaze on the marching band, on the colored lights flashing over the snow. But her hand brushed yours briefly, almost unconsciously, and she didn’t move it away.

That was when you saw her—the girl you had once offered shelter on a stormy night. She waved from across the crowd, weaving her way toward you with a bright grin.

“Y/N! It’s so good to see you again!”

You smiled warmly, genuinely glad she’d made it back safe. “You too. How have you been?”

Wanda’s posture stiffened beside you.

The girl’s eyes sparkled as she glanced between you both. “I was hoping we could catch up. Maybe dinner after the parade? I owe you for your kindness.”

Before you could reply, Wanda spoke.

“I’m afraid we can’t,” she said smoothly, voice steady but sharp beneath. “My wife cooked turkey for dinner. It would be rude not to eat it.”

The word wife hung in the air. The girl blinked, taken aback. “Oh—I didn’t realize—”

You turned your head sharply toward Wanda, eyes wide. She didn’t look at you.

The girl smiled quickly, though her cheeks flushed pink. “Of course, I understand. Another time, maybe.” She disappeared back into the crowd.

You opened your mouth, confusion tightening in your chest. But Wanda’s face was calm, unreadable, her gaze fixed on the parade as though nothing had happened.

You didn’t argue—not there, not in the middle of laughing children and music and snow. But as you walked home beside her, the word echoed in your mind.

Wife.

And you couldn’t decide if your heart ached from the lie… or from how badly you wanted it to be true.

~~~

The walk home was silent, save for the crunch of snow beneath your boots. Wanda kept her shawl tight around her, eyes fixed forward, expression unreadable.

You couldn’t stop replaying it in your head. The way she’d said it—calm, certain, like it was the most natural thing in the world. My wife.

By the time you reached the farmhouse, the silence was unbearable. You shut the door against the cold, dropped your gloves on the table, and finally turned to her.

“What was that, Wanda?”

She blinked at you, feigning ignorance. “What was what?”

“In town. You called me your wife.”

Her jaw tightened. She turned away, unwrapping her shawl, moving slowly as if to buy herself time. “It was nothing. Just a way to end the conversation.”

“Nothing?” you pressed. “That girl asked me to dinner, and instead of letting me answer, you—”

“I saved you the trouble of saying no,” she cut in sharply, her voice edged with steel.

“I could’ve spoken for myself.”

Wanda finally faced you, eyes blazing. “And what would you have said? That you’d rather run off with her than come home?”

Your chest tightened. “Why does it matter to you?”

Her mouth opened, then snapped shut. A flicker of something—fear, maybe, or longing—flashed across her face before it hardened again.

“It doesn’t,” she said coldly. “I just don’t want strangers sniffing around the house.”

You stepped closer, refusing to let her retreat behind walls again. “You could’ve said that. But you didn’t. You called me your wife, Wanda.”

The fire crackled in the hearth, filling the silence between you.

Her lips parted, the word caught on her tongue, but she swallowed it down. Instead, she turned away, voice low and tight.

“Don’t read into it. You’re nothing to me.”

The words stung like a slap. But beneath the venom, you swore her voice trembled.

You clenched your fists, forcing your own voice steady. “If I’m nothing to you, then why did you look at me like that? Why can’t you stand the thought of me with someone else?”

Wanda froze, her back still to you. The muscles in her shoulders tensed, and for a moment you thought she might break.

But she only whispered, almost too quietly to hear—

“Don’t make me answer that.”

~~~

The tension in the room never broke. It hung there like smoke, thick and choking, until Wanda finally turned away, her face shadowed in the firelight.

She didn’t speak to you the rest of the evening. She didn’t join you at the table when you reheated the turkey leftovers. She didn’t sit by the fire when you tried to read aloud to fill the silence.

Instead, she vanished into the bedroom.

You told yourself to leave it alone. To let her have her moods, her storms. But when you finally pushed the door open to check on her, you stopped dead in the doorway.

Wanda stood there—naked.

The light from the window showed her skin, tracing the lines of her body in stark relief. Her eyes found yours, sharp, unreadable, almost defiant.

Your breath caught. Heat rushed through you, but not in the way she seemed to expect. Because you saw it, beneath the bravado—the desperation in her stance, the challenge in her gaze.

“Isn’t this what you want?” she asked, voice low, daring. “You keep hovering, caring, watching. Isn’t this what you’ve been waiting for?”

For a heartbeat, silence roared in your ears. You wanted to reach for her. You wanted to take everything she was offering.

But instead, you grabbed the blanket from the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders, pulling it tight until the fire in her eyes flickered with surprise.

“No, Wanda,” you said quietly, your voice shaking with restraint. “Not like this. Not because you’re angry or confused or trying to prove something.”

Her lips parted, but no words came. Her hands clutched the blanket around her as though it were armor, her eyes wide, vulnerable in a way you’d never seen.

“You think I’d take advantage of you?” you whispered. “You mean more to me than that.”

For a long, agonizing moment, Wanda just stood there, trembling faintly beneath the blanket. And then she turned her face away, jaw tight, as if the weight of your gentleness was too much to bear.

“You shouldn’t,” she whispered. “I’ll only ruin you.”

And she walked past you, retreating back into silence, leaving you with nothing but the ghost of her warmth in the air.

~~~

The morning after, Wanda was already awake when you entered the kitchen. She had her shawl tightly wrapped, her shoulders hunched like armor against the world—and against you.

You paused, sensing the storm behind her calm exterior. The blanket from last night lay neatly folded on the bed, untouched. She hadn’t moved it, hadn’t acknowledged it.

“Morning,” you said softly, trying to bridge the quiet.

“Morning,” she replied curtly, eyes fixed on the mug of tea in her hands.

You poured yourself coffee, careful not to make a sound that might provoke her. The warmth of the kitchen couldn’t penetrate the chill between you. Every step, every glance, felt measured—like walking across ice that might crack at any second.

Throughout the day, Wanda avoided the spaces you occupied. When you swept the floors, she sat at the table, pretending to read. When you stacked firewood, she lingered near the windows, watching snow fall. When you passed in the hall, she turned her gaze sharply away, stiff as a drawn bow.

The air was heavy with unspoken words. You wanted to ask her why she’d acted like that last night. You wanted to tell her how much it hurt to see her testing you, tempting and retreating all at once.

But you stayed quiet. Let her walls stand. Let her distance stretch.

Because you knew better than to push.

You’d seen her battles before, the ones she fought alone. And for all the ache in your chest, for all the longing to reach her, you wouldn’t force her. Not yet.

By evening, the fire crackled low, casting shadows across the room. You watched her from the corner of your eyes, distant, tense, but alive. And somewhere beneath that frozen surface, you knew the heat of last night still lingered, buried, waiting.

For now, you let her be.

The silence between you was heavy, yes—but it was also a promise. A promise that you were patient. That you wouldn’t leave.

And perhaps, in her own way, Wanda was aware of that.

~~~

The days following the parade and last night’s incident stretched long and quiet. Wanda kept her distance, but tiny fractures began to show—gestures too small to admit, yet too sharp to ignore.

One morning, you found her in the kitchen before you, silently clearing the table of breakfast dishes. Her movements were precise, careful, but when she glanced up and caught your eyes, she froze, fingers tightening on a plate for a moment longer than necessary.

“Don’t strain yourself,” you said softly, approaching.

“I… I’m fine,” she replied, voice clipped, but her eyes flicked toward the stack of heavy dishes you’d been about to lift.

That evening, she appeared in the doorway of your room with a small bundle. Her voice was quiet, almost shy.

“I… thought you might like this,” she murmured, handing it over.

Inside was a simple scarf, hand-knit, soft and warm—more delicate than anything she’d ever made for herself. You ran your fingers over it, noticing the uneven stitches, the little imperfections that made it perfect.

She looked away, shifting on her feet. “It’s… not much. But, uh… you might need it in town tomorrow.”

You met her gaze. She blinked, then swiftly turned back toward the hall, as if fleeing a mistake.

You smiled softly. “Thank you, Wanda. I’ll wear it.”

These moments—small, almost accidental—pulled at something inside you. And somewhere in her, Wanda felt the fire of connection, dangerous and frightening. Every touch, every glance, every soft word chipped away at the walls she had built, leaving her exposed and unsteady.

She didn’t know it yet—but she was beginning to care.

~~~

The morning after Wanda slipped away from the couch, the homestead was quiet, still wrapped in winter’s breath. You went about your chores as usual—splitting firewood, hauling water, checking the small fence near the treeline that had started to sag under the snow.

But the cold had made the ground slick, and your boot caught on the ice as you carried a bundle of wood back inside. The world tilted sharply—then a crash. Glass shattered as you struck the ground, a jagged cut slicing deep into your palm from the broken jar you’d been carrying.

The sound jolted Wanda awake. She rushed from her room, eyes wide, her bare feet slipping against the wood floor. “Y/N?”

You were crouched on the floor, clutching your hand, blood dripping between your fingers. You tried to laugh it off, but it came out strained. “Guess I’m clumsier than I thought.”

Her breath hitched. She dropped to her knees in front of you, hands trembling as she reached for yours. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“It’s just a scratch—”

“Don’t,” she snapped, her voice breaking. Carefully, she pried your hand open, her touch gentle but desperate. Her fingers hovered just above your skin, trembling, as if she wanted to heal you with magic but feared what it might do.

Instead, she pressed a cloth against the wound, her eyes glistening. “You shouldn’t… you can’t keep doing this alone.”

You swallowed hard, the closeness dizzying. “I’ve been alone for a long time, Wanda. It’s what I know.”

Her grip tightened, fierce now. “Not anymore. Do you hear me? Not anymore.”

The words rang through the small cabin, raw and unguarded. For the first time, she wasn’t hiding behind coldness or distance. Her voice cracked, and before she could stop herself, she whispered, “I can’t lose you. Not after everything.”

Your heart hammered, stunned into silence. Her eyes burned into yours, green and wet with emotion, and you saw the walls she’d built shatter like glass.

For a moment, you thought she might finally close the space between you. Her lips parted, her breath brushing yours—but then she faltered, pulling back just enough to hold onto control.

Still, the truth was there now, out in the open, undeniable.

Wanda Maximoff, who had rejected and resisted every kindness you’d given, was no longer pretending she didn’t care.

And you both knew it.

~~~

The night was heavy, the cabin hushed except for the whisper of firewood popping in the hearth. You sat at the table, your injured hand resting on a towel while Wanda fussed over it with bandages and salve.

Her touch was gentle, almost reverent, though her movements trembled. She kept her eyes down, focused on the wound, but every now and then they flickered up to your face—quick, guilty, hungry.

You hissed softly as the alcohol touched raw skin. She flinched at the sound. “Sorry,” she whispered, dabbing carefully.

You smiled faintly despite the sting. “Funny… you never apologized when you clean my wounds.”

That made her pause. Her lips parted, her gaze lifting fully to yours. For a heartbeat, silence filled the air—thick, charged, fragile. Then she bit her lip, a flicker of heat crossing her expression before she quickly looked away.

She didn’t even realize she’d done it, not at first. But you saw it. The way her throat bobbed as she swallowed. The way her shoulders stiffened, as though she’d betrayed something she’d buried too long.

You broke the quiet, voice softer than the crackle of the fire. “Wanda…?”

Her fingers faltered against the bandage. She pulled her hand back sharply, clutching it against her chest as if it might shield her. “I—” She stopped, breathing uneven.

Her eyes locked on yours again, luminous with a storm of want and fear. “You don’t understand,” she whispered. “I didn’t… I didn’t think I could ever want someone like this again. Not after everything. Not after him.”

The rawness of it sliced through you. Her confession was not loud, not complete, but it was real.

You leaned forward just slightly, giving her the space to retreat if she needed. “And now?”

She bit her lip again—harder this time—her eyes flickering to your mouth before darting back up. The hunger there was unmistakable, even as she shook her head, fighting it. “Now… I don’t know how to stop.”

The words lingered between you, heavy as the snow outside. Her hand trembled in her lap, caught between reaching for you and clinging to restraint.

For the first time, Wanda Maximoff wasn’t running, wasn’t hiding. She was teetering on the edge—and you could feel every beat of her struggle, every heartbeat pulling her closer.

~~~

The fire had burned low, casting the cabin in long shadows. You sat at the table still, bandaged hand resting on the wood. Wanda had finished tending it, but she hadn’t moved far. She lingered across from you, her hands gripping the edge of her chair like if she let go, she might reach for you instead.

The silence between you wasn’t empty—it thrummed with the echo of her words. I don’t know how to stop.

Her chest rose and fell in uneven rhythm, green eyes flicking to your mouth and then jerking away like she’d touched something forbidden. She bit her lip again, holding herself hostage with restraint, and it made your pulse race.

You spoke softly, afraid to break the moment but needing to reach her. “Wanda, you don’t have to be afraid. Not with me.”

Her head snapped up, eyes wide, raw, vulnerable. “Don’t,” she whispered, the word trembling with desperation. “Don’t make it sound easy. Don’t make me want this more.”

You swallowed, your throat dry. “Is it so wrong to want something for yourself? Just once?”

Her breath caught. She pushed her chair back slightly, distance a shield she was desperate to keep. “You don’t understand. If I cross this line… if I let myself—” Her voice cracked, breaking into silence.

The air between you pulsed like a live wire. You could see it in her—the way her body leaned toward you even as her words shoved you away, the way her fingers trembled against the wood as if itching to touch.

She stood abruptly, the chair scraping back. “I should go to bed.”

You let her go, though your chest ached with everything unspoken. She lingered at the doorway, her back to you, shoulders rigid.

Then, just before slipping into the hall, she whispered so faintly you almost missed it:

“I don’t know how much longer I can stop myself.”

The words left the room heavier than the silence that followed.

And then she was gone, leaving you with the crackle of the fire and the racing of your heart, knowing that the dam was breaking—slowly, painfully—but it would break.

~~~

Wanda hadn’t spoken to you all day. She busied herself with chores that didn’t need doing, her silence a wall you didn’t dare press against.

But when evening came, you found her by the fire, sitting on the rug with her knees pulled to her chest. Her hair fell in soft waves over her face, her expression shadowed by something fierce and fragile.

You hesitated in the doorway, then crossed the room and lowered yourself beside her. “You’ve been quiet today.”

She didn’t look at you. Her eyes fixed on the flames, reflecting back their gold. “I had to be.”

“Why?” you asked, gently.

Her throat worked as she swallowed. For a long moment, she said nothing. Then, in a whisper like confession, she replied, “Because every time I look at you… I forget who I’m supposed to be.”

Your breath caught. “And who are you supposed to be, Wanda?”

Her head turned slowly then, green eyes locking with yours, unflinching despite the tremor of her body. “Someone who doesn’t fall into this. Someone who doesn’t ruin everything she touches.”

You reached for her hand—not forcing, just offering—and to your surprise, she didn’t pull away. Her fingers were cold, but they curled against yours like she’d been starving for the contact.

“Maybe you don’t ruin things,” you whispered. “Maybe you just need someone who sees you. Not the Scarlet Witch. Not the Avenger. Just… you.”

Her breath hitched, sharp and trembling. You saw the moment she broke—the way her lips parted, her eyes flickering down to your mouth, her restraint fraying thread by thread.

And then she moved.

Her hand slid up your cheek, tentative at first, like she was terrified you’d vanish. But when you didn’t—when you leaned into her touch—she closed the distance, pressing her mouth to yours in a kiss that was equal parts hunger and fear, need and apology.

It was not careful. It was not soft. It was a surrender.

When she pulled back, her forehead pressed to yours, her voice was ragged. “God help me… I don’t think I can stop anymore.”

You smiled faintly, breathless. “Then don’t.”

