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The compound at night always feels different. During the day it is loud in that chaotic, comfortable way that comes with too many strong personalities sharing the same building. Someone is always sparring in the training room, someone is always arguing in the kitchen, and Tony’s lab is always humming like the walls themselves are alive. But when the night settles in, the noise disappears until the place feels cavernous and hollow, long corridors lit only by dim strips of light along the floor and the quiet ventilation system whispering through the walls.
At the end of one of those corridors, a thin line of light slips beneath a bedroom door that should have been dark hours ago. Inside the room, Wanda sits curled slightly forward on the edge of her bed, her laptop balanced on her thighs and casting a pale glow over her face. Her hair is messy, falling around her shoulders in dark waves, and she hasn’t noticed how long she’s been sitting there. The video on the screen reflects in her eyes while she watches with a stillness that borders on unnatural focus, the kind of attention someone gives when they are afraid to blink and miss something.
On the screen, it’s you.
The footage is clearly recorded from a distance, the frame slightly shaky like the phone had been held carefully but not perfectly steady. You’re in the training room, standing in front of the heavy punching bag with your hair pulled back and your shirt damp with sweat from a long session. Every strike you throw makes the chain above the bag creak softly, and the force of your hits sends the bag swinging away before snapping back toward you again. Your breathing is heavy but controlled, shoulders tense with effort as you reset your stance and throw another punch.
Wanda doesn’t move.
Her eyes track every movement you make, every shift of your body, every small habit you probably don’t even realize you have. The way you roll your shoulders when your muscles tighten. The way you wipe sweat from your brow with the back of your wrist instead of stopping to grab a towel. The way your jaw tightens slightly when you get frustrated with yourself.
She has watched this exact video so many times she could probably recreate every frame from memory.
Still, she drags the cursor back to the beginning and presses play again.
Your first punch lands again with the same dull thud, and Wanda leans slightly closer to the screen without even noticing she’s doing it. Her fingers rest lightly against the laptop near the edge of the frame, almost close enough to touch the image of you frozen in motion when she pauses it for a moment. Her lips part just slightly while she studies your face on the screen, her eyes moving slowly across the shape of it like she’s committing it to memory again even though she already knows it better than she should.
“You look even better angry,” she murmurs quietly to herself, her voice soft and almost breathless in the empty room. The words aren’t ashamed or hesitant, just thoughtful in the way someone might admire a painting they’ve seen a hundred times but still can’t stop looking at. Her fingers tap lightly against the trackpad before the video begins moving again, and her gaze sharpens with the same intensity it always does whenever you’re on the screen.
Her laptop is full of these videos.
Not just one or two.
Dozens.
Clips she recorded without you ever noticing. Moments she caught when no one else was paying attention. Little fragments of your life inside the compound that she collected slowly over weeks until the folder filled itself without her even realizing how much she had gathered.
There’s one of you asleep on the couch in the common room during movie night, your head tipped back slightly and your arm hanging lazily over the edge while everyone else argued about what film to watch next. There’s another where you’re sitting at the kitchen island early in the morning, half-awake while you drink coffee and stare blankly at nothing like your brain hasn’t fully started working yet. There’s a clip from a mission where you’re shouting instructions over the chaos while civilians run behind you, your voice calm and steady in the middle of absolute disaster.
Wanda opens that one next.
The street in the video is loud and messy with dust and smoke curling through the air, distant sirens wailing somewhere behind the buildings. The camera angle is high up from a rooftop where she had been standing earlier that day, far enough away that no one noticed she had pulled her phone out for a moment. She watches the footage with the same quiet intensity while your figure runs into frame below, your boots splashing through a shallow puddle as you move toward the fight with your weapon in hand.
“You didn’t even hesitate,” she says softly, almost admiringly, as the video continues playing in front of her. Her thumb traces lightly along the edge of the screen while she watches you crouch behind a car and shout something toward Steve across the street. Your expression is sharp and focused, your attention completely locked on the mission like the chaos around you barely even registers.
That was the moment she started recording you more often.
Because she realized something then.
She realized she could watch you whenever she wanted.
All she had to do was keep the moments.
Her laptop shifts slightly when she moves it closer, the glow of the screen lighting up the dark room while she scrolls through the folder again. Each file name is meaningless and random, but she knows exactly what each one contains without needing to check. Her memory for anything related to you is perfect in a way that almost surprises her sometimes.
She clicks another video.
The common room appears this time, warm lighting filling the space while the team relaxes after a long day. Sam is sprawled across the floor with snacks scattered around him, Clint is half-asleep in an armchair, and someone is talking loudly near the kitchen entrance about something that clearly isn’t important.
But Wanda barely notices any of them.
Because you’re sitting on the couch.
And next to you is Natasha.
Wanda’s gaze sharpens immediately, her attention locking onto the screen with an intensity that makes her shoulders tense slightly. The video had been recorded casually like the others, her phone angled from the hallway where she had been standing unnoticed while everyone relaxed inside the room.
You’re laughing at something Natasha says, leaning back against the couch cushions while you shove her shoulder lightly in playful protest. Natasha smiles in that small knowing way she has, her body turning slightly toward you as the conversation continues.
Wanda’s fingers tighten against the laptop.
She watches carefully.
Every second.
Every small shift of your posture.
Natasha leans closer to say something quieter.
And then you kiss her.
