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Summary: The Avengers rescue an injured wolf from the woods surrounding the Compound. Keeping her is supposed to be temporary. Weeks turn into months, the wolf refuses to leave, and somehow Wanda and Natasha end up far more attached than either of them intended. Unfortunately, secrets don’t stay buried forever—and neither does the past she’s been running from.
The new Avengers Compound still doesn’t quite feel lived in yet.
The building itself is enormous, gleaming glass and steel rising out of the countryside like something pulled straight from a science fiction film, but there are still boxes in hallways, equipment waiting to be unpacked, and entire sections of the facility that remain eerily quiet. The team is settling in, finding routines, claiming rooms, learning which elevators are the fastest and which kitchens are stocked with the good coffee. For the first time in a long time, things feel almost peaceful.
Outside, the late afternoon sun paints the grass in shades of gold.
Tony sits on a blanket spread across one of the open lawns surrounding the compound, watching Morgan run through the grass with the endless energy only a child seems capable of possessing. She laughs as she chases a butterfly, tiny sneakers kicking up dirt behind her while Tony pretends not to be smiling.
“You know,” he calls out, leaning back on his hands, “I personally think that butterfly is cheating.”
Morgan gasps dramatically. “Daddy! Butterflies don’t cheat!”
“Says who?”
“Says science.”
Tony snorts. “I’ve made a career out of arguing with science.”
The little girl simply sticks her tongue out before continuing her pursuit.
For a while, everything is normal.
Peaceful.
Quiet.
The forest bordering the compound sways gently in the breeze, leaves rustling softly overhead. Birds sing somewhere beyond the tree line. The distant sounds of construction and moving equipment drift from the compound itself.
Then Tony’s phone buzzes.
One of the technicians inside needs a security code.
“One minute,” he tells Morgan, standing up. “Don’t go anywhere.”
She nods absentmindedly, completely focused on the insect she’s following.
Tony walks inside.
It should take less than sixty seconds.
Back in the forest, far beyond the compound’s sensors and surveillance systems, you move silently through the undergrowth.
The woods belong to your pack.
Humans rarely come this deep into the territory, and when they do, they almost never notice the wolves watching from the shadows. Your kind has survived that way for generations. Hidden. Careful. Unseen.
The breeze shifts.
Your ears twitch.
A strange scent drifts through the trees.
Human.
Several humans.
You pause.
The scent isn’t unfamiliar anymore. Ever since the massive compound appeared on the edge of the forest months ago, humans have become a constant presence. Loud machines, strange smells, bright lights.
Usually, you stay away. Today should be no different.
Then another scent reaches you.
Predator. Your head immediately lifts. Bear. Large. Close.
Far too close to the humans.
You break into a run.
Back at the compound, Morgan finally notices the silence. The butterfly has disappeared. The breeze has changed. Something feels wrong. Slowly, she turns. The enormous brown bear stands at the edge of the lawn.
For a moment, neither moves.
Morgan freezes.
The bear stares.
Then the little girl screams.
The sound rips through the countryside.
Inside the compound, Tony’s heart nearly stops.
He drops everything and sprints.
Outside, the bear begins moving forward. Not charging. Not attacking. Just advancing.
But to a frightened child, the difference means nothing.
Morgan stumbles backward.
Tears immediately spring into her eyes.
The bear huffs.
And then a brown blur explodes from the forest.
You hit the animal with enough force to throw both of you sideways across the grass.
The bear roars.
Morgan gasps.
The lawn erupts into chaos.
You land on your feet first, placing yourself directly between the predator and the child. Fur bristles along your spine as a deep growl tears from your chest.
The bear answers with one of its own.
Neither backs down.
The size difference is obvious.
The bear is massive.
But you don’t move.
Behind you, Morgan cries.
The sound only hardens your resolve.
The bear lunges. You dodge.
Teeth snap inches from your face.
You retaliate instantly, slamming into its shoulder hard enough to stagger it. The two of you crash across the lawn, tearing up grass and dirt as claws and teeth flash.
The bear recovers first.
A powerful paw swings.
You try to evade.
Almost.
The claws rake across your side.