The fire cracked, the night hushed, and for the first time, Wanda Maximoff let herself want.

~~~

The kiss lingered only a second before Wanda surged forward again, fiercer this time, her hands fisting in your shirt like she’d been holding this back for years. Her mouth moved against yours with a hunger that made your head spin.

You gasped softly when her teeth caught your bottom lip, and she groaned at the sound—a low, needy sound that vibrated straight through you. Her body pressed closer, knees brushing yours as if she couldn’t stand a single inch of space between you.

Your hands found her waist, tentative at first, but when she didn’t recoil—when she leaned into your touch—you pulled her closer, and she nearly collapsed against you.

“Wanda…” you breathed, breaking just long enough to taste her name.

Her reply was a whisper, desperate and certain: “Don’t say my name like that unless you mean it.”

“I do,” you said, before you could think.

Something in her broke completely at that. She kissed you harder, like she wanted to drown in you, to erase every line she’d drawn between you with heat and touch. Her hand slid into your hair, tugging lightly, pulling a gasp from your lips that made her shudder.

“You drive me insane,” she whispered between kisses, her voice rough, hungry. “The way you look at me, the way you laugh—do you have any idea what you’ve been doing to me?”

Her confession burned hotter than the fire beside you. You pulled her closer, your hands sliding beneath the hem of her sweater, feeling the heat of her skin, the soft shiver that raced through her as your fingers grazed her waist.

She broke from your mouth just long enough to drag her lips down your jaw, then to your neck, her breath hot, her tongue tasting the sensitive skin there. You gasped again, clutching her tighter, and she groaned like she couldn’t stand how much she wanted you.

“Tell me to stop,” she whispered against your skin, though her hands betrayed her, roaming, trembling with need.

You tilted her face back up, meeting her eyes—wild, vulnerable, blazing. “I’ll never tell you that.”

Her lips crashed back to yours, sealing the promise.

And for the first time since she arrived at your door, Wanda Maximoff wasn’t fighting herself. She was fighting to have you.

~~~

Wanda’s hands were restless—everywhere at once, like she needed to map your body with touch, to claim it, to memorize it. Her lips devoured yours, her breath ragged as she pressed you back against the rug, the firelight painting your skin in gold.

You barely had time to think before she was straddling your lap, grinding down against you, her moan muffled by the desperate kiss. The heat of her body bled through every layer of clothing, her movements raw with need.

“God,” she gasped, pulling back just enough to catch her breath, her forehead against yours. Her green eyes blazed, dark and wild. “I want—” She cut herself off, shivering like the words were dangerous, but her body spoke louder, rolling her hips against you again.

Your hands roamed her back, slipping under her sweater, pushing fabric higher until her skin met the cool air. Wanda trembled beneath your touch, a sharp inhale escaping her lips.

You whispered, voice rough with hunger, “You’re so beautiful, Wanda.”

Her lip caught between her teeth, her body tightening like she was holding onto control by a thread. But then she kissed you again, deeper, fiercer, tugging your shirt over your head with impatient hands.

The sight of you made her exhale shakily, her gaze drinking you in. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” she murmured, before kissing down your throat, tongue and teeth marking a path that made you whimper.

Her hands slid down, finding the edge of your waistband, pausing there, trembling. She looked at you, pupils blown wide, lips parted. “Tell me if this is too much. Tell me if I—”

You silenced her with a kiss, guiding her hands with your own. “I want you, Wanda. I want all of you.”

Something broke in her then, and she obeyed the pull. Clothes fell away between gasps and hurried touches, leaving only skin and the blaze of the fire. Wanda pressed against you fully, her breath hot, her body needy, her mouth everywhere—shoulder, chest, lips returning to yours with unrelenting hunger.

Every moan, every shuddering gasp, every whispered plea tangled between you until the night was nothing but fire and want.

Wanda Maximoff wasn’t holding back anymore. She was consuming—and being consumed.

~~~

The fire cracked, sparks drifting into the air, but neither of you noticed. Wanda’s body pressed you into the rug, her skin hot against yours, her lips desperate and unyielding. Every kiss stole your breath, every scrape of her teeth sent shivers racing down your spine.

Her hands roamed like they had a mind of their own—tracing your ribs, gripping your waist, sliding lower until you arched beneath her touch. She groaned at the way you responded, low and throaty, her restraint gone with every sound you made.

“Please…” she whispered, her voice breaking, though she didn’t even know what she was begging for—only that she needed more.

You guided her hand lower, giving permission without words. Her fingers slipped past fabric, brushing heat, and the sharp gasp you let out nearly undid her. She bit her lip hard, watching your face as her touch grew bolder, teasing, exploring.

The first true sound you gave her—a breathy moan—made her eyes flutter shut. “God, you’re… you’re perfect,” she murmured, kissing you again, swallowing every noise you made as she worked you with trembling but eager fingers.

Your hips bucked against her hand, and she gasped at the slick heat meeting her touch, her thighs clenching in response. She moved faster, her lips never leaving yours except to moan into your mouth, matching your rhythm until you broke apart beneath her, crying out her name in the firelight.

But she didn’t stop. Not yet.

“Again,” she whispered, almost commanding, her voice ragged with want. Her eyes glowed red. And it was supposed to scare you. But nothing about Wanda could ever scare you now.

She shifted, straddling you fully, guiding your hand up her thigh until you felt how soaked she was through. The realization made your head spin—Wanda Maximoff undone for you.

You slid fingers under her, and she gasped—sharp, needy—her body jerking at the first touch. Her forehead dropped to your shoulder, muffling a cry as she rocked against your hand, chasing friction, chasing release.

“Don’t stop,” she begged, voice breaking. Scarlet tendrils danced around the room, the fire flickering and bursting in the hearth. “Please, don’t you dare stop.”

Her movements grew frantic, desperate, until she shattered in your arms with a broken moan of your name, her nails digging into your skin, her body trembling against yours.

And when she finally stilled, breathing ragged, she collapsed against you, her lips brushing your collarbone.

The fire burned low, but between you, the heat was endless.

~~~

The first thing you felt was warmth. The fire had died sometime in the night, but Wanda’s body remained curled against yours, her arm draped possessively across your waist. Her breath fanned over your collarbone, steady, almost peaceful.

You lay still, staring at the ceiling beams, your thoughts tangled. The night before played in fragments—her lips, her cries.

And how much you’d loved every second of it.

A faint movement stirred at your side. Wanda shifted, eyes blinking open, green irises glowing faintly in the morning light. For a moment she looked disoriented, vulnerable. But then her gaze found you, and the corner of her mouth tugged into the faintest smile.

“Good morning,” she whispered, voice hoarse from everything you’d shared.

You brushed her hair back gently. “Morning.”

She leaned up to kiss you, slow, tender—a stark contrast to the fire and frenzy that had ruled her hours before. But when your hand slid along her back, she shivered, and something darker flickered in her eyes.

She kissed your neck lightly, murmuring, “You look at me differently now.”

You swallowed. “Because last night I saw you. All of you.”

Her lips curved against your skin. “And you’re still here.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered.

Her fingers slid up your side, teasing, almost playful. But then her grip tightened suddenly, pinning you back against the mattress. She hovered over you, her hair falling like a curtain, her eyes glowing faintly again.

“Good,” she breathed, her tone laced with promise and warning. “Because I don’t share. And I don’t let go.”

You trembled, not with fear, but anticipation. Because in her gaze you saw both Wanda and the Scarlet Witch—lover and ruler, tenderness and fire—and you knew both belonged to you now.

And maybe, just maybe, you belonged to her even more.

~~~

The day passed in a gentler rhythm than most. After breakfast, Wanda insisted on helping with the chores, though you caught her sneaking little flicks of red magic to make things easier when she thought you weren’t looking.

You let her.

There was something strangely sweet about seeing her stack wood with one hand and stir the simmering stew with the other, humming faintly under her breath.

In the afternoon, the snow outside grew thicker, muting the world in a blanket of white. You both sat near the fire, mugs of cocoa warming your hands. Wanda leaned against you, her head resting on your shoulder, as if the closeness had always been natural.

“You’re too good at this,” she murmured suddenly, her voice low.

“At what?” you asked, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

“This.” She gestured vaguely at the cabin, the fire, the quiet comfort surrounding you both. “Making me forget. Making me feel… normal.”

You swallowed, your chest tightening. “Maybe that’s all you need right now. To feel normal for a while.”

Her eyes lingered on yours, heavy, unreadable. For a moment you thought she’d say more, but instead she pressed a soft kiss to your jaw, lingering just enough to make you shiver.

Evening fell, and the two of you cooked together—her chopping vegetables with quick, precise movements, you stirring the broth. When dinner was ready, you ate by candlelight, the glow casting Wanda’s face in soft amber, making her look impossibly beautiful.

Later still, you ended up by the window, wrapped in a single blanket. Wanda’s hand found yours under the wool, her fingers threading between yours with quiet certainty.

Neither of you spoke. You didn’t need to.

For the first time since she’d stumbled into your life, Wanda looked like she wasn’t carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. And for the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel like you were drowning.

It was peace. Borrowed, fragile, but real.

And both of you clung to it as if it could last forever.

~~~

The day began playfully. After breakfast, you both bundled in coats and scarves, stepping out into the fresh snowfall. The world was quiet and white, a fresh sheet over the farm, and for once, Wanda laughed—bright, unguarded—when you threw the first snowball at her shoulder.

She retaliated with surprising accuracy, her powers guiding her throw, and soon the yard rang with laughter, shrieks, and the sound of snow thudding against wool and skin. You chased her until you both collapsed into a drift, breathless, cheeks flushed from cold and joy.

For a little while, it felt like freedom.

Later, you led her toward the shed to fetch more firewood. The air inside was colder, heavy with the smell of wood and earth, the faint golden light of afternoon filtering through the cracks. You bent to lift a log—when you felt her eyes on you.

When you turned, Wanda was standing just inside the doorway, her breath uneven, lips parted. That flicker of red in her gaze again—the same one you’d seen the night before.

“Wanda?” you asked softly, setting the log down.

She didn’t answer. Instead, with a subtle flick of her hand, the door clicked shut behind her, the latch glowing faintly with magic. Your heart pounded as she crossed the space between you, eyes fixed on you like she was starving.

“Do you have any idea,” she murmured, her voice low, dangerous, “what you do to me?”

You swallowed hard, your back pressing against the wall of the shed. “Wanda—”

Her magic flared, scarlet wrapping around her fingers as she conjured it—the strap, solid and real, pressing against her thighs. She stepped closer, her breath warm against your ear.

“You think I can just watch you bend over like that? Pretend I don’t want you every second?”

You shivered, your body already yielding as her hands pinned your wrists above your head against the rough wood. Splinters bit at your skin, straw crunching under your boots.

And then she was inside you, fast and hard, her body driving yours against the wall. The shed filled with the sound of your cries, the sharp slap of hips, Wanda’s growls against your throat.

You gasped her name, and she bit your shoulder—not cruel, but possessive—her magic tightening around your wrists until you thought you’d come undone from the pressure alone.

She buried herself in you with every thrust, raw and unrelenting, the Scarlet Witch breaking through in flashes of red in her eyes, in the force of her dominance. And yet her other hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing tenderly against your skin, grounding you even as she wrecked you.

When you finally shattered around her, she followed, trembling against you, forehead pressed to yours. The strap dissolved into sparks, the magic dispersing into the cold air, and the only sound left was the ragged, uneven breaths you shared.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Then Wanda kissed you—slow, aching, almost apologetic.

“Mine,” she whispered, barely audible, before resting her head against your shoulder.

And you held her there, against the wall of the shed, knowing she meant it with every fiber of her being.

~~~

By the time you made it back into the house, your legs were shaky, your lips swollen, and straw still clung stubbornly to your coat. Wanda kept close behind you, silent, her expression unreadable as if she didn’t know whether to apologize or claim you all over again.

You went straight for the kitchen, tugging off your gloves, your cheeks still burning with a mixture of cold and everything she’d just done to you. “Well,” you said, a laugh slipping out, bright and unguarded, “that’s one way to split wood.”

Wanda froze in the doorway, her eyes flickering with red, her lips parting like she expected anger, fear, maybe even disgust. Instead, she saw your smile—your laughter.

“You’re laughing,” she said softly, almost accusing.

“Of course I am.” You leaned against the counter, grinning even as you caught your breath. “I think I’ve just discovered my favorite chore.”

Wanda blinked at you, stunned, as if your joy didn’t compute. “You… you’re not afraid? After what I just—”

“Wanda,” you cut her off gently, stepping closer. “You forget—I’ve seen both sides of you. The woman who makes cocoa with too much cinnamon. And the Scarlet Witch who could bring the world to its knees.” You touched her cheek, soft, reverent. “I like both. Maybe even need both.”

Her lips trembled at that. For once, she didn’t try to hide it.

You laughed again, softer this time, brushing your thumb over her skin. “I guess I get two Wandas in one. Twice as much to love, huh?”

Her breath hitched—sharp, startled—and then she kissed you. Not with dominance, not with hunger, but with something fragile and unspoken. Her hands clung to your waist, holding you like she didn’t quite believe you were real.

When you finally pulled apart, she rested her forehead against yours, whispering, “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

But from the way her body melted against yours, from the way she let herself smile at last, you thought maybe you did.

~~~

The cabin smelled like cinnamon and melted butter. You stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up, while Wanda frowned at the mixing bowl like it was an enemy she needed to outwit.

“Not too much flour,” you warned, watching her scoop with a little too much force. “Unless you want cookies hard enough to chip a tooth.”

Her lips twitched. “I’ve faced gods and monsters, but apparently flour is my undoing.”

You laughed, sliding behind her to guide her hand, your chest brushing her back as you tilted the scoop. Wanda froze at the contact, then relaxed into you almost unconsciously, her breath warm against your neck.

“Like this,” you murmured, your hands steadying hers.

When the dough was finally ready, Wanda flicked a bit of it at you with her finger, smirking at your shocked gasp. You retaliated with a dusting of flour across her cheek. Soon enough, the kitchen rang with laughter and playful squeals, both of you dusted white, your cheeks sore from smiling.

When the cookies finally emerged golden from the oven, Wanda bit into one, her expression instantly softening. “Perfect,” she admitted, licking a crumb from her lip. “Though maybe it’s because you made them with me.”

Your chest warmed at her words. For a moment, the two of you just sat there, sharing cookies and cocoa, looking for all the world like a couple in love.

The next day, you both ventured into town for supplies. The streets were busy with people finishing their New Year errands, stalls bustling with chatter and color. Wanda wore her scarf pulled high and a hat low over her hair, but her beauty was impossible to hide completely.

You were scanning the shelves in the grocery store when the owner appeared. He smiled a little too wide when he spotted you, offering you both a friendly greeting.

His eyes lingered on you before flicking to Wanda. “How’s life up at the farm?”

You answered politely, your usual warmth smoothing the exchange. But Wanda stepped closer, sliding her hand into yours with deliberate ease.

“It’s fine,” she said coolly, her Sokovian lilt sharpening. “We have everything we need.”

The owner’s smile faltered under her piercing gaze. He muttered something about stocking shelves and quickly retreated.

You glanced up at her, half-amused, half-exasperated. “Wanda… were you just—”

“Protecting what’s mine,” she interrupted, her voice low, almost a growl. Her grip on your hand tightened, eyes still glowing faintly with the embers of possessiveness.

Your lips parted, a teasing smile forming despite the heat rising to your cheeks. “So I’m yours now, am I?”

She looked at you then, her expression softening just enough to show the truth beneath the fire. “You always were.”

And in the middle of the busy shop, your heart stumbled, knowing she meant every word.

~~~

Snow began to fall again by the time you and Wanda trudged back from town, bags of flour, sugar, and medicine tucked under your arms. The air was sharp, the kind of cold that cut through coats, but it carried with it a hush that made the whole world feel smaller—like it belonged only to the two of you.

Once inside, you shook off the cold, set the groceries down, and stoked the fire until flames licked warmly at the hearth. Wanda draped her scarf over a chair, her cheeks flushed from the walk, and collapsed into the couch with a sigh.

“You glare at men like that often?” you teased lightly, unloading the flour onto the shelf.

Her green eyes narrowed at you, though her lips curved in the faintest smirk. “Only the ones who forget where their eyes belong.”

You rolled yours, amused, but your heart beat faster anyway.

By the time dinner was finished—simple stew and bread, nothing fancy—you both found yourselves back by the fire, wrapped together beneath one blanket. Wanda rested her head on your chest, her legs tangled lazily with yours, and for once there was no sharpness in her, no distance.

“Do you know how long it’s been since I sat like this?” she asked quietly, watching the flames dance.

You brushed your fingers through her hair. “How long?”

She hesitated, her voice almost fragile. “Since before Westview. Before Vision. Before… everything.”

You tightened your hold around her, pressing a kiss into the crown of her hair. “Then we’ll sit like this as long as you need.”

She tilted her head up at you, her lips twitching. “Careful. I might make you keep that promise.”

“Good,” you replied with a grin.

Her laughter bubbled out, soft and unguarded. It was a sound you’d chase forever if you could.

Later, when she caught you staring at her in the glow of the fire, she arched a brow. “What?”

“You’re beautiful,” you said simply.

Her cheeks warmed, and for once she didn’t argue or deflect. Instead, she nudged you back against the couch cushions and climbed into your lap, straddling you beneath the blanket.

“You make me feel like I’m allowed to be,” she whispered, her forehead brushing yours.

The fire cracked, the snow whispered against the windows, and for that moment, the world outside ceased to exist. It was just you, Wanda, and the steady rhythm of two hearts daring to beat in sync.