It’s quick. Soft. Casual in a way that makes it clear it wasn’t the first time.
But it’s enough.
The moment it happens, Wanda goes completely still.
Her breathing stops.
Her eyes lock onto the screen like the image might change if she stares hard enough.
The video keeps playing, but she isn’t hearing the voices anymore. The only thing she can see is the way Natasha smiles against your lips before you pull away, the two of you continuing to talk like the kiss meant nothing at all.
Wanda’s chest tightens in a sharp, sudden way that makes something inside her snap.
The laptop slams shut.
The sound echoes sharply through the room.
For a single second the silence hangs heavy in the air.
Then the room erupts.
Scarlet energy bursts from Wanda in a violent wave that rattles the walls, the desk across the room lifting into the air before smashing sideways into the wall hard enough to splinter the wood. Papers scatter everywhere as the lamp shatters against the floor, glass exploding across the carpet in glittering shards.
Her breathing becomes uneven as another pulse of power ripples through the room, sending a chair flying into the door with a
heavy metallic bang that dents the surface.
“She doesn’t get to touch you,” Wanda says under her breath, her voice low and shaking with something darker than anger. The red glow around her hands flickers violently while the mirror above her dresser cracks straight down the center, splintering outward into jagged lines.
“You don’t even look at me,” she mutters, almost like she’s thinking the words out loud rather than saying them intentionally. Her gaze drifts toward the fallen laptop on the floor across the room, her chest rising and falling sharply while the faint scarlet glow around her fingers continues pulsing with restless energy.
Another surge of power rattles the walls again before finally beginning to fade, the red light slowly dimming until the room falls back into silence. The destruction left behind is scattered everywhere, broken furniture and glass littering the floor while Wanda kneels in the middle of the wreckage with her hands resting loosely against her thighs.
Her eyes stay fixed on the laptop.
Because it still has the video on it.
The moment with you.
The moment that should have been hers.
And then—
There’s a knock on the door.
The sound freezes her instantly.
“…Wanda?” your voice calls gently from the other side, muffled through the metal but unmistakable.
Her heart slams violently against her ribs.
“I heard something crash,” you continue, concern threading through your voice as your hand touches the handle. “Are you okay in there?”
Wanda doesn’t move.
Her gaze drifts slowly toward the door.
Because you’re standing right outside it.
And suddenly the distance that had always existed between you—the safety of watching from hallways, from rooftops, from the glow of a laptop screen—is gone.
Now you’re here.
Only a door between you.
And Wanda has been watching you for far too long to pretend she doesn’t want it opened.
✧❁❁❁✧✿✿✿✧❁❁❁✧
Masterlist
A/N: My favourite song rn is Hysteria, and I just thought about Emo Wanda having that obsession over something she can’t have, and I also thought that emo Wanda would love Muse in general (Her best era fr)
but when you’re with her you’re thinking of me, aren’t you?
wanda x f!reader
Each time your fling touches you, it barely registers—until Wanda crosses your mind. You and Wanda are on a break, but she’s still the only one who actually gets a reaction out of you.
details: smut, college au, situationship/flings, situationship to together, top wanda, bottom reader, fingering/oral/strap in v, very very slight hurt/comfort, maybe shitty writing bc im very tired.
The break had been your idea. Or maybe hers first, and you’d agreed too quickly out of pride. Either way, neither of you had called it a breakup. That distinction mattered more than you liked to admit.
You were still technically "together." Just “taking space.” Time to think.
There hadn’t been rules, exactly.
Neither of you asked the obvious questions because you both already knew the answers would hurt. So the line stayed blurry on purpose. If something happened with someone else during the break… it wouldn’t really count. At least, that was the understanding.
And honestly, you didn’t feel guilty about the woman you’d been seeing.
It wasn’t serious. You’d made that clear from the start. A few dates, late-night drinks, her knee pressed against yours in restaurant booths. Easy company. Temporary, probably. But she was pretty, attentive, and most importantly, she made you feel wanted again instead of analyzed.
Tonight, she’d pulled you into a picture before either of you left the bar. Her arm looped loosely around your waist, your lipstick-smudged smile turned toward her instead of the camera.
You posted it without thinking too hard about it.
That was a lie. You thought about it the entire time.
About who would see it. About whether your situationship would pause when it came across her feed. Whether she’d zoom in close enough to notice how comfortable the touch looked. Whether she’d care at all.
You told yourself you didn’t care. Still, an hour later, you were lying awake in the dark with your phone inches from your face, checking her socials again.
So no, it wasn’t wrong what you were doing. At least, you told yourself that often enough for it to almost sound true.
The new woman wasn’t even your fling. Barely even that, honestly. A few dates turning into nights together, lingering touches, texts that came in past midnight. She was easy to want. Funny enough to make you forget yourself for a while. Pretty enough to distract you completely when she had you under her.
You didn’t not like her.
She made you laugh over drinks until your stomach hurt. Made you see stars every time you ended up tangled together in her sheets. Made you feel desired in a way that felt effortless instead of complicated.
But every time afterward, eventually, you’d open your eyes and see her face beside you. And your heart would drop anyway. Not because you regretted sleeping with her. Not because you wanted your ex back, exactly.
It was just the awful realization that no matter how good someone else was, they still weren’t her.
Every time she kissed you, every touch against your skin, you waited for something to happen. Some spark. Some feeling strong enough to drown everything else out.