Agony explodes through your body. A strangled yelp escapes before you can stop it. Warm blood immediately begins soaking into your fur.
The smell fills the air.
But you remain standing.
The bear advances again.
You bare every tooth you have - growling, threatening. Refusing to yield. The predator hesitates.
You take one step forward. Then another. Ignoring the blood. Ignoring the pain. Ignoring the way your legs are beginning to shake beneath you.
Something changes.
The bear decides you aren’t worth it.
With one final warning growl, it begins backing away.
Then it turns.
Then it disappears into the forest.
Only then do you allow yourself to breathe. Tony bursts out of the compound.
“Morgan!”
He reaches her in seconds, dropping to his knees and pulling her against his chest. She immediately buries her face against him, sobbing as he frantically checks for injuries.
“Dad—dad—the wolf—”
“I’m here,” he says quickly. “You’re okay. You’re okay.” Only then does he finally look up.
And see you.
The wolf standing twenty feet away.
Covered in blood. Swaying unsteadily. Your breathing is ragged. Your legs threaten to buckle beneath you.
For a second, Tony simply stares. Because wolves don’t protect humans. They certainly don’t throw themselves at bears for them.
And then, right before his eyes, your body finally gives out. You collapse into the grass. And everything goes black.
Consciousness returns slowly, surfacing through layers of exhaustion and pain that seem determined to drag you back under every time you try to fight your way awake. Your entire body feels heavy, your limbs sluggish and weak, and the deep burning ache radiating from your side makes it painfully obvious that whatever happened before you blacked out was not some strange dream.
The first thing you notice is the smell. Sterile. Artificial. Clean in a way no forest ever is. Beneath it are dozens of other scents layered together—metal, electronics, unfamiliar cleaning products, coffee, humans. Lots of humans. Your eyes slowly open and immediately narrow against the bright overhead lighting. White ceiling. White walls. Medical equipment. Panic sparks through your chest almost instantly.
You try to sit up only to discover something restraining you. Thick rope is looped securely around your torso and forelegs, keeping you anchored to a reinforced medical bed, while an uncomfortable muzzle wraps around your snout. A low sound rumbles in your throat before you can stop it. The movement pulls painfully at your injured side and your gaze drops to find your entire flank wrapped beneath layers of thick bandages. Even through them, you can smell dried blood.
Across the room, three men stand talking. One of them you recognise immediately from countless distant observations near the compound’s perimeter. Tony. Beside him stands the broad-shouldered blond man you’ve seen training outside before, and another dark-haired man wearing glasses.
None of them notice you’re awake at first, too focused on their conversation. “I’m serious,” Tony is saying, arms folded tightly across his chest. “We’re putting up fencing. Big fencing. Electric fencing if we have to. I step inside for sixty seconds and a bear shows up. A bear. Do you know how insane that sounds?” The blond man sighs. “Tony, wildlife exists. We built this place practically next to a forest.”
“Great. Then wildlife can stay in the wildlife section and my daughter can stay in the not-being-eaten-by-bears section.” The man with glasses pinches the bridge of his nose. “Morgan wasn’t hurt. That’s the important thing.” “Because of her,” Tony immediately replies, pointing directly at you. “Or him. Her. Whatever. The wolf. If that animal hadn’t intervened…” His voice trails off slightly, and for the first time you hear genuine gratitude beneath the protective frustration. “Morgan keeps asking if the wolf is okay.”
The movement of your head finally catches Steve’s attention. His posture immediately straightens and his eyes widen slightly. “Guys.” Tony and Bruce turn at the same time. For several seconds none of them say anything as they realise you’re conscious and staring directly back at them.
The room becomes strangely quiet. You can practically smell their uncertainty. Tony takes a cautious step forward first, not fearful exactly, but wary in the way anyone would be standing this close to a predator. “Well, hey there.” His voice softens unexpectedly. “Good to see you’re still with us.” You stare back without blinking.