~~~

The firelight painted Wanda in gold, shadows dancing across her skin as she straddled your lap. Her hair fell around her face, her breath warm against your lips, her green eyes soft but glowing with something deeper—something that burned just for you.

“Wanda,” you whispered, your hands resting lightly at her waist.

“Shh.” She kissed you before you could say more—slow, tender, nothing like the wild hunger of the shed. Her lips moved against yours like she had all the time in the world, like she wanted to memorize the taste of you in this moment.

Her fingers trailed down your jaw, your throat, your chest, touching you as though she were mapping you, learning you by heart. “I don’t want to rush this,” she murmured against your mouth. “Not tonight.”

Your chest tightened at the vulnerability in her voice. You nodded, letting her set the pace.

She kissed down your neck, each press of her lips lingering, reverent. Her hands tugged at your clothes, not with impatience but with care, stripping you piece by piece until the blanket was the only shield left against the cool air. She slipped beneath it, wrapping you both in warmth, her body pressed flush to yours.

The fire crackled, casting shadows over the room as she explored you with touch and mouth, each kiss and stroke unhurried, deliberate. When she slid lower, tasting you slowly, you realized she wasn’t devouring you this time—she was savoring. Worshiping.

Your moans filled the quiet cabin, mingling with the pop of the fire, and Wanda looked up through her lashes, her lips glistening, her eyes heavy with devotion. “So beautiful,” she whispered, before sinking back into you, her tongue drawing you higher and higher until you broke apart in her hands.

But she didn’t stop there. She climbed back up, kissing you deeply, guiding your hands to her own body, coaxing you to touch her in return. The two of you moved together in a slow rhythm, firelight flickering over bare skin, every sigh and gasp an offering, every kiss a promise.

When release finally came again, it was softer this time—less like an explosion, more like a flood, washing over you both until you were left trembling, clinging, hearts racing in tandem.

Wanda collapsed against you, her face buried in your neck, her voice low and shaky. “You make me feel… alive.”

You held her tighter, stroking her hair as the fire dimmed, and whispered back, “That’s because you are.”

And in the hush of the winter night, wrapped in warmth and each other, it felt—for once—like forever.

~~~

The attic was cold and smelled faintly of cedar and dust. Wanda had insisted on helping you clean it out that morning, claiming she needed to “earn her keep.” You’d laughed and tried to wave her off, but there she was—barefoot in your old sweater, sleeves rolled up, determined.

She was the one who found the box.

Old notebooks, stacked manuscripts, envelopes stuffed with letters. And at the very bottom, a framed photograph. You, a little younger, smiling into the camera with a girl pressed against your side, kissing your cheek.

Your body went rigid when you saw Wanda holding it up. You had almost forgotten that picture was up there.

You set down the bundle of old quilts in your arms, brushing your hands against your jeans. “That was… my ex.”

Something flickered across Wanda’s face. Jealousy, perhaps, but also curiosity. “You look happy.”

You swallowed. The smile in the photo felt like it belonged to a stranger. “I thought I was. I gave her everything I could. My words, my time, my whole heart. But…” You shook your head, forcing a laugh that carried no humor. “Turns out, I wasn’t enough. She left for a guy she met at her job. Said he could give her the future I couldn’t.”

Wanda set the photo down carefully, her eyes never leaving you.

You hesitated, but something about her gaze—steady, unflinching—drew the rest out of you. “I used to be a writer. Still get a little money every month from things I published before. But when she left, the words stopped coming. And… my parents…”

Your throat closed, but Wanda’s hand touched yours lightly, grounding you.

“They kicked me out when I told them I loved women,” you whispered. “Said I was a shame to the family. I thought… maybe if I was quiet enough, invisible enough, it wouldn’t hurt. But loneliness has a way of clawing at you. Some nights, I thought about ending it. Tried, even. Until…”

You trailed off, eyes stinging.

“Until I showed up,” Wanda finished quietly, her voice breaking just a little.

You nodded. “Yeah. Until you.”

The silence in the attic was heavy, but it wasn’t suffocating. Wanda’s hand tightened around yours, and when you finally looked up, there were tears brimming in her green eyes.

She reached out, cupping your face with such care it undid you. “You were never not enough. Do you hear me? Not for them. Not for her. Not for anyone. And especially not for me.”

Your breath caught, and you leaned into her touch, fragile and raw, as Wanda bent her forehead to yours.

For once, you didn’t feel like a burden for telling the truth. You felt… seen.

~~~

Town was bustling that day, still draped in the remnants of holiday cheer. Snowbanks framed the cobblestone streets, children laughing as they tugged sleds behind them. Wanda walked close to you, hood up, her scarf pulled snug. She still wasn’t used to people not recognizing her—still half-expected whispers, pointing fingers.

You’d ducked inside a shop to pick up coffee, leaving her waiting by the corner.

That’s when he came.

A little boy, no older than seven, clutching a battered toy truck in mittened hands. He tugged at Wanda’s sleeve with innocent boldness. “Excuse me,” he said, wide-eyed. “Can you fix it? The wheel fell off.”

Her heart stopped. For a moment—just a fleeting, cruel instant—she thought she saw Billy. Same brown hair, same spark in his eyes.

Her fingers trembled as she knelt, taking the toy from him. She turned it over, willing her magic to stay still, forcing herself to twist the plastic wheel back into place the ordinary way. “There,” she whispered, handing it back.

The boy beamed. “Thanks, lady!” And then he was gone, dashing back to his mother.

Wanda stood frozen, her chest aching, until you returned with the coffees. One look at her face and you knew. You didn’t ask. You just slipped your hand into hers and squeezed.

That night, she barely spoke. You heard her pacing her room, the floor creaking under restless steps. And your heart cracked, knowing there was nothing you could say to bring Billy and Tommy back.

But you could give her something.

The next day, you came back from town carrying a small bundle wrapped in a blanket. Wanda looked up from the couch, confused. “What is that?”

You crouched in front of her, setting the bundle down gently. A tiny gray-and-white kitten blinked up at her with wide eyes, letting out the smallest mewl.

You gave a sheepish smile. “It’s not a child,” you admitted softly. “But for now… it’s all I can give you.”

For a moment, Wanda just stared. Then her lips trembled, and tears spilled over, silent and unrestrained. She scooped the kitten into her arms, pressing her face against its soft fur as a sob broke free.

You reached out, smoothing her hair back. “I just… I don’t want you to feel alone,” you murmured.

Through her tears, she managed a shaky smile, clutching the kitten close. “You don’t know what this means to me.”

And when she finally leaned into you, kitten nestled between you both, you realized something simple but profound. For the first time, Wanda let herself be comforted without guilt.

~~~

It was well past midnight when a sound broke the quiet of the farmhouse.

At first you thought it was a dream, but then a high-pitched mewl cut through the dark again. You blinked awake, rubbing your eyes, and felt Wanda stir beside you. The little gray-and-white kitten was pawing frantically at the bedroom door.

“I’ll get her,” you whispered, brushing Wanda’s arm gently. “Go back to sleep.”

She made a sleepy noise of protest, but you were already up, tugging on your sweater. The kitten nearly tripped you in its enthusiasm as you carried it into the kitchen. You set down a shallow dish of milk, crouching to stroke its tiny head as it lapped noisily.

“Hungry little thing, aren’t you?” you murmured.

When the milk was gone, you found yourself sitting on the floor, letting it climb clumsily into your lap. You laughed under your breath as it batted at your fingers, its claws barely scratching. “You’re a menace,” you whispered fondly, scratching behind its ears.

What you didn’t realize was that Wanda had woken up anyway.

She stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, watching you by the soft glow of the kitchen lamp. Your hair was mussed from sleep, your eyes still heavy-lidded, but the way you smiled at the kitten—gentle, patient, endlessly warm—made her chest ache.

You looked like a mother.

The thought startled her, yet it refused to leave. She pictured you cradling something smaller, something human, with that same tenderness in your eyes. She pictured a child with your smile, your laugh echoing in the halls of the farmhouse. She pictured herself beside you, part of it all.

The vision nearly undid her.

When you finally noticed her, you smiled. “Sorry, she woke us. I didn’t want you to lose sleep.”

Wanda stepped closer, crouching beside you. Her hand brushed your knee lightly. “You didn’t have to,” she whispered, but her eyes lingered on the sight of you and the kitten curled together.

“Maybe not.” You grinned softly, letting the kitten climb onto Wanda’s hand. “But it felt right.”

Wanda didn’t answer. She couldn’t—not with her heart thrumming with a longing she hadn’t dared to admit before. A longing for more than comfort, more than survival. A longing for a future.

And for the first time, she let herself wonder if she could have that—with you.

~~~

The kitten’s soft breathing filled the silence of the farmhouse. But Wanda was restless, her pulse drumming with something fierce and unrelenting. She lay in bed watching you sleep, the curve of your lips, the rise of your chest beneath the blanket. And when she finally touched your arm, whispering your name, you woke to the hunger shining in her eyes.

She kissed you before you could ask, slow and searing, her hand at your nape as though she’d waited forever. “I need you,” she whispered against your lips, voice trembling with command.

There was no hesitation in her hands when she positioned herself between your thighs, no faltering in her gaze as her magic shimmered faintly around her, entering you.

At first her rhythm was slow, reverent—her body rocking into yours with measured control, her breath catching at the way you arched beneath her. She watched every change in your face, every gasp, every tremor, her own restraint wearing thinner with each sound you made.

The Scarlet Witch flickered in her eyes when she tightened her grip on your waist, when her groans deepened, raw and uncontainable. Your cries filled the room, your hands clawing at her back, your nails leaving crescents in her skin as pleasure burned through you in waves.

“Y/N…” Wanda’s voice broke on your name, her forehead pressed against yours, her movements losing their composure. You felt her shudder violently above you, and then—unexpected, startling—you felt something hot, wet, and unbearably intimate spill deep inside you.

Your eyes flew open, but the sensation was drowned almost immediately by the intensity of your own release. Your body shook with hers, your cries tangled with her groans as she held you down through the storm.

When it was over, she collapsed against you, breathless, trembling. She buried her face in your neck, pressing frantic kisses against your damp skin. “You’re mine,” she whispered hoarsely, as though the words were the only anchor she had left.

You curled your arms around her, still shuddering, unable to think past the echo of warmth inside you and the way her voice shook with need. For the first time, you didn’t wonder if she pitied you—you only felt chosen.

~~~

The days that followed blurred strangely.

You told yourself it was nothing—just fatigue, the remnants of winter pressing on your body—but you couldn’t ignore how easily you snapped. Small things irritated you. A creaky floorboard, the kettle whistling too long, even Wanda’s insistence on finishing the chores herself.

And yet Wanda never snapped back. She only touched your shoulder gently, her gaze soft. “Maybe it’s your time of the month?” she said one evening, with a small, knowing smile.

You froze.

That was when the thought hit you—hard, cold. You counted the days in your head, the weeks that had passed since the last crimson mark on the calendar.

You had missed it.

Your stomach dropped.

That night, you told Wanda you needed to head into town for something small—firewood, coffee, anything to avoid her suspicion. She didn’t question you, only reminded you to take her scarf because of the cold.

At the pharmacy, the bright lights buzzed overhead as you stood frozen in the aisle. Your hand hovered before finally grabbing the small, rectangular box, shoving it under the other items in your basket as though hiding it from the world.

On the walk home, your heart pounded with every crunch of snow beneath your boots. You kept glancing at the bundle in your coat pocket, the weight of it heavier than anything you’d carried before.

When you stepped into the farmhouse, Wanda greeted you with a smile, but you barely met her eyes. You muttered something about being tired, excused yourself, and climbed the stairs to the bathroom.

The little box sat on the counter, accusing, waiting. Your hands trembled as you opened it, the instructions blurring through the haze of your panic.

This is impossible, you told yourself. It can’t be…

And yet, deep inside, you already knew.

~~~

You hardly slept. The test was still hidden in the bathroom drawer —its weight pressing on your chest like a secret you weren’t ready to give voice to.

All morning you moved through the house distracted, your thoughts spiraling. Should you tell Wanda? Would she believe you? Or worse—would she leave?

The crunch of footsteps outside broke through your haze. You peeked through the kitchen window, heart lurching when you saw Wanda in the front yard.

She wasn’t alone.

A cloaked man stood with her, his hands folded behind his back. His expression was calm, but Wanda’s wasn’t. Her eyes were glassy, rimmed in red as though she’d been holding back tears or rage. Her hands trembled faintly at her sides, sparks of scarlet flickering like dying embers.

You pushed the door open just enough to hear, the winter air biting your cheeks.

“…Vision,” the man said softly, as if the name itself could cut her open.

Wanda’s whole body went rigid. Her breath came out shaky, clouding in the cold. She turned her face away from him, her jaw tight.

“He’s gone, Stephen,” she hissed, voice low and breaking. “Don’t—don’t bring him here.”

The man called Stephen didn’t argue, only inclined his head, but his gaze flickered toward the house—toward you.

That was when Wanda noticed you.

Her eyes met yours across the yard, still wet, still burning. Something passed through them—anger, grief, confusion. But beneath it all… hesitation.

As if she stood on the edge of a choice.

You, clutching the doorframe with your secret. Her, still caught in the pull of a man who was both memory and ghost.

Her lips parted, but she didn’t speak. Not yet.

And for the first time, you wondered—when the moment came, would Wanda choose you? Or would she still belong to the ghost of Vision?

~~~

You lingered longer than usual at the stove, stirring the chicken paprika as if they needed more attention than they did. The silence pressed on you like a weight. Wanda sat at the table, fingers curled loosely around her mug of coffee, staring at the dark liquid instead of drinking it.

You took your place across from her, the wood between you feeling more like a chasm. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Finally, you cleared your throat, forcing steadiness into your voice.

“Why was that man here?”

Her head lifted slowly, and for a heartbeat you thought she wouldn’t answer. But then Wanda’s lips parted, the words dragging out heavy, reluctant.

“…Vision,” she whispered, and even the name carried a crack. Her gaze flicked to the window, as though she couldn’t bear to meet your eyes. “He’s… back. But not him. Not really.”

You froze, fork hovering halfway to your mouth.

She continued, bitterness sharpening her tone, “They rebuilt him. White. Cold. A weapon for S.H.I.E.L.D. to control. As if he was nothing but… metal. As if the man I loved was just a machine to dismantle, repair, and point toward their wars.”

Her eyes finally found yours, and they shimmered with fury and grief. Scarlet sparks flickered at her fingertips before she clenched her hands into fists.

But then—she inhaled sharply, voice dropping to something more fragile. “Stephen also said… he found them.”

You didn’t need her to say their names. You already knew.

“Billy. Tommy. Not children anymore, but… older. Teenagers.” Her lips trembled on the word. “They’re alive, in some way I can’t understand. And they’re out there. Needing me.”

The air between you grew taut, your own chest aching as you realized what she was asking without asking.

You set your fork down slowly. Forced yourself to look her in the eye, even though your throat burned with words you couldn’t tell her—the test hidden in the drawer, the truth swelling inside you like something fragile and new.

“Then you should go,” you said softly.

The words felt like breaking glass inside you, but you managed a small smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “If they’re alive… if they need you, Wanda, then you can’t stay here. Not for me.”

Her breath hitched, as if she hadn’t expected you to say it. Her fingers twitched against the table, reaching for you, then curling back before they touched.

And you sat there, your secret locked tight in your chest, wondering if you had just set her free— or if you had just let her slip away.