But there was nothing until your mind wandered to Wanda.
Only then did the heat come rushing in. Suddenly her hands burned against your skin, every kiss became something you chased desperately, your breath catching as you pulled her closer. But it wasn’t her you were reacting to. Never really her.
It was Wanda. Wanda’s mouth you imagined against yours. Wanda’s fingers deep inside you. Wanda’s voice slipping into the spaces between breaths. And the worst part was how easily your body responded once you let yourself picture her instead.
After each time, you’d lie there breathless beside your fling, her arm thrown lazily across your stomach while the emotions settled in slow and heavy. You were screwed.
The party was already loud by the time you got there. Music shaking the walls of your friend’s cramped off-campus house, cheap alcohol spilling across countertops, bodies packed shoulder-to-shoulder beneath dim colored lights. Skirts worn that would’ve gotten others sent out of lecture halls in seconds, tops hanging off shoulders like they were daring somebody to say something. You weren’t exactly dressed modestly either.
Your eyes met Wanda’s from across the room for the first time in months, and it hit you all at once how badly photos had failed to capture her. You’d stared at those eyes through screens often enough to memorize them, scrolling through old posts late at night like some pathetic ritual. But seeing them now, really seeing them, felt completely different.
It made you hold on tighter to your sanity.
You told yourself you could handle it. That seeing her wouldn’t undo you the way it used to. That months of distance, of silence, of pretending you were fine, had finally built something solid in you. But it didn’t feel solid when she finally approached you.
Wanda didn’t rush it. She never did. Just appeared at your side like she’d always belonged there, like months hadn’t passed in between. The conversation started easy enough, careful. Small updates. Polite smiles. The kind of normal people use when they’re trying not to acknowledge what’s still unresolved.
And then it shifted.
Your back pressed against the wall, the noise of the party reduced to a distant, muffled pulse. Light from the living room barely reached here, leaving everything dim, almost suspended. Trying to make its way up the staircase. Wanda was close, her body pressed against yours.
Your focus narrowed to the space between breaths, to the way she exhaled softly against your mouth before pulling you back in again. Every thought you’d been holding onto loosened at the edges, slipping away one by one until there was nothing left except the pressure of her against you and the sound of your own breathing trying to keep up.
You could feel the heat radiating from her, her body barely an inch away from yours. Her hand found its way to your hip, her fingers digging into the soft flesh, pulling you even closer. You could feel her breath, hot and ragged, against your neck, her lips brushing against your skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.
"You've been avoiding me," she whispered, her voice low, her tone accusing. You could feel the truth of her words, the months of distance, the silence that had grown between you. You had been avoiding her, trying to forget the intensity of your last encounter, trying to move on.
But now, with her body pressed against yours, her lips on your skin, her fingers digging into your hip, you realized that you hadn't moved on. You hadn't forgotten. You had just been delaying the inevitable.
"I've been busy... we've... been on break," you lied, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart. Wanda chuckled, a low, sultry sound that sent a jolt of desire through you. She knew you were lying, she could see right through you, she always could.
"Busy with what?" she asked, her voice mocking, her eyes gleaming with amusement. "With your new fling? The one you were clinging to earlier?"
You could feel your face flushing at the mention of your new partner, your body betraying you, your desire for Wanda growing with each word she spoke. She knew she had you, she knew she had the upper hand, and she was enjoying it.
"And we're on break, not on two different sides of a chasm."
"Wanda," you whispered, a plea, a warning, a surrender. You didn't know what you were asking for, what you were giving in to. All you knew was that you needed her, you needed her touch, her kiss, her body on top of yours.
"What do you want, baby?" she asked, her voice low, her eyes locked with yours. "Tell me what you want."
You hesitated, your body aching with need, your mind filled with images of her, of you, of the two of you together. You wanted her, you wanted her touch, her kiss, her body on top of yours.
"I want you to kiss me," you said, your voice steady, your eyes challenging.
She kissed you, her lips soft, her tongue demanding, her body pressing against yours. She was intense, she was passionate, she was everything you needed. She was giving you what you wanted, but she was also taking, taking control, taking your breath away, taking your heart. She guided you back into some room, shutting the door behind the two of you.
You could feel your body responding, your heart pounding, your breath coming in short gasps. You could feel your desire growing, your need for her increasing with each passing moment. You wanted more, you wanted everything.
You deepened the kiss, your tongue tangling with hers, your hands exploring her body, your fingers digging into her flesh. She moaned, her body pressing against yours, her hands reaching for you, her fingers finding the hem of your shirt, pulling it up, exposing your skin. You could feel her touch, hot and urgent, her fingers tracing the curve of your body, her hands cupping your breasts.
You gasped, your body arching into her touch, your mind filled with images of her, of you, of the two of you together. She seemed to sense your desire, her hands moving faster, her touch becoming more insistent, more demanding. She was undressing you, her hands pushing your shirt up, her fingers unhooking your bra, her hands cupping your breasts, her thumbs rubbing against your nipples.
You could feel your body responding, your nipples hardening, your breath coming in short gasps, your body aching with need.
And then, suddenly, she stopped. Her hands left your body, her touch disappearing, her lips leaving yours. You could feel the loss, your body aching with need, your mind filled with questions, with confusion.
"Why did you stop?" you asked, your voice barely audible, your eyes locked with hers. She smiled, a slow, wicked smile that promised more pleasure than you could bear.