The muzzle makes it impossible to communicate anything beyond a low frustrated huff. Bruce glances between you and the restraints. “She’s calmer than I expected.” “She just woke up,” Steve points out. “Give it a minute.” Tony studies you for a long moment before exhaling. “So what exactly do we do now?” Nobody answers immediately because they all know it’s a complicated question. In every practical sense, you’re a wild animal. An unusually large wild animal, but a wild animal nonetheless. Wild animals belong in the wild. That’s the obvious answer. The problem is that every single person in the room knows what would happen if they released you right now.
You can barely move without pain. The deep claw wounds across your side would leave you vulnerable to infection, other predators, or simply collapsing somewhere in the forest where nobody would find you. Steve seems to reach the conclusion first. “We can’t release her like this.” Bruce nods almost immediately. “Agreed. Medically speaking, she’s nowhere near healed enough.” Tony looks at you again, meeting your gaze directly. “And considering she basically saved my kid’s life, dumping her back into the woods half-dead feels like a pretty terrible thank you.” He rubs a hand over his face before letting out a long breath. “Alright. Fine. We keep her here. Temporary arrangement. We treat the injuries, make sure she’s recovered, then we release her back into the forest when she’s healthy enough to survive on her own.”
Steve folds his arms. “You realise you’re talking about keeping a wolf inside the Avengers Compound.” “Trust me,” Tony mutters, looking directly at you. “I am painfully aware of how ridiculous that sounds.” Despite the conversation being about you, none of them notice the strange intelligence lingering behind your eyes as you watch every word, every movement, every decision being made. Because as far as the Avengers know, lying restrained in that medical bed is nothing more than an injured wolf.
The discussion about your future inside the compound is interrupted by the sudden crackle of a radio sitting on one of the nearby counters. The burst of static immediately draws everyone’s attention before a familiar female voice comes through the speaker. “Control, this is Romanoff. Requesting clearance to land.” Steve reaches over without hesitation, pressing the response button. “You’re clear. Pad’s open.” A brief pause follows before Natasha’s amused voice returns. “Good. Because we’re landing whether it’s clear or not.”
The transmission clicks off, earning a tired sigh from Steve and an eye roll from Tony. “She’s been spending too much time around you,” Steve comments. “Excuse you,” Tony replies. “That level of confidence is a gift.” Despite the conversation, your ears have already perked up. Two unfamiliar scents drift faintly through the building, carried in through ventilation systems and opening doors. Human. Female. One carrying traces of smoke, leather and gunpowder. The other carrying something warmer. Something strange. Something that almost reminds you of standing in sunlight during winter. Before you can properly identify it, distant engines rumble somewhere outside the compound. Even through the walls you can hear the unmistakable sound of a Quinjet settling onto the landing platform.
Several minutes later the medbay doors slide open and both women walk inside. The first thing you notice is that every scent in the room immediately changes. The dark-haired woman enters first, dressed in a partially damaged tactical suit with several shallow cuts visible along her arms and one across her cheek. Nothing serious from the smell of it, but enough to explain the dried blood. Beside her walks the redhead. Unlike the other woman, she appears mostly unharmed apart from a split lip and a few smudges of dirt lingering across her uniform.
The moment your eyes land on them, something strange happens. Your tail immediately begins thumping lightly against the medical bed. Once. Twice. Then continuously. You don’t even realise you’re doing it at first. Every instinct in your body suddenly seems focused on the two newcomers.
They are, quite simply, the prettiest women you have ever seen. The dark-haired one carries herself with effortless confidence while the redhead seems to possess an almost unnatural kind of beauty that makes it difficult to look away. Your tail continues its rhythmic tapping against the mattress despite the pain in your side. Natasha notices first. “Well that’s either adorable or concerning.” Tony turns. “Oh great. Now she’s happy.” “Maybe she’s happy to see me,” Natasha says with a grin. “Most creatures are.” “Most creatures don’t have teeth the size of steak knives.”
Bruce immediately shifts into doctor mode the second he spots the cuts on Natasha’s arms. “Sit.” Natasha glances at the medical bed beside yours. “You know, every mission I come back from, you somehow find a way to make this place look more ridiculous.” Bruce points firmly at the bed. “Sit.” “Bossy.” “Natasha.” “Fine.”