~~~

Wanda didn’t touch her food. She sat with her hands around her mug, untouched coffee gone cold, her knuckles pale from how tightly she held it.

Her gaze wasn’t on you anymore—it was somewhere beyond the walls, beyond the frost-tipped fields, beyond this quiet life. But you could see the storm in her eyes, the way her breath caught as if she were swallowing down pieces of herself.

“I don’t want to leave,” she said finally, her voice rough as though the words had clawed their way out.

Your chest tightened. You forced yourself not to speak, not to give her an answer too quickly. She needed to say it all.

Her hands loosened around the mug, trembling faintly. “Vision’s gone. I’ve accepted that. What’s out there—it isn’t him. It never will be.” Her lips pressed into a thin line, but there was no bitterness this time, only grief worn down to something raw and quiet.

She looked up at you then, eyes glassy. “But Billy and Tommy…” Her voice broke on their names. “They’re mine. They’re my boys. And if they’re lost, if they’re out there and needing me—I can’t just turn away.”

You swallowed hard.

The part of you that wanted to beg her to stay—selfish, desperate—clawed at your throat. But the other part, the one that had learned to love her deeply enough to want her happiness, even if it meant breaking you, kept you still.

She reached across the table then, fingers brushing yours. A small, fragile touch that felt like it held the weight of two impossible choices.

Her lips parted, but she didn’t finish the thought.

And you sat there, silent, your secret burning hotter in your chest: the test, the possibility growing inside you. You wondered—if you told her, would it change her choice? Or would it only make the leaving harder?

For now, you kept it hidden.

Wanda’s hand lingered on yours, her eyes flickering between your face and the window as if she were being pulled in two directions—toward the children she had lost, and toward the home she had begun to find.

~~~

The morning light poured through the kitchen window, pale gold across the wooden counter. You were pouring coffee when you felt it—that shift in the air.

Wanda’s presence behind you. Closer than usual.

Before you could turn, her hands were on your waist, spinning you to face her. Her eyes burned, glassy yet sharp, the kind of look that made your breath catch in your throat.

“Wanda—” you began, but she silenced you with her mouth.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. Her kiss was hungry, desperate, her tongue parting your lips as if she couldn’t get enough of you. She lifted you onto the counter in a sweep, her strength undeniable, her body pressing between your legs like she belonged there.

You clutched her shoulders, confused but unable to resist. Her hands roamed, urgent, claiming you as though she was memorizing every inch. Every touch, every kiss carried an edge of something rawer than desire.

It felt like a storm breaking.

When she pushed into you, the world vanished. Her pace was fierce, almost frantic, as though she needed this—needed you—before time ran out. Your head fell back against the cabinet, cries spilling out of you as she drove deeper, harder. Her face buried against your neck, grunts torn from her chest.

It was everything: overwhelming, intoxicating, the world narrowed to her body claiming yours.

And then—her grip on your waist tightened, her breath ragged, and you felt it. Heat spilling into you, sudden, impossible. She groaned low into your ear, trembling as she released, and you realized—this was no ordinary magic Wanda was wielding.

You shuddered with her, clinging, your body giving in until you came undone around her, tears stinging your eyes.

For a moment, all you could hear was the thundering of your heart and her ragged breathing.

But then, as her forehead pressed to yours, the thought cut through you like glass. This felt like goodbye.

Her hunger, her urgency—it hadn’t been about celebration. It had been about holding on, one last time, before letting go.

When she finally pulled back, her eyes lingered on yours, wet and aching. She kissed you once more, softer this time, and whispered, “I don’t know if I can leave you.”

But you knew. Somewhere deep inside, you knew she was already preparing herself to go.

~~~

The kitchen smelled of coffee gone cold. The counter beneath you was still warm from where Wanda had pressed you, claimed you, loved you like it was the last time she might.

You sat there in silence, the echo of her body still trembling through yours. Wanda stood a few feet away, back turned, one hand gripping the edge of the sink as if it were the only thing keeping her upright. Her shoulders rose and fell, her breath uneven.

Finally, she spoke.

“I have to go.”

The words sliced through the room like a blade.

You blinked, throat dry.

Her knuckles whitened against the porcelain. “To them. To Billy and Tommy. Stephen can take me. He says they’re lost in this world, waiting.” Her voice cracked, her head bowing. “I can’t ignore that. They’re my children.”

Your fingers curled tight in your lap, nails biting into your skin. You wanted to scream What about me? But the words died before they left your tongue.

Instead, you nodded once. Too quickly. Too stiff. “Then you should go.”

Wanda turned then, and the sight nearly broke you. Her eyes were wet, shimmering red in the corners like the magic she kept trying to cage. “I don’t want to leave you,” she said, voice hoarse. “But I don’t know how to stay when they’re out there.”

You forced yourself to smile, though it trembled. “They need you more than I do.”

Inside, your secret burned—the pregnancy test, the truth you hadn’t dared share. Your hand drifted unconsciously to your stomach before you caught yourself, shoving it back to your side.

Wanda’s eyes lingered on you, searching, almost as if she could sense something beneath your skin. But she didn’t ask. She only took a shaky breath, stepping closer, cupping your cheek with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

“Don’t think of this as goodbye,” she whispered. “Think of it as me finding a way to come back to you.”

But you already knew. Goodbye was written all over her.

~~~

Wanda was gone.

At first, there had been letters. Folded parchment, your name written in her graceful hand, pressed with faint traces of her perfume. You devoured them in silence, reading them over and over until the paper grew soft at the edges.

She wrote of her search, her fear, her guilt. I’ve found Billy, one letter said, her words shaky. He’s older, but he’s mine. He has power in him, magic, like me. He’s so much like the boy I dreamed of. But Tommy… he’s still missing. I can’t stop. Not yet.

And then, I am afraid, dorogoya. Afraid that if I return to you, if I see you, I won’t leave again. My sons need me. But part of me wonders if I need you more.

Yours always,

W

You traced those words with trembling fingers, your heart aching.

But she never left a return address.

So you couldn’t write back. Couldn’t tell her about the life growing inside you, the way your belly swelled with each passing week, the way your nights grew longer and lonelier without her beside you.

The letters slowed. Then stopped altogether.

And the months bled into each other, until your farmhouse no longer felt like a home but a cage. Every creak of the wood reminded you of her laughter. Every corner whispered the ghost of her touch.

Even the cat noticed her absence.

By the eighth month, your body ached under the weight of the child. Your hands shook every time a contraction rippled faint and false through you, fear clawing up your throat at the thought of being alone when the moment finally came.

You couldn’t stay.

So one morning, you packed. The cat in its cage. Just a few bags. Left the farmhouse behind, its quiet halls heavy with Wanda’s absence.

The city was loud, unfamiliar, but near the hospital. Safer.

You rented a small apartment with thin walls and a drafty window, the kind of place where no one asked questions if you came and went quietly. It wasn’t home. It never would be. But it was where you would bring this child into the world.

Wanda’s child.

Your child.

And as you lay in the narrow bed that first night, one hand curved over your swollen belly, you whispered to the little one inside you,

“You’re not alone. Even if she never comes back, we’ll be okay. I’ll make sure of it.”

But your voice trembled, because part of you still prayed she would.

~~~

The days blurred together, each one heavy with waiting, until the moment finally came.

Labor struck like a storm—fast, unrelenting. The sterile white of the hospital walls closed in around you as you cried out, clutching the rails of the bed, your body trembling from effort and fear. And then, through the haze of pain, came the cry. High, fierce, alive.

Your heart broke open.

She was a girl. Small, warm, her skin flushed pink against the hospital blanket. But when the nurse laid her on your chest, you saw it immediately—eyes green as spring leaves, hair dark auburn already curling faint at her crown.

Wanda.

You wept into her tiny face, pressing your lips to her soft head. “You’re mine,” you whispered, choking on the words. “Ours.”

And in that instant, you knew, you would never be alone again. Not truly. A part of Wanda lived here, in the curve of your daughter’s eyes, in the faint red spark that flared once when her tiny fist clenched and then vanished as though it had never been.

Perhaps it was Wanda’s magic that had made her, just as it had once made Billy and Tommy. Perhaps destiny had decided this child would be born.