"Because I want to hear you beg," she whispered, her voice low. "I want to hear you say it."
You hesitated, your body aching with need, your mind filled with images of her, of you, of the two of you together. You wanted her, you wanted her touch, her kiss, her body on top of yours.
"I want you to fuck me," you said, your voice steady, your eyes challenging. Wanda's eyes widened in surprise, her body tensing against yours. She hadn't been expecting that, hadn't been expecting you to take control.
But she recovered quickly, her eyes gleaming with excitement, her lips curving into a smile. "Mmm," she murmured, her hand reaching between your legs, her fingers finding your clit, her touch sending waves of pleasure through you.
Her touch was electric, her fingers expertly stroking you, her thumb circling your clit with just the right amount of pressure. You could feel your body responding, your hips bucking, your breath coming in short gasps. You were so close, so ready, your body aching for release.
"I want you to lick me," you said, breathy, in betwen gasps. "I want your tongue on me, your mouth on me, your face between my legs."
Her fingers find the edge of your panties, pulling them aside. She looked up at you, her eyes locked with yours, her breath hot against your core. And then she licked you, her tongue flat against your clit, her touch sending waves of pleasure through you. You moaned, your body arching into her touch, your hands finding her hair, your fingers tangling in the soft strands.
She started to move, her tongue circling your clit, her fingers slipping inside you, her touch sending you closer and closer to the edge. You could feel your orgasm building, your body tensing, your breath coming in short gasps. As your body trembled with the aftershocks, Wanda pulled away, her touch leaving you bereft. You whimpered, your body aching for more, your mind filled with thoughts of her, of you, of the two of you together. You wanted more, you needed more. You've been craving her for months.
Wanda seemed to sense your desire, her lips curving into a smile. She reached down, her hand moving between her legs, her fingers unbuckling something. You heard a rustling sound, and then you saw it - a strap-on harness, a thick, silicone cock attached to it.
Your eyes widened in surprise.
"Is this what you want, baby?" she asked, her voice low, her eyes locked with yours. You could only nod, your body aching with need, your mind filled with images of her, of you, of the two of you together.
She stood up, her body towering over yours, her hand guiding the cock to your entrance. She pressed the tip against you, her eyes never leaving yours, her breath hot against your face. "Tell me you want it," she whispered, her voice demanding, her eyes challenging.
"I want it," you said, your voice steady, your eyes locked with hers. "I want you to fuck me with it, Wanda. I want you to fill me up...."
Wanda hums in some sort of approval, her hands gasping at you to flip you onto your stomach. Her body moving forward, the cock sliding inside you. You moaned, your body arching into her touch, your hands reaching for her, your fingers digging into her flesh. Filling you up, giving you exactly what you begged for.
She grabbed your hips, her fingers digging into the soft flesh, her body slamming against yours. She was fucking you hard, her hips thrusting forward, her cock sliding in and out of you. You could feel every inch of her, filling you up, stretching you, sending waves of pleasure through you. Gasps of her name and nothingness come bumbling out from between your lips.
You could feel your orgasm building again, your body tensing, your breath coming in short gasps. You were so close, so ready, your body aching for release. And then, suddenly, she stopped again. Her body moved away from yours, her touch disappearing. You whimpered at the loss, your body aching with need, your mind filled with confusion, with frustration.
"I want to look at you while I make you come," she whispered. She turned you around, her hands guiding you onto your back, her body moving between your legs. Your knees pressed so tightly against you, her body coming down on top, almost pressing you into this position.
She pressed the tip of the cock against your sopping entrance again, her eyes locked with yours, her body moving forward. She slid inside you, her cock filling you up, her body moving slowly, sensuously, her eyes never leaving yours.
She was fucking you slowly, her hips moving in a steady rhythm, her cock sliding in and out of you. She was looking at you, her eyes filled with desire, with love, with obsession. She was fucking you, she was making love to you, she was giving you everything you wanted, everything you needed.
You could feel your orgasm building again, your body tensing, your breath coming in short gasps. You were so close, so ready, your body aching for release. And then, suddenly, it hit you. Your orgasm crashed over you, your body convulsing, your eyes rolling back, your mouth opening in a silent scream.
Wanda stayed with you, her body moving slowly, sensuously, her cock sliding in and out of you, her eyes locked with yours. She was looking at you, she was with you, she was giving you everything you needed, everything you wanted.
And as you came down from your high, your body sated, your mind filled with thoughts of Wanda, you knew one thing for sure. You had her, you had her touch, her kiss, her body on top of yours. And you would never let her go again.
notes: very last minute fic, and I fell asleep pretty much writing at the end so ignore if it's like shitty as hell. i know it is, im too tired to do anything about it atm. later i'll go over it.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Serial Killer Wanda laughing as she pins you down, leaning her full body weight into you and moaning as she feels your heart pounding in your chest.
"Oh, baby, are you scared of me? Don't be, I'm going to make you feel really good. You can trust me, darling."
Her teeth nip at your ear, sending jolts of pain (definitely not pleasure) down your spine as you struggle (not as much as you could have).
"Maybe if you're good for me, I'll even let you live.... Oh, you like that idea, hm? What if I made you my permanent pet... You liked that idea too, didn't you?"
Wanda slowly trailing her fingers down your stomach after she's tied you up, chuckling when she finds your soaked boxers, her fingers easily slipping inside you.