Whatever the reason, she was yours.

~~~

The tiny apartment became a home. A crib by the window. Blankets folded in the corner. Bottles lined neatly by the sink. The cat lounging on the floor.

Nights were long, but you endured every one, holding her close, rocking her through tears and lullabies. And every time exhaustion threatened to break you, she would look up with those green eyes, so much like Wanda’s, and it was enough.

Days turned into months, months into years.

You watched her crawl across the faded carpet, her giggles filling the air with a joy you hadn’t thought you’d ever hear again. You clapped for her when she took her first wobbling step toward you, falling into your arms.

At two years old, she was quick on her feet, stubborn in her will, curious in every movement. She had Wanda’s seriousness when she focused, her same quiet intensity when her little brows furrowed in concentration.

And when she laughed—oh, when she laughed—it sounded like sunlight through clouds.

You whispered her name softly each night before bed, a name you’d chosen alone but with Wanda’s heart in mind.

Willow.

And as she curled into your chest, her small hand clutching your shirt, yours around the charm Wanda has once gifted you, you whispered too,

You’d lost track of how long this Wanda had been with you now, but each morning when you awoke she was there. It was odd how natural it felt when you’d been without her for so long, but whenever you thought about it too hard, Wanda was by your side and drawing your attention to something else, something kinder. 

She wasn’t the same, even in switching her full red suit for silk loungewear or tying her hair back how your Wanda often did when she was tired of it in her face. Still, she settled you into the routine you’d fallen out of upon being left alone. But now you were never alone. 

Wanda rarely let you leave her side,insisting on fussing over even the smallest sniffle you might make. If it were anyone else, you might be annoyed, but Wanda, different as she was, you relished being looked after. It was hard to be completely comfortable around her, sometimes she’d snap for the smallest of things, annoyed when you didn’t react as expected, but you were learning. She’d given up so much for you, it was only fair to try your hardest in return. 

“Your thoughts are very loud,” She wasn’t looking at you, sitting on the couch and flipping through a book while you shifted awkwardly on the rug. Typically whenever Wanda lounged like that, you’d join her, snuggling close while she wrapped her arms around your midsection and read her favorite passages aloud. Seeing her like that brought back a wave of memories you’d buried deep, but with all of her care, she didn’t hold you during the days or at night. It felt like a betrayal to your Wanda to ask anything of this new one, but you were inexplicably drawn to her. Brash as she could be, there was always a softness when she touched you and she never laid a hand on you that wasn’t gentle, almost reverent. Your heart yearned for her. “Did you need something?”

She could have you under her thumb in an instant with her magic, but she preferred for you to come to her willingly. Sure, she’d tamped down the more immediate concerns you had, flicking away any ideas of telling any of your friends how she’d come to be here— there was no need for them anymore anyways. She was the only person you truly needed and as such, it was only a matter of time that you sought her out. And she did so love watching you squirm as you did so.

“Use your big girl words or I can’t help.” Wanda finally looked up at you, placing her book in her lap where you so badly wanted to be. You couldn’t tell her though, it was too much. It wasn’t a new thing, something you and your love did whenever you grew stressed or overwhelmed… all you wanted was a cuddle. 

Your feet shuffled you closer until your legs touched her bent ones, the faint hint of skin to skin contact making you yearn desperately for more. “Do you.. I mean- is it okay if I sit there?” You were pointing at her lap while the words rushed from your mouth, shuffling back and forth on the rug. Fear of rejection grew each moment of silence you suffered and it was only when the first few tears pricked at the corners of your eyes that Wanda spoke up.

“Of course, sweetheart, come here.” In a brief moment of courage, you clambered into her lap, scooting the book out of the way and nearly hitting her in the face in your haste. She moved to avoid your clumsy limbs as much as she could, but eventually Wanda was the one who held your arms down and settled you over her thighs. The you she knew always loved laying fully atop her, joking that you were her special blanket— if the pleased hum against her throat was any indication, you were still a fan of this position. “I’m not going anywhere, you didn’t have to race.”

Instantly you felt embarrassed, remembering yet again that you were still getting to know this version of Wanda. Vulnerability wasn’t something you gave easily, but something about this variant made you more comfortable even when there was a niggling voice at the back of your brain to think better of it. Whether it was fully your choice or not to ignore it was unknown, but Wanda always said it was easier to let her think about those things; she’d take good care of you no matter what. If there was one thing this Wanda did nearly the same as yours was focus on your well being above all else and that trait alone was convincing. “Sorry, mo-” 

You stopped yourself before the title fully emerged; it was one thing to get used to her around the house, but you’d never called her anything. Wanda referred to herself as you knew she wanted to be addressed, but you simply couldn’t. As many nights as you cried yourself to sleep, mourning the loss of Wanda, sobbing out for your mommy, it didn’t feel just right yet to acknowledge this variant as that. She never pressed it, Wanda knew you’d see reason soon enough. Whether you were ready to admit it or not, she was your mommy and deep down you needed her just as badly as she did you. 

The gentle smile she offered paired with a kiss to the tip of your nose didn’t help resist giving in to her fully. Nor did the way she guided your head to her shoulder, petting your hair while she adjusted just enough to hold her book. Wanda was so good at subtle manipulation, you didn’t realize she was only distracting you while she searched your brain for your lingering reservations. The sooner you let your guards down the better and yes, her magic was helping you drop them faster, but the stubborn part of Wanda wanted your submission to be your choice at least in part. 

You were just so damn difficult sometimes, but she knew what made you tick.

Wanda let her book float only to allow both hands on your prone form, but she was hardly reading anymore. Her focus was on the thoughts rolling through your consciousness, listening to you fight whether to fully snuggle into her or stay right where you were. “You look cold, dearest, let me put the blanket over you.” To both of your surprise, you actually whined when you thought she was going to move you away from her, but you calmed as soon as she placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder. The blanket fell over you easily, covering you both in a toasty cocoon. Of course she worried for your comfort, but she was also privy to the knowledge that warmth rendered you oh so cute and sleepy, perfectly pliable and more willing to give in. 

“You’re comfy…” From what you could see, Wanda had gone back to her reading and even though her hand remained on your shoulder blade, a slight pout carved its way out of your features. You were so sure you’d feel better if you could just be close to Wanda, her attention was key; it was that exact need for attention that Wanda bet on winning out. “What are you reading?”

The redhead hummed, nuzzling her cheek into the top of your head while her free hand slid to the next page with the help of a red stroke. You grew more fidgety every moment she stalled your question, your nose poking into her neck as if to remind her of your presence. As if she could ever forget. “A book that’s way too much for you, don’t worry about it. You just rest right here and keep quiet while I finish up.” 

You agreed to be quiet, relenting just enough to burrow deeper until you laid on her chest. Her heart beat steadily under your new pillow, what had been your favorite place to rest your head. The silence let you think in peace, choosing to focus on the security you felt with Wanda back. Even if she wasn’t exactly yours, she could be and with each passing day, you felt your resolve weaken. Her hand had traveled from your shoulder to your lower back now and the patterns she was tracing at the base of your spine was just the type of treatment Wanda knew you melted for. 

Nimble fingers did wonders for letting you fall into submission, but the more you focused on them, the more you wanted those fingers elsewhere. Wanda was fully aware of how you preferred to fall asleep; warm, held, and your mouth around something. There was no way the witch didn’t know that about you, especially if she claimed to be just as close with your variant as you were with hers— if Wanda knew, that meant she could help. But you’d asked so much already, stepping out of your comfort zone and lying defenseless atop the woman who practically held you hostage in your own home… you dreaded the thought of having to ask for yourself. Your Wanda always just gave you wanted, but with this one, she wanted to prove a point. She’d only give you what you asked for when you told her; you wondered what good it would do to let her hear what she wanted most. 

While your brain fought through its issues, Wanda decided to go easy on you, offering you at least something until you were ready to ask for what you truly wanted. “Open up, let me see that pretty mouth.” Wordlessly, you were parting your lips, moaning  as soon as her fingertips rubbed the rough surface of your tongue. She pushed them in further and you closed quickly, trapping them carefully before Wanda could change her mind. Her digits managed to move just enough to maneuver in and out, watching your eyes roll. “Such a sweet thing, sucking my fingers so gently… All you had to do was ask.” 

You groaned, a deep needy sound, reverberating around her hand while her fingers stilled along the length of your tongue. It was good, yes, sating part of your need, but not enough. After a few moments you grew wiggly once more, your own fingers fidgeting with the hem of Wanda’s silk tank. It was so soft and smooth, you could feel everything, every shift she made, but more torturously you could see the thing you desired most. Her pert nipple lay such a short distance from you, ever so peaked from the chill in the air— when you subconsciously licked the pads of Wanda’s fingers, you were fully treating them as if they’d actually give you’d been missing.

You didn’t dare slip your hand under her shirt, no matter how desperate you felt; if you overstepped too far, there was no chance she’d give in. Slowly you let her fingers go, the chill on her fingers drawing Wanda’s attention from her book yet again. “What’s wrong, little one?”

Just that question had you whining, frustrated yet again that she couldn’t just tell what you wanted. To your knowledge, of course, in reality Wanda was deep in your head and she knew exactly what you were struggling to ask. She loved how you fussed with your lip, trying to take that final step out loud. Wanda was more patient with you than she ever had been, mostly to ensure you felt comfortable above all else, but when your frustration was yet again springing tears, she took matters into her own hands.

Maybe one day she wouldn’t have to manage your thoughts, but either way, she didn’t mind. It was all for your own good; there was no need to stress over something she could so easily help with. “Mommy?” 

“Yes, love?” She hadn’t had to influence you much to get the title out of you; it’d been hovering on your lips since that first night. The compulsion to call her your mommy had grown nearly overwhelming and although you never thought that word would cross your lips for as long as you lived, an odd sense of comfort fell over you as soon as you acknowledged her. Wanda waited so patiently, even as you mumbled your wishes so quietly she could barely make out what you were asking for. Poor little thing, still so shy… luckily for you, she was in a good mood. “You’re asking as if I wouldn’t give it to you… Lift your head, just a bit.”

You did as you were told, even holding back a whine when you were forced to shift your comfy position. It was all worth it as soon as Wanda was pulling down the front of her loose fitting tank, exposing her chest to your longing gaze. You laid down again as she guided you into place, your arms winding around her slim midsection effortlessly. Eager lips wrapped around her nipple without another word, acting on impulse before you could risk another thought of regret. Sweet milk flowed into your mouth as you sucked steadily and the familiarity of such an intimate activity might’ve set you at ease if you weren’t so pleased. Your whole body felt pleasantly limp, warm and comforted as Wanda rubbed your back and cooed sweet nothings to you. “My sweet girl, this is what you really wanted? Drinking mommy while I snuggle you?” 

“Mmph..” Your head nodded slowly, just enough to confirm before your eyes slid shut. Truly, you have no intention of zoning out as much as you did, but Wanda’s hand was in your hair, manicured nails scratching at your scalp so methodically, you couldn’t help but give in. Every muscle in your body relaxed so heavily, there was no way Wanda wasn’t taking your whole weight atop hers, but she’d never complain. After all of the trial and error, the searching and frustration, she finally had the thing she wanted most.

Maybe she could be a little overbearing, but the opportunity to have you here, safe and protected, was worth more than anything she’d sacrificed. You were all worth it. 

Wanda could tell you were growing tired when your mouth went slack, your head heavy on her chest. It was no secret that you fought sleep, even now when she’d come for you; since your Wanda died, you’d never known peace. She was determined to be that peace again for you once more. One delicate finger ran over the corner of your mouth, wiping away the bit of excess you’d messily left behind. “Feel better? Are you sleepy now?” Wanda chuckled as you hiccupped against her sternum, patting your back as she bundled you both in your favorite blankets. 

“Please don’t leave…” It was your deepest fear, the biggest thing holding you back from letting this Wanda into your heart. If this one left too, so would the last of your soul. You snuggled deeper into the couch, wished you could hold her hard enough to come close to matching her strength. Whenever Wanda wanted to leave, she could leave and the very thought of another one of your loves being ripped away made your eyes red with unshed tears. “I don’t want to be by myself.”

Your mother didn't understand why you were so opposed to spending time with her. She tried everything. Watching movies with you, cooking with you, going on walks with you. Anything she could think of - she tried. It seemed as though the only people you allowed near you were the new neighbor and occasionally Kate. She blamed it on something akin to second puberty. Maybe you found it 'lame' hanging out with your ma. Either way, like most mothers, she didn't care if you thought she was lame, or if you hated her. If she had to deal with a twenty-three-year-old teenager all day, then so be it.

It was mid-day on a Tuesday when she decided that it was time for an impromptu shopping trip. The mall was mostly empty, everyone being at work or in school, making the large building unusually quiet. She remembers the time before, when you were always so excited to go shopping with her, but now you simply follow her around, despondent and detached.

Too busy looking through the racks and racks of clothes, you're glad she doesn't notice the anxious drifting of your eyes to any mirror in the room that you can find. Natasha left marks on you that were hard to cover. The new bruise on your cheek and the hickeys on your neck are hiding behind layers of makeup that you attempted to cover them with, but the fear of them showing and your mom seeing is growing with every passing second. You wish you could have stayed with Natasha after she was done with you. You hate every second that you are made to spend away from her just as much as you hate spending time away from Wanda.

You had another session with Natasha scheduled for today, one that was supposed to start at nine in the morning. Until your mother decided to "surprise you" with a shopping trip. You could have been with her right now. Instead, you have to listen to your mom go on and on about what it was like while you were away. Catching you up on all the family drama, as well as gloating about how much money they were able to raise through the campaign to "rescue you." Not a single care about how you are doing, or how therapy is going. Not a single question about what it has been like for you to be back home, away from the love of your life, away from the only person that actually cares about you and your feelings. It's not that you need it, or want it but seeing your mother show some interest in your feelings and emotions would be nice.

Unlike your father, your mother isn't too hesitant to leave you alone. She tells you to wait by one of the stores while she goes to use the bathroom.

It's then that you see it. The shop looks fancy and too expensive. But your father set you up an account at the bank and you haven't been able to spend any of the money yet. The necklace is beautiful. It's silver and shiny and delicate. The one you're looking at has the letter A on it, and the price tag of three hundred dollars. The shop owner walks toward you and you notice she's shorter than you and looks a lot older than most people you've interacted with in years. You find it a little odd. Your return to the real world has been taxing, to say the least. You got so used to having Wanda be the one to deal with people, even when the two of you would go out together. It was always her talking to the clerks, or the waiters, or the drivers, or anyone else. She was always there to take care of everything and you got used to it. Now you have to do all of it on your own. Not only were you thrown back into the real world with no help or guidance, expected to deal with the people around you as if the last five years didn't happen, but your parents have now also started to suggest you get a job. They're slowly introducing you to the idea and you hate them for it. Wanda would never make you work. She wouldn't even think of it.

"Hello, love" the old woman's posh accented voice pulls you out of your head. "Is there anything I can help you with?"

You clear your throat, getting ready to civilly interact with a stranger for what feels like the first time. "Do you have this with W and N?" you ask pointing over to the glass, and the necklace that's behind it.

The woman nods her head and leads you further into the shop.

When she goes to pack the necklaces for you, you stop her, taking them from her and putting them on in the shop. You hide them under your shirt and feel the cold jewelry on your chest, close to your heart. Exactly where they should always be. The woman smiles, seeing your content smile as you place your palm over them once you have them on. "I'm happy to see you like them so much," she tells you, and you nod your head in agreement, "They're perfect."

"Good," she says, typing something into the register, "so that will be six hundred dollars,"

You don't actually know how much money your father put on your card so when you give it to the lady all you can do is hope that the amount on it is sufficient. Your leg is bouncing as you watch the little screen loading and you almost let out an audible sigh of relief when it turns green and reads 'payment accepted'. "Thank you for your purchase." the woman says as she hands you the receipt.

You throw the piece of paper in the first bin you see and make your way back to the toilets. That's where you see your mom - on the phone, pacing around like a mad woman. You lost track of time while you were in the shop, making your mother return to you not being in the spot she told you to wait in. Her eyes widen when she sees you, and she says something into the phone before hanging up as she stomps toward you. You can tell she's angry. Her nails dig into your skin when she grabs your arm. "Do not ever do that again," she hisses as you attempt to get her to let go of you. She sees the way you're squirming under her touch and abruptly releases you from her grip.

The atmosphere between you is tense after that and you're fighting to hold back your tears the whole drive back to the house. You go straight to Natasha's house once your mom parks in the driveway. It's partly a subtle dig at your mother, a non-verbal, 'It's your fault I have to go speak to my therapist now,' She stands by the entrance to her house and watches you from across the street as you knock on Natasha's door. Natasha gives her a small smile when she sees her before letting you into the house.

"I hate her," is the first thing you say to Natasha after she shuts the door.

"Me too," Natasha agrees, teasingly copying the childish tone of your voice. She had a whole day planned out today but your mother came in the way of that and it made Natasha want to charge into the house across the street and take you from there herself.

"Go wash that makeup off your face," she says just as you're about to sit down in your designated seat on the couch.

Having washed your face, and wanting to keep Natasha as happy as you can you also remember to take off your underwear, throwing it in her laundry basket before making your way back to the living room.

You only had two 'sessions' so far. The second went similarly to the first and thinking today's will follow the same pattern you go to sit down on the couch but Natasha stops you.

Instead, she motions you to her. You watch as she unzips her jeans and pulls out her strap. The sight makes your mouth water and your arousal grow. Your knees weaken and you almost fall to them, but you wait for Natasha's instructions. "Come sit," she says as she leans back into her chair. She pulls you down onto her cock without warning and you press your face into her shoulder to muffle your pained scream. "There you go princess, always taking Daddy so well," she praises and pats your back. And then she simply holds you, unmoving. Letting your rest your head against her shoulder as the two of you sit in silence, her hand rubbing random patterns on your lower back. The softness of the moment makes you wonder if she's doing this as a favour for your Mommy. Natasha is never this gentle with you.

"Are you actually a therapist?" you ask once you get used to Natasha's cock filling you up. The question has been on your mind since she first said that was her job during lunch with your parents.