"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were enjoying this, slut."
And of course, her knife is almost always pressed against you somehow. Trailing up your body as your pupils dilate in fear (and arousal, but you hope Wanda doesn't notice) (she totally notices), and pressing the dull side into your throat when you're about to cum.
"Don't you dare cum without my permission. I own you now."
Southern Farmer Wanda.. who has a ranch, vegetable patches, a meadow and animals. She grows you sunflowers and tulips every year and makes you the best homemade meals. She loves cuddling in front of the fire after a long day and tells you all about the rare plants she’s growing :,)
That's the thing about loving someone with a body that wages war against itself—you learn to read the signs before they surface. She wakes up some mornings and just knows, the same way she knows when a storm is coming before the clouds gather. Something in the air around you is different. Heavier. The stillness of someone who opened their eyes and immediately understood that today was going to be one of those days.
She doesn't say anything right away. She just reaches over and touches your face, gentle, the backs of her fingers against your cheek. Taking stock. Reading you.
"Okay," she says softly. One word. It means: I see you. I've got you. We're not doing anything today except getting through this together.
She's already planning.
The first thing she does is make the room right.
You don't have to ask. You don't have to explain that the light is too much, that the noise from outside feels like it's coming from inside your skull, that everything is already too before the day has even properly started. She already knows.
The curtains close with a soft rustle, her magic drawing them together until the light is dim and gold and gentle—not dark enough to feel like being buried, just soft enough to stop hurting. The overhead light never gets turned on. She uses the lamp on the far side of the room instead, angled away from you, warm enough to see by but not enough to aggravate.
The window goes down another inch to cut the street noise. The TV stays off unless you want it, and even then she'll find something quiet—a documentary with the volume low, something slow and undemanding that you can drift in and out of without missing anything.
She turns the ceiling fan on if you run hot. Off and replaced with blankets if you're cold.
She thinks of everything before you have to find the words for it, because she knows how exhausting it is to have to ask for things when your body is already working so hard just to exist.
For the fatigue, she gives you permission.
There is a particular guilt that lives in the bones of people with chronic illness. The guilt of cancelled plans and rescheduled days and the way your limitations ripple outward and affect the people you love. You carry it even when you can barely carry yourself.
Wanda does not allow it. Not in her presence. Not on her watch.
"You don't have to do anything today," she tells you, and the way she says it leaves no room for argument. It is a simple, immovable fact. "Your only job is to rest. That's it. That's enough."
She means it. Wholeheartedly.
On the worst fatigue days—the ones where even blinking feels like effort, where your arms are made of wet concrete and your thoughts move through syrup—she takes over completely. She brings food to you. She manages your medications. She reads to you when looking at your phone becomes too much, her voice low and even, something soft in Sokovian sometimes when she thinks you're close to sleep.
She doesn't try to fix the fatigue. She's learned that lesson, and she holds it carefully: some things cannot be fixed, only witnessed. So she witnesses. She sits with you in the heaviness of it and does not look away.
When you apologize, she stops you with the same quiet firmness every time.
"You're not inconveniencing me." A pause. Her thumb tracing slow circles on the back of your hand. "I want to be here. There is nowhere else I would rather be."
For the joint pain, she uses her hands.
Wanda is not a massage therapist. She does not pretend otherwise. But she has learned the geography of your pain the way she's learned everything about you—carefully, over time, paying attention. She knows which joints swell first. Knows that your hands ache differently in the morning than in the afternoon. Knows that your knees need warmth more than pressure and that your shoulders need the opposite.
She'll sit at the foot of the bed and take your feet into her lap without asking, her thumbs working slowly over the arches, the ankles, the places where the inflammation pools. The pressure is deliberate and careful—not too deep, not too light. She's asked you enough times is this okay, is this too much that she knows your body's responses almost as well as you do now.
Her magic helps here in ways that nothing else quite can. A gentle warmth that seeps into aching joints from the inside. It’s not heat like a heating pad, which sits on the surface, but something deeper. Something that feels like being warmed all the way through. She keeps it subtle because she knows you don't always want to be reminded of what she can do, that sometimes it highlights the unfairness of the situation in ways that sting.
But on the bad days she offers it, and you take it, and she never makes it a thing.
For your hands specifically—swollen-knuckled, stiff, reluctant—she'll hold them between both of hers. Just holding. Warmth passing between your palms. Her fingers gentle around yours like she is cradling something she doesn't want to break.
"I've got you," she says quietly.
She props pillows under your knees when your joints need elevation. She fetches the heating pad and the ice pack and understands instinctively which one you need at which point in the day. She doesn't wince when you wince, because she's learned that you watch her face when you're hurting, looking for signs that your pain is becoming a burden, and she has trained herself out of the flinching.
You are not a burden.
She needs you to know it in her face as much as her words.
For the nausea, she is endlessly patient.
She keeps the room cool, because heat makes everything worse and you've told her that and she has never once forgotten. She cracks the window even in winter, just enough for a thread of fresh air to cut through. The fan stays on low. These are your terms, established on the first bad nausea day she witnessed, and she has honored them without fail since.
Food becomes a negotiation and she is a good negotiator. She doesn't push. She doesn't suggest things that will make it worse. She knows your safe list—the things that sometimes, on the very worst days, manage to stay down. Crackers. Plain toast. Certain flavors of popsicle that she keeps stocked in the freezer now, always, because they cost nothing and you might need them.