"No, princess," she laughs and pulls you closer, making you moan in pleasure from the way that made the toy move inside you.

"Nuh-uh," she shakes her head, "You're just Daddy's little cock sleeve today, baby,"

She has stuck to her words and hasn't let you cum since she's been back. Your only release was given to you by Kate and you're sure that that is also one of the reasons Natasha is being so strict and really following through with this punishment.

"Daddy, please," you start to beg as you bounce on top of her, hoping to be subtle enough that she'll let it pass. The necklaces around your neck jingled when you moved, grabbing Natasha's attention.

"What's that?" Natasha asks, her hold on your hips tightening.

"I'll tell you if you let me cum," you use your best puppy dog eyes on her.

"You're trying to bargain with me, little girl?" she raises an eyebrow and bucks her hips up.

You start rolling your hips a lot less discreetly now. "I'll do anything,"

"Anything?" she holds your chin and you feel the rough callouses around her fingers scratch your smooth skin.

You nod your head. And within a second she pushes you off of her, onto your knees. You whine in frustration and press your forehead into her leg before she grabs your hair and shoves the strap into your mouth. "My cock sleeve," she says again, stroking your hair and pushing you down slowly. You look up at her through teary eyes and she leans back into her chair, satisfaction evident across her features. "Go on," she says as you try your best to breathe through your nose. She moves her hips up and pushes your head lower making you gag on her cock. "Take it," she grunts, continuing to hold your head down once you reach the base of the toy, you're gripping her jeans as you feel her cock fill your throat. "You haven't had Daddy's cock in your mouth for a while huh baby?" she starts to move your head up and down using your mouth however she pleases, "Are we gonna have to train that pretty mouth of yours all over again?"

It's not long before Natasha is pulling you off, "Get on the table," she tells you as she gets up. Leaving you sitting on the floor and attempting to catch your breath. You enjoy the tingly feeling your get when you see her towering over you the way she is now.

It takes you a moment to recollect your bearings and finally lay on the large coffee table in the middle of the living room. You hold yourself up on your elbows and watch as Natasha lifts up your skirt and easily stuffs your wet cunt with the spit-covered toy. Your eyes roll back, and your head follows. You moan as she bottoms out inside you again and starts to move her hips. The table moves under you and you worry it'll break but Natasha doesn't seem to mind. She places both of her hands on either side of you, holding herself up above you but not ever looking at you. Her attention is fixed on the way your pussy hugs her thick cock as she rams it deeper and deeper into you with each stroke.

"Daddy," you whine again. Your hands are gentle, as if holding delicate porcelain, when you place them on her face, it's a stark contrast from the way she touches you but you don't mind. You make her look at you and when she finally does you beg again.

"Show me what's jingling around your neck, and I'll consider it,"

In a moment of defiance, you lay down onto the table fully and bring your hands to your chest, holding the necklaces protectively under your shirt as you shake your head. "That wasn't the deal."

Natasha rolls her eyes, "There wasn't a deal," she reminds you but seemingly not caring enough to argue with you on it any further, she brings her hand down and starts to rub your clit.

She doesn't help you ride it out and pulls away as soon as she sees you reach your high, effectively ruining what you have been needing for weeks.

"Go on, let's see," she says, her attention is on pulling her pants back up after she detaches the toy and throws it onto the table next to you.

You grunt in annoyance, but pull the two necklaces out from under your shirt.

They glimmer as the sunlight reflects off of them, and you cannot figure out what Natasha is thinking as she finally sees them. "It's N for Natasha," you say as you point to the one you got with her initial, "And W for Wanda" you add, pointing to the W.

You're still sitting on the table so you have to move back a little and look up when Natasha comes closer to you and holds the pendants between her fingers. "Do you like them?" you ask, hopeful.

"Why'd you get them?" Natasha sounds unsure of her own words as they leave her mouth.

"Well one represents you and the other represents Mommy," you start to explain again, even though you're sure she understands that, "I want you two close to me all the time, even when you're not,"

The pendants clank a little as they hit one another when Natasha abruptly lets go of them and turns away from you. You don't notice the lone tear that escapes her eye before she wipes it away quickly. But you do hear the subtle way her voice cracks when she tells you that "You should go home," and leaves the living room. Her reaction puzzles you, leaving you sitting there wondering what you did wrong.

-------

Eventually, you and Kate got pretty good at following the no-touch rule. She kept at a modest distance from you at all times until you burst in through the front door with tears streaming down your face, and marched right over to her. Your big teary eyes were begging her to hold you and so she did.

She's gentle and soft when she wraps her arms around your waist, but still a little hesitant. She releases a shaky breath when you push your body further into hers, and copy her in wrapping your own arms around her waist.

She's risking a lot just by giving you one comforting hug. She knows what Natasha is capable of but what scares her the most, is not knowing what Wanda would do to her. She knows she's dangerous and impulsive just from the fact that she kidnapped you. And she knows how possessive Wanda is from the mark she left on you.

The rules are there and now that she got to know you better she knows that it's close to impossible that she'd be able to undo the years of mental manipulation you have gone through. Wanda has you wrapped around her finger. You are entirely devoted to her. And she knows that you will tell Wanda what she did. If you haven't already told her. The thought alone makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

Your sobbing eases up a little and Kate holds you at arm's length to look you over. "Are you okay?" she asks with eyes full of concern for you.

"She broke it," you try to keep your voice strong as you reach for the lone necklace around your neck.

"That's okay, we can go buy another one," Kate is quick to respond, coming up with a solution in an attempt to make you feel better.

But she doesn't get it. It's not about the necklace. It's about what it represented to you. It's about Natasha breaking it. Buying another one isn't going to mend the way she shattered your heart when she ripped the chain apart. You want to explain it to Kate but you don't think you'd be able to without breaking down and crying again.

---

Kate reminds you of Wanda in the way she looks after you and makes sure you're okay. She tells you to wait for her on the couch and a few minutes later she comes back with a bunch of fluffy blankets in one hand and ice cream in the other. You spend the rest of the day watching movies.

You don't have the strength to even acknowledge your parents or brother as they each slowly make their way home from work.

Kate tells them you're not feeling well.

She brings you the dinner your mother made and, as the three of them eat in the dining room, you and Kate eat together on the couch. When everyone settles in for the night, Steve tries to convince Kate to come to bed with him but she insists on staying with you for a little longer. Stating that she wants to finish the movie you're watching.

You noticed Steve has been getting jealous of how close you and Kate got in the last few weeks. You try to suppress a giggle at his annoyed groan and the way he stomps up the stairs.

You cuddle up to Kate a few minutes later and feel the way she tenses up as soon as you lean into her. You wrap your arms around her and rub her back, hoping the action will make her relax. It does, and soon her hands are playing with your hair as you slowly fall asleep in her safe embrace.

---

It wasn't an action that was out of the ordinary for Natasha. She has hurt you both physically and emotionally and made you cry more times than she could count. What was out of the ordinary was how your reaction made her feel. She used to revel in your pain, get off to it.

This was different though.

When you left her standing there with the ripped chain of your necklace between her fingers and the N pendant laying on the floor at her feet, she felt like throwing up. All she could see was the way you looked up at her, with so much hurt and betrayal. You have never looked at her like that before. You never cared enough to look at her like that before. In that moment, she realised that the necklace meant a lot more to you than she was willing to admit.

Her heart ached to follow after you but she was frozen in place. It felt like an avalanche of emotions collapsed onto her. Her emotional suffering was becoming physical. Her bones were being crushed under the weight of all her love for you, and all the mistakes she keeps making.

The desire to forget continued to grow for the rest of the day. And she couldn't sleep that night. All she could think about was one thing, one single thing that she promised she would never come back to; a way that she could really forget. A way to numb everything she felt. It was a solution to all her problems, just like it always was. Her only solace. Just a bottle or two and everything would go away. All these feelings that she's feeling. All this pain. It would all let her be, and everything would go back to how it was before. She would be to you who she was always meant to be, who you and Wanda both expect her to be.

She spends the next morning pacing around her house. Her lack of sleep is clear in the dark circles under her eyes and in her disheveled hair. Her mind is racing and she's desperately searching for something, anything, to keep her occupied. Anything to prevent her from grabbing her car keys and driving to the closest corner shop. This would usually be you, her perfect distraction. But now it is you and the things you're causing that she needs distracting from.

She doesn't notice you when she leaves her house.

---

You're sitting at your desk with a clear view of her front door. Everyone went to work, leaving you alone in the house. You spent the whole morning wishing Natasha would come over and thank you for the necklace. Or just come over and hold you in her arms. When you see her front door open you sit up and hope that she's finally coming over. But then you notice the car keys in her hand and watch as she walks over to her car. You slump back into your chair and hold the one necklace that she hasn't broken yet.

It's just you and Wanda now.

---

You weren't waiting for her to come back. You just didn't have anywhere else to go, or anything to do. And she wasn't gone that long. You were still sitting by the window when she came back. Your heart sunk to your stomach when you saw her holding a brown paper bag. You didn't have to see inside to know what she went out to buy.

The panic makes it hard to breathe, your heart feels like it's beating a thousand beats per minute and without a second thought, you run out of the house and towards hers.

She's already inside by the time you reach her front door. Your body collides with it from the speed at which you're running and you begin to bang your fists against it, desperate to be let in.

You almost fall into the house when she opens the door. "What the fuck do you want?" is the first thing she says to you and you manage to ignore the pain it caused because that doesn't matter right now. What matters is that she lets you in and gives you whatever alcohol she bought.

"Can I come in?" you ask, still very out of breath, and very nervous.

"No," she attempts to close the door but you use all of your body strength to keep her from doing so.

"Fuck off," she says and you make the mistake of placing your foot in the doorway. When she proceeds to attempt to slam the door shut again you think you can almost hear the bones in your foot breaking.

The sharp, stabbing pain shoots up your leg and through your whole body, you almost scream in pain but you manage to muffle the sound with the palms of your hands. You fall onto the floor, hoping it will ease the pain, but your foot is throbbing and there are tears streaming down your face as you continue to attempt to suppress your pained sobs.

"You are so fucking stupid," Natasha groans after seeing what happened.

You ignore her and quickly take off your shoe and sock. Your shoe served as little protection from the edge of her door and the skin on the side of your foot ripped from the impact making your foot both swollen and bloody.

"Did you break it?" Natasha asks, putting all the blame on you.

"No, it's fine just let me in and I can put some ice on it,"

"You need to go to the ER," she points out and you panic again, you can't leave her alone, if you do she'll drink. And you know she will regret it, even if she might not realise that now. "I'll call you an ambulance,"

"No, don't," you say quickly. You grab the door frame and put all your weight on your unharmed foot so that you can stand up and show her you're okay. She rolls her eyes, seeing right through you.

"Walk on it then," she says as she takes a step back and opens the door more. The action allows you to see into her house, and you notice the brown bag. It's on the floor, its contents no longer inside it. Your worries are confirmed when, with just a little more looking around, you notice the bottle on the cabinet by the stairs.

"I just need to ice it and it will be fine," you argue again, determined as you slowly place your foot on the floor and attempt to take a step forward into her house. You wince as soon as you try to step on it, making Natasha snicker.

"Do whatever you want," she says as she stands in the way between you and her house not letting you in any further, "But do it in your own house,"

She takes a step forward and makes you back up.

"Natasha, please," you beg as tears start to sting at your eyes again. She thinks you're begging her to let you in, maybe to take her to the hospital, but all you're asking is she doesn't drink that bottle, not even a drop.

Still, refusing to let you into her house she sighs as she grabs her keys, "I'm taking you to see a doctor," she says before locking her front door behind her.

You're still holding onto the wall, the pain in your foot slowly spreading to the rest of your leg and making you dizzy. With an eye roll to show just how much of an inconvenience you are, she picks you up and holds you in her arms as she carries you to her car. She hears you mumble "I'm sorry," against the fabric of her shirt, and has to bite her tongue to stop herself from saying that she's the one who should be sorry. For everything.

---

You notice that she isn't wearing the chain you got her around the time the nurse comes back with the X-Ray image of your foot and explains to you that your foot indeed isn't broken. You don't hear most of what she's saying after that due to the way your mouth goes dry, a stone forms in your throat and all you can think about is how to breathe. You nod your head along to whatever she's saying until she leaves and when she does you let your body relax as you lay back on the uncomfortable hospital bed. Your eyes are closed and you try to ignore the feeling of Natasha watching you. A few tears start to roll down your cheek and you wipe them away before she can notice.

But she notices. She always does.

"Why are you crying?" her loud and unkind voice almost echoes in the sterile hospital room.

The bright room makes you have to blink a few times before you can keep your eyes open and see her clearly. Natasha is wearing black ripped jeans, and one of the older pairs of her black combat boots. The shirt she's wearing is one you wanted to borrow before but she didn't let you. You don't know how to ask without sounding pushy, or judgmental, so you just say it. "Were you going to drink today?"

Natasha scoffs.

You sit up and fight the pain the movement caused, "Have you been drinking this whole time?" you have to ask, the question was clouding your mind since you caught her with the bottle. What if she's been sneaking out to buy alcohol this whole time and you just now managed to catch her? You don't even want to think about that being a possibility.

You watch her knee bounce as she starts to fidget in her seat. You're not sure if it's from anxiety or anger. When you look into her eyes you know you messed up. Her attention turns to the door for a brief second. The nurse closed it on her way out.

"You need to learn to mind your own business," she says, her voice low and venomous.

"I'm just worried about you," you try to argue, "I want you to be okay,"

Your words aren't comforting at all. They're exactly what she has been trying to get away from.

It's those few words that make the walls of the hospital room close in on her. It's those words that make her want to run to you and away from you at the same time.

She's being pulled in two directions and it's tearing her apart.

The legs of the chair scrape the floor when she stands up abruptly. With only a few steps she's next to your bed and with her hand around your neck. Her nails dig into your skin and her grip increases as she pushes you back and into the mattress. She's towering over you as she holds you down against the bed. Placing her other hand next to your face she uses it to hold herself up as she comes face to face with you.

"Maybe you shouldn't," she talks through gritted teeth.

Much to her dissatisfaction, you don't cower in fear. Instead, you take her on in this staring contest. For a brief moment, you realise that the way she's looking at you is different, her pupils aren't blown out like they usually are when she's like this. Instead, she looks sad. Before you can study her any further the pressure on your throat gets tighter and your vision starts to get blurry.

You grab her wrist but your attempts at pulling her off you are useless. What finally makes her move away is the sound of footsteps in the hallway outside of the room.

When they offer you crutches Natasha tells them that you don't need any, claiming you mostly just stay home. The nurse looks a little confused but doesn't argue as she subtracts the price of the crutches off your bill. After that Natasha mostly just stays quiet. The nurse tells you to not walk too much, and when you do, to try and not put too much weight on your foot.

On your way out of the hospital, Natasha lets you wrap your arm around her shoulder and lean on her but as soon as you get to the parking lot she lets go. You almost fall over at how quickly, and without warning, she stepped away. She walks ahead of you, way faster than you can as she gets to her car while you slowly follow after her.

The drive is quiet, neither of you saying a word even though there is so much to say. You don't expect her to pull over when she does, but about halfway home she stops the car and tells you to get out. You look at her confused, so she tells you again, "Get. Out."

"No," you cross your arms and stay sat in your seat.

She undoes her seatbelt so that she can face you fully.

The slap that lands on your cheek shocks you enough to give Natasha time to undo your seat belt and wrap it around your throat. She pulls it and pulls it until no air or blood can travel through you. You try to fight her, kicking your healthy leg around, and flailing your arms, to get her to let up, but she doesn't.

She just watches you struggle.

There's a relief that washes over her once she realises that she still finds joy in this. She still enjoys hurting you. No matter how much you make her think she wants to look after you, the pain she wants you to feel always wins.

You're on the edge of passing out when she decides you've had enough. Your body is too weak to fight so when she opens the passenger door she's able to push you out with ease.

You're unable to hold your body up so you continue to lay on the ground, your neck and foot in burning pain, as you listen to her car speed away.

---

You don't know how long it takes you to limp home but you're relieved to see no cars in the driveway by your house when you finally reach your neighborhood. There wasn't another thought in your brain the whole time you walked, all you could think about, all your could chant in your head was - Please don't drink. Please don't drink. Please don't drink.

You don't know what would happen to you if she did. With no Wanda around to keep her grounded, Natasha could and would take it too far. She could kill you. But that wasn't a worry of yours, maybe it should have been but it wasn't, your concern was for her. You didn't want her to go down this road again for her own good.

You check your reflection in the window of Natasha's car and notice the bruises around your neck and the red marks where her nails previously dug in. You're only wearing one shoe, and you see the other is still on Natasha's porch. Your foot hurts even more than it did before your hospital visit and you don't really want to have to face her again. You want to go home and maybe take a warm bath. But you know you have to go check on her.

You use the railing to support your body weight as you walk up the few steps and onto the porch in front of Natasha's house.

Too determined on making it back home, you managed to stay in control of the worry that Natasha was at home getting drunk, but when she opens the door it all comes pouring down. You didn't think you had any more tears left to cry but apparently, you do. The sighed "Natasha," barely makes it out of your mouth, and the dried tears on your cheeks are soon met with fresh ones.

Natasha doesn't say a word. But you're relieved when she leaves the door open as she walks away and back into the house.

You follow her into the kitchen, but your exhausted body takes over and you continue into the living room as Natasha makes her way to the fridge. You sit down on the couch where the unopened bottle of Vodka now is. Placed in the middle of the coffee table, with the chain with your initial on it right next to it. You want to grab the bottle, run to the kitchen and pour it down the sink but your body is too tired to move.

When Natasha comes back into the kitchen she's holding a glass of water and an icepack. Still not saying a word she hands you both and takes a seat on the opposite side of the couch.

"I didn't drink," she says finally once you chug the whole glass of water and wrap the ice pack around your foot. "I haven't been drinking,"

The uncertainty that has been weighing you down since she left you in the middle of the road finally feels like it's being lifted.

You want to tell her that you're proud of her for it, but you're scared of how she might react. So instead you say "I'm sorry for probing,"