"Can you try a few crackers?" she'll ask, and it is always a question, never a demand. She holds them out on a small plate like they're something precious. Because they are, when your body will only accept so little.
She rubs your back when it gets bad. Slow, even circles, anchoring you to the room and the present and her hands when your stomach is trying to turn itself inside out. She holds your hair. She doesn't make it awkward or uncomfortable. She just stays, her hand steady on your back, murmuring soft reassurances that have nothing to do with the nausea specifically and everything to do with you're not alone in this, I'm right here, you're doing so well.
Afterwards she brings you water—small sips, she reminds you gently, not because you don't know but because sometimes being reminded in her voice is its own kind of medicine—and she wipes your face with a cool damp cloth and holds you against her chest until the worst of it passes.
She does not make you feel fragile for needing this. She does not treat it as a kindness she is performing. She treats it as the most natural thing in the world, caring for you like this, like it is simply what love looks like made practical.
For the sensory sensitivity, she becomes very, very quiet.
Wanda is not a loud person by nature, but on your bad sensory days she becomes something softer still. She moves through the room like water, without friction, her footsteps barely audible. She texts instead of talks when she needs to communicate something. She doesn't play music. She doesn't start the dishwasher or run the washing machine or do any of the small but loud domestic things that fill a normal day.
The world shrinks down to the two of you and the soft dim room and the quiet.
She asks before she touches you, on the days when touch is difficult—a light brush of her fingers against your wrist first, a silent question, waiting for your small nod before she settles beside you. She understands that the same hands that feel like relief on a joint-pain day can feel like too much on a sensory-overload day, and she does not take it personally. She has never once taken it personally.
If you can tolerate being held, she holds you. If you can't, she just stays close—near enough that you can feel her warmth, far enough that nothing is pressing on hypersensitive skin. This distance, she has learned, is its own form of comfort.
She puts your softest things within reach. The blanket that doesn't scratch. The pillow with the specific case you can't sleep without. She dimmed the room already but she'll check: too much light still? do you need the sleep mask? Small adjustments, no drama, just attention.
Her magic goes very still on these days. She keeps it close to herself instead of letting it drift the way it sometimes does, a habit she didn't even know she had until you told her, gently, that the faint crackle of it at the edges of the room was sometimes a lot. She reined it in immediately and has never let it loose near you since without permission.
That's the thing about Wanda that you've come to understand slowly, over many hard days and many quiet ones: she listens. She listens and she files it away and she changes accordingly, without complaint, without making you feel like a set of instructions to be followed rather than a person to be loved.
The middle of a bad day looks like this:
You, in bed, against a mountain of pillows arranged exactly as you need them. The curtains drawn soft. The room cool or warm as required. A bottle of water on the nightstand beside your medications and your phone and whatever small comfort she's placed there—a book you might not read, a candle that isn't lit but smells like something good, whatever small thing she knows belongs in your orbit on days like this.
Wanda, beside you or nearby. Sometimes reading, her legs folded beneath her, silent and present. Sometimes just lying with you, her head near yours, one hand resting close enough to take if you want it. Sometimes across the room doing something quiet with her hands while you sleep, close enough to hear if you need her.
She doesn't fill the silence with words. She has learned that silence, done right, is not emptiness but held space. It is the absence of demand. And you need that, on bad days, more than almost anything else. To not be needed, to not be expected to perform okayness, to just exist in the difficulty of the day without having to manage anyone else's feelings about it.
She does not need you to be okay. She only needs you to be here.
When the guilt creeps in anyway:
She catches it. She always catches it. Something shifts in your face or your breathing or the way you go quiet in a specific way that is different from restful quiet, and she knows.
She doesn't let it fester.
"Hey." She turns toward you, finds your eyes. "Whatever you're thinking right now—stop."
You try to explain anyway, because it feels important, because the guilt has its own logic and it wants to be heard, and she lets you say it. She listens. She doesn't interrupt.
And then:
"You are not too much. You are not a burden. You did not choose this, and I chose you knowing all of it." A pause, her thumb brushing your knuckles. "Those two things are both true and they always will be."
She says it like a fact. Like gravity. Like something that has always been true and will continue to be true regardless of how many bad days there are or how long they last or how little you are able to give on the days your body takes everything.
You believe her because she makes it easy to believe her.
By evening, if it's been a hard day, she'll draw you a bath if you can manage it, the water exactly right, her magic keeping it warm longer than it should stay. She'll sit on the edge and talk to you about nothing—small things, easy things, things that require no response except the occasional hum or soft laugh. She washes your hair if you want her to, her fingers gentle on your scalp, and she rinses it carefully so nothing runs into your eyes.
She gets you back into bed like it's the most natural thing in the world. Clean clothes, soft ones, the ones you've told her are easiest on bad skin days. She brushes your hair if it needs it—slowly, patiently, working through tangles without pulling. She tucks you in with the thoroughness of someone who has decided that tucking you in is something worth doing well.
She lies down beside you in the dark.
"You did good today," she tells you quietly, and you know she means it even though all you did was survive it, even though survival felt like all you had, because Wanda has always understood that surviving is its own form of strength and she will not let you minimize it.
Her arm finds you in the dark and pulls you gently against her side.
"Rest," she says. "I'll be here when you wake up."
And she will be.
She always is.
A/N: really wanted to get this done quickly. Chronic illness can be devastating in ways people can’t even begin to recognize. Chronic fatigue, especially, can be debilitating. But you are not alone, and you are not behind, and you are loved how you are. You aren’t being dramatic, and you are not being lazy. You’re so loved ❤️
Also I don’t remember how I formatted the old rambles 😭
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Mommy Wanda who helps heal your childhood trauma by remaking all the fun experiences you should have had. Silly blanket forts, messy picnics, berry picking, paper crowns, dressing up, making daisy chains <3
Wanda 100%. Especially mommy Wanda, because she’s freaky and possessive and would love the mating press. Though I think Agatha would be down for anything if suggested hahaha :,)
Thinking about Nat and puppy playing together and Nat playfully calls your tail a “rat tail”. You immediately get super upset and defensive because it’s your biggest insecurity.
“It is NOT a rat tail,” you shout, scrambling away from her and back into mama’s lap on the couch. You curl up against her chest, tucking your tail underneath you. “Mama, tell Natty it’s not a rat tail. It’s a puppy tail. Right mama?”
Wanda kisses your head and wraps her arms around you, stroking up and down your back while carefully avoiding your tail. “Of course it’s a puppy tail! It’s a very very handsome puppy tail.”
You sniffle, pressing your forehead into her neck. “And… and it’s your most favoritest, right mama?”
“Mhm,” she hums. “It’s mama’s favorite tail in the whole world. And guess what? I bet it’s Natty’s favorite tail too.” She drops her voice to a faux whisper. “I even bet she’s just jealous cause she wishes she had a tail like yours too. But she can’t cause it’s only for very special puppies like you.”
You turn around and look at Natasha. Tears are still rolling down your cheeks as you stick your tongue out at her. “Mama likes my tail more than yours.”
Natasha climbs up on the couch next to you and Wanda, softly petting your hair. “Aw, man,” she pouts. “Maybe one day my tail will be as handsome as yours.”
“Nuh uh,” you taunt. “My tail is only for special puppies.”
Natasha gives an overdramatic sigh. “Fine. I guess you’ll always be your mama’s most favorite puppy.”
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Summary: Only Wanda can make your worst days better.
Warnings: Just hurt/comfort and fluff :)
Word count: 1.8k
Beta read by @yesbutmakeitgay <3
The pressure of the awful week you’d had weighed heavily on your shoulders as your feet dragged up the steps to your home. Your legs felt a minute away from giving up completely, causing you to slow down even more. Things had never felt this bad before, and you currently doubted it would ever be good again.
The keys fumbled in your hands, fingers having barely enough energy to pick out the right one to push into the lock. When you managed to get inside the sanctuary of your house, the strength you had been desperately hanging onto left completely. A noise escaped your lips, a mix between a sigh and a sob. You heard a distant rush of footsteps approaching.
“Honey?” Wanda was wiping her damp hands on a kitchen towel when she saw you sink to the ground. Her eyes widened, rushing forward to catch you by your waist. “Baby, open your eyes, mama’s here.” Her voice immediately softened into the tone you loved so dearly. Like she was consoling a small child. You opened your eyes, having not realised they had temporarily closed. “That’s it, well done.” She smiled, praising you for such a simple task.
She helped support you while guiding you towards the couch, stopping a few times to make sure she wasn’t going too fast. Wanda used one hand to grab a cushion to place against the arm of the couch so you could lie down completely in comfort. You whimpered quietly when she let go of you to be able to pull the blanket that was always kept nearby.
“My little love.” Wanda whispered, kneeling in front of you so she was at your level, stroking your cheek gently. You automatically curled towards her, seeking comfort with weak grabby hands.
She chuckled softly, holding both your hands in her own. Wanda’s hands were always warm and gentle. One of your favourite things to do was playing with her rings or running your fingertips along her smooth, red, manicured nails; exactly what you were trying to do now.
Wanda let you relax for a while until she spoke up, voice velvety smooth. “Do you think you can tell me what has been going on today?” You hesitated before shaking your head ‘no’. She smiled in understanding, never wanting to push you into doing something you didn’t want to. “I’m going to make you a drink and snack.”
Your eyes immediately widened, gripping onto her fingers without much strength. “Mama—“ Wanda’s chest fluttered at both hearing your small voice and the name.
“I won’t be long, I promise.” Wanda pointed to the kitchen that was in view from the couch. “You can watch me the whole time, hm?” She kissed your palm before sliding off one of her rings, your favourite one of hers. It was a silver band with a small and very delicate pattern. “You can wear mama’s ring.” She carefully fitted it on your finger, making your lips twitch into a tiny smile. You looked at the new addition to your index finger, running a thumb across the grooves. A small sigh filled your lungs, finally feeling your tensed shoulder loosen a bit. Wanda pressed a light kiss on your forehead before walking to the kitchen, glancing at you a few times before starting to make a mug of hot cocoa.
Her heart ached for you. The week had been too difficult and overwhelming, and today had obviously pushed you over the edgel. Wanda knew it was only a matter of time before you slipped, and she had been waiting with open arms to catch you. Looking at you now, she couldn’t stop the lump growing in her throat. She wished she could protect you all day, every day. Maternal love was second nature for Wanda, perhaps even first nature, so that made her love for you even deeper when you were struggling.