"I should be the one apologising," It escapes her before she can stop, and the sound of the bottle calling her name gets louder.

“You don’t need to apologise,” you say fully aware of what you are to her. “I know I don’t have a right to be upset with you,” you mumble, looking down at your feet.

"No you don't," the words don't sound vicious or threatening, they sound more like a realisation. Yours, to her, were a reminder.

You are a constant reminder of what she can't feel and of what she cannot have. You don't have the right to be upset that she hurts you over and over again, not now and not ever. That is how it has always been, she does whatever she wants and you accept it without question. These things cannot change.

"When's Mommy coming home?" you ask in an attempt to change the topic.

She didn't think a simple question like that would hurt so much. It's different than any other time you asked because this time it's out of a genuine need for someone who isn't her. You need Wanda to come back and give you the care that she is refusing to give you. The care that she so badly wants to give you but she can't. Her role is to make you suffer.

"I don't know," she's bitter and the answer is snappy and short.

"Okay," you don't know where else to go from here so you get up. "I gotta get back before they get home,"

You stand on one leg and contemplate what to do about the Vodka, you can't leave it with her.

“Thank you for the chain,” Natasha speaks before you can ask her about the bottle. It's her attempt at getting you to stay a little longer, not that you'd ever realise it. The way she's been treating you these last few days makes it hard to believe she'd ever want to keep you around.

"I got one for Mommy as well," you say as you turn to face her. She's still sitting on the couch, but she's not looking at you, she's looking down at the table behind you. At where the bottle and the chain are. You're not sure which one she's looking at. You walk a little further away so that you're closer to the door when you speak again. "I wanted us all to have one," it's the first time you're voicing any kind of negative emotion towards what she did with your necklace and you're terrified of how she'll react. "I've been carrying the two of you around with me, and I thought you might want to have me with you too," you admit and you see what you think is a hint of guilt in the way Natasha's head lowers slightly. You can't remember ever seeing her feel bad for the things she's done to you. Explaining it away as you simply seeing what you want to see, you shrug your shoulders. "But if you don't want that, it's fine."

It's not fine. Your heart is breaking. You need her and you want her to understand that.

"I do want that," she clarifies, standing up and making you reflexively take a step back. You don't believe her.

"Why'd you break mine then?"

On most days you wouldn't get away with questioning her, especially not like that. But this time she actually attempts to give you an answer. The answer scares you though. Not because of what she says but how she says it.

She screams "I don't know!" so loud it makes you flinch. Noticing your reaction, she repeats the words again this time quieter and slower, "I don't know," She grabs your shoulders and bends her knees a little so that she can be face to face with you, "I don't know, okay?" you don't say anything but you can almost feel the bruises forming on your upper arms, "I just did it because I was angry with you and I'm sorry."

You don't ask any more questions, even when one is begging to come out. Why were you angry at me? You don't voice it though, only nodding your head as a way of telling her you accept her apology and hoping she'll let go of you.

She relaxes a little seeing that you forgive her and stands up straight again as her arms drop to her sides, "I really do like it you know?" she grabs the chain before turning to you again.

"Do you want me to help you put it on?" you ask, hopeful.

She nods her head and gives you the chain before turning around so that you can put it around her neck. Still facing away from you she runs her fingers over the cold jewelry and releases a breath she feels she's been holding for years.

"I'm sorry I made you walk," she says still facing away from you. You're so tired, all the care about how she might react fades away as you lean your forehead against the space between her shoulder blades and wrap your arms around her torso. You bring your body closer to hers and she immediately places her own hands over yours.

"It's okay," She's done worse.

-------

Wanda came home from work exhausted and she pulled you to bed with her and held you until she fell asleep. It was still early in the day meaning the sun was still up and you weren’t tired, so you snuck out of the room and decided to have a movie night by yourself as Wanda slept in the other room. You spend almost the whole night eating all the snacks you could find in the kitchen and watching every movie you could think of.

It was when you heard footsteps and movement coming from the hallway that panic rushed through you. The footsteps were quiet, it was late in the night now, the outside was engulfed by darkness and so was most of the apartment. The only source of light was coming from the paused movie on the tv screen.

You were like a deer caught in headlights when Natasha rounded the corner to the living room and stood in the doorway. You didn’t look away from her as she stared at you and you noticed the familiar faraway look in her eyes.

“Where’s Wanda?” she asked a little too loud, and her voice made you flinch in fear of waking Wanda up.

“She’s asleep,” the loudness of your voice was almost nonexistent compared to Natasha’s. She heard you anyway and silently walked to sit on the couch. “You’re in my chair,” she more so pointed out than reprimanded you, but still you got up before she even had time to finish the sentence. “Sorry,” you mumbled looking down with your hands clasped together behind your back. You were pinching the skin of your palm between two of your fingers to keep yourself grounded and to not let the fear of being alone with a drunk Natasha make you run into the comforting arms of your Mommy.

She didn’t tell you to move so you stayed stood in front of her as she reached for the remote and put on a different movie. It wasn’t until she took off her jacket and relaxed into the sofa cushions behind her that she spoke again, “Get me a beer,” you remembered how annoyed Wanda was when Natasha brought over a whole pack of beers and left them in the fridge. Without another word you quietly rushed out of the room and into the kitchen. The beers were still there and you let out a sigh of relief at seeing that Wanda’s threats of throwing them out weren’t true.

You returned with a cold glass bottle in hand soon after and as Natasha grabbed it from you she also motioned for you to kneel in front of her. “Come closer,” she said once your knees made contact with the floor. You shuffled closer while she took a swing of her drink. “Closer,” the annoyance in her tone was growing along with the tension in your body. You noticed the way she was tapping her boot against the hardwood floor and kneeled right in front of it.

“Don’t make me tell you again,” she warned. It was the final push before you straddled her boot. You wrapped your arms around her calf and rested your cheek against her thigh. Somehow her permission to hold her like this made you feel safe even without Wanda around and soon after her focus shifted from you to the tv.

You realised she didn’t want more from you right now. She just wanted you at her feet, bellow her as you were. So you allowed yourself to doze off and with the way Natasha stroked your hair it didn't take long for you to be fully asleep.

You didn’t wake up when Natasha realised you fell asleep and started to move her foot under you. Only pushing it up slightly into your core before placing it back on the floor. And doing it again and again. You didn’t even wake up when a few minutes later the bedroom door opened and out walked a half-asleep Wanda. Natasha was tired too. By then it was almost four in the morning and her eyes had to readjust when she looked over to where Wanda was standing, looking at the scene in front of her.

“You could at least let her sleep on the couch, you know?” Wanda said as she sat down next to Natasha and rested her head on her shoulder. Natasha didn’t have time to say anything before Wanda scrunched her nose in disgust and mumbled, “You stink,”

“Yet you're still laying on me,” Natasha countered.

“I’m not laying on you, I’m just resting my head,” Wanda didn’t move away, she kept her eyes closed, not used to the bright light coming from the tv, and cuddled closer to Natasha while she blindly tried to find your head on Natasha's thigh.

“Are you drunk?” Wanda asked after a few moments of silence. “No,” Natasha lied while simultaneously moving her boot under you again and making you whine in your sleep. It was a cheap attempt at moving Wanda’s attention away from her, but it worked. Wanda sat up quickly, making Natasha chuckle and causing Wanda to hush her, “Be quiet, you’ll wake her up,”

Wanda looked down at the floor and noticed the way you were sitting on Natasha’s boot. She didn’t even have to ask before Natasha moved her foot again, this time a little harder. A soft moan escaped your lips as you squirmed in your sleep. Wanda sighed in contentment as she moved back to cuddle into Natasha. She nuzzled her face into Natasha’s neck, and after pressing a few light kisses against her skin, she whispered “Do it again,” And so Natasha did, until you yourself were subconsciously humping Natasha’s boot in your sleep and putting on a show for the two women above you.

Wanda moved your face so that your chin was resting on Natasha's leg and the two of them could have a better view of the look of pleasure on your face. The movie playing behind you was long forgotten and there was a smug look on Natasha's face as she noticed the way Wanda was pushing harder against her now too. "You wanna hump Daddy's thigh?" she whispered teasingly making Wanda groan and move away from her, "Shut up," she said and without another word, she sat on Natasha's lap. "You're unbelievable," Natasha complained before she sat up and watched over Wanda's shoulder as she tapped your cheek to wake you up a little.

"Hi pretty baby," Wanda said looking down at you from her place in Natasha's lap. "Whatcha doing down there?"

Your eyes fluttered open. It took your mind a second to get used to your surroundings and realise what was happening but when you did your face turned bright red and you tried to hide away by pressing it into Natasha's thigh again.

Natasha scoffed and leaned back into the couch as Wanda cooed at you and brought your head up. Holding your face in her palms she made you look at her as she said "Daddy's just making you feel good and that's okay, but you can help Mommy feel good too can't you?"

You got lost in her eyes and in the comforting way her thumb was caressing your cheek. You didn't notice Natasha's hands as they snaked around Wanda's waist and disappeared under the fabric of her oversized shirt. It was a few moments later when Natasha finally let Wanda feel her cold fingers against her dripping pussy. The unmistakable hitch in Wanda's breathing made you look down. And the sight alone caused you to pick up the way you were previously grinding on Natasha's boot.

Wanda's shirt was held up, making her fully exposed to you and allowing you to clearly watch the way Natasha parted her folds and moved her fingers up and down her slit.

You moved your head forward in an attempt to feel her on your tongue, to taste her. Wanda was anticipating it and so were you but Natasha grabbed you by the hair right before you could bury your face between Wanda's legs. You groaned in frustration as you were held in place just far enough so that you couldn't do what you were hoping to do.

"Natasha," Wanda warned. Even now she was in control, the one with the final say. She always was.

Natasha loved to test her though so she leaned back again, one hand between Wanda's legs and the other tangled in your hair as she held you in place. She kissed down Wanda's neck as she pushed two fingers into her and started to move her boot under you again. The mix of yours and Wanda's moans filled the room and for a moment Natasha didn't need alcohol. Her two girls were intoxicating enough.

"You wanna taste her?" she asked and you nodded your head eagerly as soon as the question left her mouth.

The grip she had on you loosened a little bit. You started to move forward again. Wanda's body tensed in anticipation as she watched you move towards her cunt. But just as you were about to finally be granted the heavenly taste of her on your tongue, Natasha pulled your head back again. Tears of frustration welled up in your eyes as you look up at the two of them pleadingly. Wanda's face was a mix of pleasure and annoyance as she continued to be fucked by Natasha's fingers while you desperately tried to help get her off with your mouth. Natasha was enjoying playing with you and the way she got to exercise her power over you was addicting.

"Hump my shoe like the bitch in heat that you are and maybe then I'll think about giving you what you want," Natasha said, not giving Wanda any room to argue. Usually, Wanda wouldn't let it slide but in that moment she was too focused on how sweet and desperate you looked in front of them. She loved the way you looked up at her pleadingly when your Daddy didn't let you have what you wanted. She simply nodded her head in agreement with Natasha. It was the two of them against you. So you did what you were told. You watched the way Natasha pumped her fingers in and out of Wanda's cunt. Her moans alone would have been enough to make you come undone, but Natasha bouncing her foot under you made the process even faster. You listened to the sound of Wanda's wet pussy and watched the way her slick glistened in the tv light as you neared your own release.

"Don't forget to ask, Bambi," Wanda reminded you gently as she watched you through her hooded eyes. She was leaning back into Natasha as they both watched you get yourself off.

Searching for permission came between laboured breaths as your movement picked up and became more and more erratic the closer you got. You were already too far got when Natasha's teasing 'No' reached your ears. You didn't have time to worry as Wanda quickly shushed her and nodded her head in approval.

You didn't need time to recover, the only thing on your mind now was finally getting to slide your tongue through Wanda's wet cunt. You didn't dare do anything without their permission though, but you didn't need to say anything for them to know what you were asking when you looked up at them with your big doe eyes.

"Go ahead," Natasha rolled her eyes as she spread Wanda's legs even further apart.

You didn't waste a second before wrapping your lips around Wanda's clit as Natasha continued to move her fingers in an out of her. Wanda ran her fingers through your hair as she kept you close to her core.

"Such a good girl just like that, baby," Wanda encouraged you to go on.

"You talking to me or her?" Natasha joked only loud enough for Wanda to hear before she moved her face lower again and kissed down Wanda's neck.

Wanda rolled her eyes at Natasha's question. Unaware of their little exchange you sucked Wanda's clit and made her scream out in pleasure. Natasha chuckled at the timing before curling her fingers inside of her and making her moan even louder. It didn't take much longer before her thighs trapped you between her legs as she came around Nat's fingers.

Without giving you time to catch your breath, Natasha shoved her wet fingers into your mouth. You sucked them clean as the two women looked down at you both with entirely different looks in their eyes. Natasha was hungry for you like she always was. And the love in Wanda's eyes was overwhelming, making you never want to do anything other than please her just so she would never stop looking at you like that. You always wanted to satisfy her, to make her proud, and when she let you, you never missed the opportunity to do just that.

-------

Natasha comes to Wanda’s house, unannounced just a few months after your kidnapping. You still haven’t gotten used to being there and Wanda isn’t home. The knocking on the door scares you so you ignore it. Natasha, not having the patience to wait, picks the lock. When she finds you beaten and chained to the bed, she’s in shock.

You’re in one too.

You recognise her immediately and hope that she’s here to save her. You talk so fast, your mouth barely has the time to keep up with all the thoughts your brain wants to let out. You beg her to save you and repeatedly thank her for coming to your rescue.

You tug at the restraints asking her to unchain you but she just stands there. Watching you struggle against the chains. She’s never seen anything like this. Anyone like you in a position like that. And she never felt the feelings it's making her feel. She is supposed to save you, that is her job. But instead, she takes her jacket off and simply asks; “Where’s Wanda?”

The jacket is thrown over the backrest of a chair that sits in the corner as she takes a step forward and towards you. You feel elated. You’re going to be saved.

When she rests her hand on your exposed leg, just above your knee your immediate reaction is to jerk away, but that only makes her grip on your thigh strengthen. “Shh, sweetie, calm down,” she tries to ease your nerves as she rubs circles against your cold skin with the pad of her thumb. "I'm here to help," You don't have time to question her intentions as she is quick to reassure you that everything will be okay, even as her fingers make their way up the inside of your thigh.

She tugs at the hem of the oversized shit you're wearing, "How about we get these dirty clothes off of you, huh?"

Your clothes aren't dirty. Wanda got you dressed in clean clothes, straight from the drier, the night before. But before you can argue, Natasha's hand moves further up and past your shirt. You try to get away from her the moment your feel the tips of her fingers finally reach your clothed heat.

"Nuh-uh," she tsks, before using her other hand to pull your body closer to her. Her strength scares you, even as seconds ago it was meant to be comforting. She lays you flat on the bed. Hands now above your head, with the cold chains digging into your wrists. She pulls down your underwear. "Relax princess, I just have to check that everything is okay," You bite your lip and shut your eyes to try to keep from crying once the realisation that she isn't here to save you finally sinks in.

She straddles your waist, and the fabric of her jeans doesn't feel nice against the bare skin of your hips. She brings your shirt up over your chest before gently touching your tits. Only with minimal pressure to begin with.

"Does it hurt when I do this?" she asks with concentration. You shake your head no before opening your eyes again and when they meet hers you use the little shred of hope you have left to attempt to make a non-verbal plea - please save me. She squeezes and groups a little harder, "How about now," but you shake your head again. She takes each of your nipples between her finger and thumb, pinches and pulls, before squeezing your boobs harder until you're are squirming under her and trying to get her to let go. "Does it hurt now?" she asks again with genuine fascination as she watches your face contort in pain.

"Yes, it hurts," you cry, "Please stop,"

But she doesn't. Only squeezes harder, it's not until she gets you to really cry for her that she lets go.

"Oh don't be a little baby, now," she coos as she wipes away your tears with the same hands that caused them "That's nothing"

She gets off of you and sits next to you on the mattress instead before saying "Don't pull against those chains so much, I don't want you getting hurt,"

You listen to her and try to believe the words she says, still hoping, that maybe, just maybe, this will all be over soon and you will be free.

She puts her hand on your chest and leaves it there for a while before nodding her head with a contemplating hum, "You seem to have a bit of an accelerated heart rate," she tells you. "Could be a result of physiological arousal," She explains taking your hand off your chest and placing it on your stomach instead, Just above your belly button. "That could mean you're either stressed," there's a pause as she collects her thoughts, "Which is unlikely, I mean you're safe now. I'm here. I'll make sure you're safe and taken care of. That's what The Avengers do," You think you can hear the subtle mocking humour in her voice.

You open your mouth to argue. To say that Wanda is an Avenger and she didn't protect you or keep you safe. Natasha doesn't let you speak though. She holds up her finger to stop you before the hand that's on your stomach moves just a little lower and she presses down slightly.

"Or it could mean a different kind of arousal," She moves her hand lower again, "Tell me, doesn't being chained up turn you on?"

You shake your head.

"So if I were to check here," She cups your cunt and uses her middle finger to spread your folds before running it up your slit, "Ah," she fakes surprise, "You lied to me," Quickly her tone turns accusatory. "It does turn you on,"

"Or was it me that caused this? Was it when I touched you like you're nothing but a slut for me to manhandle and use?" She teases your entrance with the tip of her finger and presses her palm down against your clit "Was that what made you get so wet?" Your fight with yourself not to grind your hips up into her hand is becoming harder by the second.

The jiggling of keys and the clear sound of the front door being unlocked and opened causes Natasha to pull her hand away and stand up abruptly.

She leaves you chained and empty as she goes to greet Wanda. You don't hear their conversation until Wanda storms into the room. Natasha follows closely behind her, unwilling. She floats a few inches off the ground. Red mist hugging her body, hands behind her back, held there with the same magic that's making her levitate.

"Did she touch you?" Wanda is mad.

You nod your head and immediately Natasha's body is slammed against the wall. She groans at the impact but continues to fight against the restraints. You want to tell her it's no use. The magic is stronger than anything, you learned that very quickly.

"I'll keep you chained up in here too if you dare tell anyone about this," Wanda threatens Natasha, "And you won't get treatment anywhere near as good as she does,"

You trembled at the rage that is coming off of Wanda in suffocating waves.

"And you," She turns her attention to you, leaving Natasha's helpless body almost hanging off the wall. "You're lucky you had no way to get away from her," She checks the chains around your wrists and around the bed frame - still in place. "Letting someone else touch what belongs to me deserves a big punishment you know that Bambi, don't you?" You nod your head quickly, "But I guess you got out of it this time," You release a breath you've been holding since the front door opened and Wanda chuckles at the clear distress she has you in. "It's Natasha who's gonna get punished today."