The cocoa was almost ready so she took the time to cut an apple up in equal sizes, eight perfect pieces. Preparing your food in your exact way was the least she could do. It had taken a while to learn your preferences and what particularly stressed you, but after just a month she knew you perfectly. She would do anything you wanted; anything for her little love.
When everything was finished she returned to you. Your eyes brightened up because your mama was back. She set the plate and mug down on the small table close by. “Can I sit beside you?” You shuffled to the side so Wanda could sit down, then turned so your head rested in her lap. She looked down at you, heart melting at the way you looked at her as if she was your whole world.
“Hi.” You whispered, looking up at her. She chuckled softly, cupping your cheek in adoration.
“Hi, baby.” Wanda pinched your cheek lightly, coaxing a giggle out of you. “There’s that precious smile!”
You whined, covering your face with your hands. “No, mama.” She wasn’t going to let you deny the fact your smile was a beam of sunshine.
“Yes, darling.” She tilted your face back towards her, about to shower you with affectionate words when you suddenly started to talk about your day.
“My boss told me off because I spent too much time with a customer. And that meanie Daniel stole my sandwich, I even caught him this time! He said I was too sensitive.” Your breaths were heavy as you explained all of the events. “Then a car beeped at me when I was crossing the street when he was the one who was zooming so fast illegally! And— and I was so tired I was gonna sleep on the floor, and I just wanted to be at home with mama. And the stinky bus driver didn’t even say hello back to me.” You huffed, crossing your arms, a crease in between your eyebrows. That wasn’t all of the things that had affected you, they were just the easiest to talk about right now.
Wanda had kept silent the whole way through, letting you rant, knowing you needed to say it all. When you were done, she stroked your cheek again, maintaining the small repetitive movement. “That sounds like such a difficult day. However, did you manage to be so brave? I’m so proud of you.” Your chin trembled as you held back tears. This was exactly why you wanted Wanda there all the time.
“I’m going to have a talk with Daniel, he shouldn’t be stealing your lunches, not when I packed it especially for my Angel.” You were ready to protest, not wanting to make your coworker dislike you even more, but Wanda wouldn’t have that. She wasn’t going to let someone be so rude to her precious love. “The car and bus driver were very inconsiderate. Sometimes people let their inside-feelings show on the outside in a not very nice way.”
You huffed in agreement, fiddling with the ring she had given you. “Stupid people.” Wanda laughed quietly, her body vibrating slightly under your head.
“Now, time for your snack.” Wanda helped you sit on her lap properly so she could rest the plate on the arm of the couch, the drink in your hands. “Open up, sweetheart.” She pointed to your mouth while picking up a slice of apple. “So clever.” The praise had you squirming in pride. The apple made a definite ’crunch’ as you ate, keeping you content and satisfied until it was all finished.
The cocoa was now at a perfect temperature as you drank it, Wanda having to remind you to slow down so you wouldn’t get hiccups like last time. “Such a good baby for mama.” She rubbed small shapes on your back, watching you intently.
You let out a loud ‘ah’ as you finished the last sip. Energy had been restored, it seemed. “Can we cuddle please? I wanna feel mama.” You gestured to Wanda’s chest with wide, hopeful eyes. Wanda would never say no, it was one of her favourite things to do too.
She made sure the plate and mug were safely set on the table before scooping you up in her strong arms and carrying you up to bed. Wanda laid you down, helping you shimmy out of your shirt and pants until you were clad in underwear.
“Perfect.” She kissed your cheek before taking off her clothes too, leaving them in a neat pile on the carpet. You reached out, silently begging her to get in quickly. Wanda did exactly that, sliding under the covers.
Within seconds you were clinging onto her, your head against her chest, feeling the warmth of her breasts against your cheek, having to briefly move her gemstone heart necklace to the side. A long, contented sigh escaped your lips. “I love you mama.” Tears formed in your eyes. “I wish I was with you all the time and I didn’t ever have to do anything alone.”
Wanda kissed the top of your head sympathetically. “I know, honey, I know.” Looking down at you now, she couldn’t even fathom letting you go out into the big wide world alone. You should be wrapped up in her arms forever, where she could protect you. However life wasn’t that merciful. And, Wanda knew you needed some independence, even if it was hard. She would never forgive herself if you missed out on life opportunities and experiences just because of her.
“Maybe you can take a break from everything for a month or two. You do need a break.” Wanda thought out loud. She could easily support you both financially; her work-at-home job paid very well thanks to making contacts in the right places many years ago. She was very grateful for that now, now that she had someone to care for— something she had craved for such a long time.
You sniffled, pressing yourself as close as possible to Wanda, wanting to meld into her body and stay there forever. “I really, really want that.”
After a long while of comfortable silence, Wanda spoke softly. “You know I would do anything for you, right?” She wanted to make sure you knew that, because sometimes your self doubt and wavering self esteem made you forget that people cared about you, especially Wanda.
You hesitated, mind beginning to think of reasons against her words, but laying here cuddled in the safety and warmth of Wanda, there was no rationality behind any of those worries. “Yes, mama.”
She smiled to herself, eyes drooping slightly. Before you had come home she had been preparing a cookie dough for you both to bake later, and she had been so excited to show you. Now that seemed so far away. Being with you would always come first, before any fun activity. After all, how could anyone really enjoy making cookies if they were as exhausted and low as you were?
You both drifted into a comfortable sleep, breathing almost in sync. It was quiet as you subconsciously realised this house wasn’t your home, Wanda was.
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