Natasha scoffs and you figure this is a side of Wanda she isn't familiar with.

The chains clatter as they collide with the bed frame Wanda spreads and pulls at your legs to get you to lie down on your back again. She positions herself between them and with a flash of red Wanda has a strap-on attached to her hips, her clothes gone. She gives you no warning and no time to enjoy the feeling of her strap filling you up.

You want to fight back, to complain, to whine. she promised it wouldn't be you getting punished today. But when she rams her cock into your dripping cunt it feels like you are being ripped apart. You scream in pain and beg your Mommy to stop, "It hurts too much," But she doesn't stop. And you weren't even really expecting her to, she never does. But for some reason, you always ask and always beg. Hoping that maybe just once she'll show you merci. She doesn't. Not ever before and not now. The cold and rough metal digs into and burns your wrists as you try again to break free, no matter how much your brain argues that there is no use to it. There's always that loudest voice, the one in the most pain, begging you to do something, anything to make stop. You try and fail, just like you always do.

"Come on try a little harder," Wanda taunts, "Show Nat how big and strong you are, and stop me."

Her nails dig into the skin that thinly stretches across your hipbones and stupidly, you fall for her trap and try to fight her again. Planting the soles of your feet against the mattress, you try to get out of her hold. She chuckles at your attempts and harshly slaps the side of your thigh before leaning forward and using the weight of her body to hold you down.

"You're so fucking tight," She sneers, showing you just how much she gets off to your pain and struggle before groaning in pleasure. The whole bed rocks along with the way she's thrusting into you. You feel her stretching you out in ways you'll never get used to. She doesn't always use her magic to feel. Sometimes she wants to last longer. To go for hours and hours. Until you're begging her to stop. Until you pass out, no longer able to beg. And then she goes on some more, until she decides she has had enough of toying with you.

In times like these, it's about her. Her wants and desires, and her sexual pleasure. She's animalistic when she can feel so much more of you. Chasing her own high, uncaring about how it feels for you, only because it feels oh so good for her. You owe it to her. To make her feel good. Your body is hers. Your cunt it hers. You are hers. Body and soul. And she'll never let you forget that.

Wanda makes sure Natasha cannot speak before she addresses her. She stills her movements, finally letting you adjust to her strap inside of you, turns her head to face Natasha, and asks "Do you think I'm being too rough with her, Natty?" She asks with concern so clearly fake you almost roll your eyes along with Natasha. "You're fighting against those restrains an awful lot, honey," Wanda holds herself up on one elbow as she uses her fingers to stroke your cheek with the other. "You're just itching to save her, aren't you?" Her attention remains on Natasha even when she starts to thrust into you again. It's slower this time, for a moment she allows you to enjoy getting fucked. "Or is it that you want to join in?"

This makes you instinctively turn your face away from Wanda as you try to see Natasha's expression. "Don't look at her," Wanda warns with a slap to your cheek. Grabbing your chin she holds your head in place, making you look at her as she holds herself up above you.

"Miss superhero over there is none of your concern, little girl," She gently rubs over the same cheek she just slapped and you bite your lip trying to suppress your sobs of pain and fear, even as your tears flow freely. "Did you already forget who you belong to?" Wanda accuses, "I am the center of your world," She reminds you, "Your God," You know she knows when you lie to her so you remain quiet. Your previous instinct would have been to agree, to nod your head. To lie. But Wanda doesn't like being lied to. You learned that the hard way.

"One person gives you attention, and you go and forget me so quickly?" She's pounding into you again and her words are angrier by the second. They come out through grunts and laboured breaths and you want to argue them. You didn't forget about her. You don't think you'll ever be able to, no matter how much you would try. Wanda scoffs, "Well, I guess we'll have to make sure you don't ever dare to even try," She doesn't even need to read your mind to know you don't understand what she means by that.

You move your face away when she leans down to kiss you and are punished for your behaviour with another slap, this time, one that lands on your exposed breasts. Wanda moans in pleasure as you cry out in pain. "Every time I hit you," She pauses to do it again, "I can feel your desperate little cunt clench around my cock."

"Now, be good and give Mommy a kiss, or it'll just keep hurting more and more," She warns, so you do because you know what she's capable of. You turn your head and let her kiss you. It's muscle memory, the way you move your lips against hers to keep her satisfied, you try not to give her more than you absolutely have to. "Good girl," She praises as she pulls away, "You ready for your present now, baby?"

That makes you open your eyes in shock and no longer try to attempt to hide your fear. You shake your head and prepare to beg her not to, not again. She's used this toy before. She had come inside you before. And you don't know if she can, but she has magic and the fear of her somehow getting you pregnant is what keeps you awake at night.

"Oh. Don't act so surprised, princess," she coos, and continues fucking as deep into you as she can, "I think it's about time I made sure you have a piece of me forever," She slams her piece into you again, "No matter where I am," Her laboured breaths and grunts of pleasure pick up, and your fight to push her away does too. "No matter where you try to run," The restraints keep your arms in place but you kick your legs around and squirm your hips as best as you can. Wanda groans in frustration at your disobedience and sits up again. She pulls at your legs and holds them, and your hips, in place. Her eyes close, and her face twists in pleasure. You can tell she's about to cum from the erratic way she's rutting into you again like you're nothing but a hole for her to fuck. "You'll always have my baby to take care of," With one final stroke you feel her cum shoot inside you and you do everything you can to not come at the feeling of it filling you up. You aren't willing to give her that satisfaction. She leans forward again, and gives you another kiss before whispering, "A reminder of who you are, and who you belong to,"

She pulls out, her strap disappears and her clothes are back on within a second. It's the thud of something falling to the floor that catches your attention and makes you open your eyes again. It was Natasha that fell when Wanda released her. She gets back onto her feet quickly but makes no effort to move. She stands there, probably unsure of what to do.

"Oh sweetheart," Wanda takes a few graceful steps towards her, before guiding her to the bed. "You have a job to do," She says as she sits her down. "You either save this innocent civilian," she ridicules as she makes Natasha face you, "Or," She pauses and you try to turn away and hide your face in embarrassment when she grabs your knee and spreads your legs, "Look at how Mommy's cum is leaking out of that little hole, just begging for a good girl like you to help clean it up,"

You try to ignore the dread you feel seeing how easy it was for Wanda to get Natasha to be on her side and not yours, "I bet you'd do anything to get to feel my little Bambi's warm princess parts stretching around you." Wanda speaks to Natasha again as she moves her hair out of her face and guides her while Natasha eats you out, "Maybe if you're good I'll let you." She tugs at her hair and pulls her back for a moment with a threatening look in her eyes but a tone sweet as honey, "and if you dare tell anyone about this, then I think I might just have to kill you."

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You're extremely over-protected by your parents, especially by your father, now that you're back. So when you were invited for a reunion with your old friends it took weeks to try to persuade them to let you go. You were barely ever allowed to go out on your own but with the help of Kate, you eventually managed to get them to cave into your simple request. Just one night out.

Kate offered to come with you and as you are now, surrounded by your old friends who are circling you like vultures and asking everything about the kidnapping, you wish you would have taken her up on that offer. You're already overwhelmed by all the flashing lights and loud noises of the club that you're in and you just need someone to hold you. Your mind stays on Kate for a little too long, remembering how nice it felt to be held by her, to be comforted by her after Natasha broke the necklace. When you had no one else to be there for you.

You're reminded of Wanda when your friends start shit-talking her. The pain her absence has been causing you shoots through you like a sea of needles. Your need to have her with you right now overwhelms you. You want her to come and take you away again, save you like she has the first time.

You attempt to defend her and that’s when things turn sour. They, your friends, gang up on you. They laugh when you try to tell them how nice Wanda was to you. How she would take care of you when you were scared. They start belittling you and being so mean to Wanda. They call her names and say that you have Stockholm syndrome. They all agree with one another, laugh, and make jokes at your and Wanda's expense. Saying that you're just as sick as Wanda if you think that treatment like that is okay. It feels like you aren't a part of the conversation anymore, they talk to one another like you aren't even in the room. You feel so small and helpless and you send Natasha a message asking if she can come to pick you up. You don't think the group even notices when you slip away from the booth that they're in and make your way outside.

You soon find that it would have been better if you stayed. Because someone did notice you leaving and as you stand in the alley behind the bar trying to catch your breath and calm down a man follows you out.

You try to ignore the words that he speaks at you as he stands a few feet away from you. You do hear him say that he recognises you from the news. And you try to get away when he isn't as nice as he was a second ago while he was introducing himself. When he says "Let me see how good you are at taking it. She made u into the perfect slut for all of us, right?" it's as though your whole world collapse in on itself.

The fear you feel reminds you of how you felt when Wanda cornered you in the bathroom the day you met her.

You don't want him talking to you like that, you don't want him to do what he is threatening to do, so why do you let them? Why is it okay when they do it? The thought is fleeting, stomped out by dozens of other voices screaming at you for even thinking that. Wanda takes care of you. Wanda loves you. He isn't Wanda.

You're not used to fighting off predators. You haven't been taught how to protect yourself because you usually always have Wanda with you to protect you.

Wanda doesn't want you to know how to protect yourself because she herself is a predator.

You want to scream. You don't know where these feelings and thoughts are coming from but you need them to stop.

Wanda loves me. Wanda loves me. Wanda loves me. You repeat it in your head over and over as you fight off the thoughts that you shouldn't have. Should never have.

When you close your eyes you see the light-up stars that were on the ceiling of the bedroom you and Wanda shared. You expect to feel the man’s hands on you any moment now. But the moment never comes. You don't feel anything. You do however hear the unmistakable footsteps. The sound of boots against gravel path. Then you hear the yelp of the man that just a moment ago was so close to you. Too close to you. It’s followed by the sound of a body hitting the floor. That is when you open your eyes.

Natasha came.

She’s towering over the man. Her right hand is holding his collar as the left is up in the air, in the shape of a fist. You look away when she brings it down and collides it with the man’s face. Over and over again.

You don’t know if the man is alive by the time Natasha drags you to her car.

Your hands are shaking as you try to buckle your seatbelt and when Natasha starts the car you notice that her hands, covered in blood, are shaking too. She doesn’t say a word the whole drive home. Until she parks in the driveway and tells you to go home. But you don’t. You follow her to hers instead, and to your surprise, she doesn’t protest.

Natasha goes to the kitchen to wash the blood off her hands and you mindlessly follow after her. You don’t ever want to leave her side. “Tasha?” your voice is weak as you attempt to get her attention. She doesn’t acknowledge you but you know she can hear you. You’re standing right next to her, your focus on her hands. Some of the blood is hers, you notice the concerningly big gash across her knuckles. “I’m sorry,”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” the blood hasn’t stopped flowing but she doesn’t seem to care as she turns the tap off and walks to the living room. Again, you follow her like a lost puppy. She sits down on the couch and you watch for a moment. Scared, but too in need to have her close to let the fear control what you do, you climb into her lap.

She tries to move away when you do. And you feel her body tense under you but you’re used to the reaction so you ignore it. You take her now steady hand in your still shaky one and apologise again, “I'm sorry you got hurt because of me,”

“I shouldn't have let you go out on your own,” she seems to think out loud, “You’re not equipped to deal with the real world,”

You know she’s right, and now you also realise why that is. You don't bring it up, and after a few moments of silence she speaks again, “Are you okay?”

You bite down hard on your bottom lip in an attempt to keep the tears at bay as you nod your head. You remember the things your friends said and the fear you felt when you were left alone and helpless with that man. You remember the thoughts their words and his presence made you have. That scared you the most. And you’re still scared now, even with Natasha here with you. Letting go of her hand you press down on your temples trying to stop the memories of the night from replaying in your mind but it doesn’t work. “I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay,” you keep repeating, “I’m not scared, Daddy.” you try to convince yourself more than her. “I'm a brave girl, I promise,” there are tears streaming down your face.

There’s a big part of Natasha that is on high alert right now. Sirens are going off in her mind, trying to protect her heart. Trying to keep her from reaching the point of no return. But she just can’t let that part of her win, not this time. Not when she knows why you’re trying to be strong right now. You still don’t feel safe. Wanda isn’t here. You don’t feel like you can let go and fully allow yourself to ask for the comfort that you need right now. She knows that and she hates that she is the reason for you feeling that way. You need her right now and you’re scared to ask, scares to make the first move. She is scared too but just this once she won't let that part of her win.

She pulls you into an embrace and holds you close. She’s hoping that if she squeezes just enough she’ll be able to put the broken pieces back together. And maybe the way you’re holding her tight will put her broken pieces back together too. Her shirt is soaked in your tears and your white dress is stained with her blood by the time you pull away.

And you apologise again. For crying. For not being strong enough. For almost letting that man touch you. For believing what your friends were saying.

“What did they say?” Natasha cuts in.

“They, umm-” you don’t want to talk about it. “They said horrible things about Wanda. And about me, too,” you look down and play with Natasha's fingers. You’re used to seeing blood by now so you're not too bothered by the way it’s smeared over your dress and your thighs. You do hope the bleeding stops soon though. You're starting to get worried. “They said I was sick in the head,”

Natasha squeezes your hand, it’s a reaction to her own anger but the action soothes you, reminding you of the way Wanda would squeeze your hand whenever you felt uneasy. "They said if Wanda really loved me she wouldn't treat me like that."

“I know Wanda and I’s relationship isn’t like everyone else's, but that doesn’t mean it’s wrong,” You try to explain and your unwavering innocence and devotion make Natasha’s heart flutter.

“Mommy loves you,” she reassures.

“Yeah, that’s all that matters,” you agree with her without hesitation. “They just don’t understand, cause they’ve never been loved like I have,”

Natasha has to hold back a scoff. She's baffled and slightly impressed by just have far gone you really are. Her career has been successful so far, and she has accomplished a lot but she can't help but feel the most pride in you. She never would have guessed just how prosperous the little project she decided to help Wanda with would be.

Maybe that's how she should see you, her project. Maybe that way you being so close to her, holding her hand, or simply just looking at her wouldn't have such an effect on her. Maybe that way you caring for her wouldn't make her heart feel things that it isn't supposed to feel. Maybe that way she wouldn't be so scared.

She nods her head in agreement with your words "You're right," she presses her forehead against yours. "It takes a while to learn. It took you some time too didn't it?"

It was an innocent question, but it brought back memories of the start. Memories that Wanda taught you to forget. You can't think about the start, you nod your head quickly and look away, down at her hands.

"Shouldn't it have stopped bleeding by now?" you ask, desperate to change the topic and keep those thoughts away.

"It's fine," Natasha shrugs her shoulders with little regard for the way her blood is smeared all over you, she likes seeing you covered in red.

"We should clean up before it gets on the couch," you try again and this time Natasha agrees with you and when you get up she follows you to the bathroom.

After rinsing her hand in the sink you wet a cloth towel and wrap it around her hand. "Maybe you should hold it up in the air, that way the blood will just go back into your arm,"

"Did you make that up?" Natasha questions with a laugh.

"I don't know," you shrug, "It sounds like it might work."

She doesn't hold her hand up, saying it's stupid but the bleeding does stop eventually.

By then you're back in the living room again, you have cleaned up and changed out of your bloodied dress while Natasha put on a movie.

"I told Mommy I loved her for the first time while we were watching this movie," you say casually as you sit down next to her, noticing she put on Hugo. It makes Natasha want to turn it off. She doesn't respond to what you said. "Look I brought some plasters," you speak again trying to get through to her and end the sudden uncomfortable tension in the air. "But they're not as fun as the ones we have back at home,"

She still doesn't say anything. Her attention remains on the screen but she places her hand on the space between the two of you. Allowing you to scooch closer to her and place it on your thigh so that you can put the plasters on it.

The scene feels familiar to both of you, having done this countless times before. The only thing that's missing is Wanda looking at the two of you disapprovingly.

"All done," you say, shaking off the growing sadness and trying to tell yourself it won't be too long before you can be reunited with her.

Natasha mumbles a 'thanks' but doesn't move her hand away. You're glad she hasn't and take it as permission to get closer.

You rest your head on her shoulder and bring your body as close to her as you possibly can.

"You're like a bear you know?" you say, halfway into the movie.

"Why's that?" Natasha raises an eyebrow at you.

"Cause you're big and scary sometimes," Natasha hums in agreement, "But also really soft and cuddly," you add as you turn your body to almost fully face her and throw one of your legs over her lap as you cuddle further into her.

"I'm not," She pretends to be serious but you notice the way she's holding back a smile. Her lack of seriousness is also clear in the way she attempts to push you off. She could get you off of her easily if she really wanted to but she clearly doesn't so you straddle her again. The position is almost like the one you were in earlier but this time you're closer and your arms are draped around her shoulders. Your fingers trace patterns at the back of her neck and as you stare into her eyes different things cloud both your minds.

Natasha opens her mouth to speak, and maybe if words came out she would have said something she would have never been able to take back. So she's glad when you manage to speak first. "Tasha Bear," you say with a proud smile on your face. "You are my Tasha Bear,"

She lets out a sigh, of relief maybe. Or maybe she's just tired. She fakes a smile when you hug her. You're happy so she is too, or at least she tries to be. "My Tasha Bear see," you take her hands and put them around your waist before wrapping yours around hers. Resting your head on her shoulder and looking up at her, you mumble "This is a demonstration,"

She rubs your back until the movie ends, "How about I just call you Clingy? Or Needy?" she muses as she looks down at you, "I think Needy could work," she teases.

"'m not needy," you complain.

"Oh okay, so you wanna go home?"

You shake your head quickly and press your body against hers again.

"If you do that just a little harder will be stuck to each other forever," she says prying you off of her.

"That's the plan," You attempt to fight back, but with her strength you stand no chance, and soon you're being carried up to bed.

Being in bed with you almost never means just sleeping. Natasha isn't used to anything different and neither are you. But as she sets you down on the bed and sees the way you're anticipating her next move, her mind flashes with the images from earlier in the night. The way your eyes were screwed shut as the man slowly walked closer and closer to you. The rage she felt seeing that and remembering exactly how it felt to be in a position like that. "We'll just sleep tonight," she says as she climbs under the covers next to you.

"Just sleep," you repeat, facing her.

"Goodnight, Needy,"

You roll your eyes, "Goodnight, Tasha Bear,"

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