She drops onto the mattress with exaggerated suffering while Bruce begins gathering supplies. Wanda remains standing instead, her attention entirely focused on you. Unlike the others, she isn’t studying you with caution. She’s simply watching. Curious. Interested. Your tail somehow starts wagging harder under her gaze.
The movement finally draws a laugh from Steve. “See? That’s what I mean.” Natasha glances between you and Wanda before smirking. “Looks like somebody has a favourite already.” Wanda doesn’t respond immediately. Her eyes remain fixed on you, lingering on the muzzle wrapped around your snout, the ropes binding you to the bed and the thick bandages covering your side.
Something about the sight clearly bothers her. “What happened?” she finally asks. Tony launches into the story while Bruce works on Natasha’s injuries. By the time he’s finished explaining the bear attack, Morgan’s involvement and the rescue, both women are staring at you with entirely different expressions than when they entered. Natasha looks impressed. Wanda looks heartbroken. “Poor thing,” Wanda murmurs softly. “She saved Morgan?” Steve nods. “Pretty much.” “And now she’s tied to a bed.” “Because she’s still a wolf,” Tony immediately replies. “A very large wolf. A very injured wolf. But still a wolf.”
The conversation continues for several minutes as the men explain the situation. They explain how releasing you would almost certainly be a death sentence in your current condition. They explain how keeping you permanently isn’t realistic either. They explain that despite everything you’ve done, you’re still a wild animal and they can’t simply start treating you like a domesticated pet.
Wanda listens quietly throughout the explanation, though it’s obvious she dislikes almost every part of it. “She’s scared,” Wanda says at one point. “Anybody would be scared.” Tony gestures toward the muzzle. “Anybody with those teeth gets the muzzle until further notice.” Natasha snorts. “Fair.” Despite the teasing, even she seems reluctant to argue with the precautions.
Eventually the discussion reaches the same conclusion Steve, Bruce and Tony had already reached earlier. You stay. You heal. Then you’re released once you’re healthy enough to survive. Bruce finishes patching Natasha up, Steve gets called away to deal with something involving training schedules, and Tony leaves shortly afterwards after reminding everyone at least twice that he intends to install enough fencing to make the compound look like a small country. Before long the room falls quiet again. Bruce eventually departs as well, leaving only two occupants besides yourself.
Natasha leans back against her bed while Wanda slowly pulls a chair over beside yours. Neither woman seems in any particular hurry to leave. The silence that settles over the room feels strangely comfortable. Your tail has finally slowed, though it still occasionally taps against the mattress whenever either of them looks your way. Wanda reaches forward carefully, stopping her hand several inches from your head. Giving you the choice. Giving you space. “Hi there,” she says softly. Her voice is warm enough to make your ears immediately tilt forward.
Natasha watches the interaction with an amused expression. “That’s it. You’ve adopted the giant wolf already.” Wanda doesn’t look away from you. “I haven’t adopted her.” “You’ve got the voice on.” “I do not have a voice.” “You absolutely have a voice.” For the first time since waking up, something almost resembling contentment settles through your chest. You’re still injured. Still restrained. Still trapped inside a building full of humans. But as Wanda continues speaking softly to you while Natasha teases her from across the room, you find yourself thinking that maybe staying here until you heal won’t be quite as terrible as you first imagined.
By the end of the evening, Tony has somehow managed to do what only Tony Stark could accomplish. Instead of simply discussing solutions, he has apparently purchased an entire reinforced animal enclosure online, paid an obscene amount of money for immediate delivery, and had it assembled inside the common room before dinner. Nobody is entirely sure how he managed it so quickly. Nobody is particularly surprised either. The temporary enclosure occupies one corner of the large living space, significantly bigger than any normal dog crate but still undeniably a cage. Thick metal bars form the walls while several blankets have been piled inside alongside a large padded bed that Bruce insisted on providing.
You were less than thrilled when they moved you from the medbay. The journey had pulled painfully at your injuries, and despite everyone’s best intentions, being carried through hallways and elevators by a collection of superheroes had done very little to improve your mood. Still, once settled inside the enclosure, you had begrudgingly accepted that this arrangement was better than being tied to a medical bed.
The common room itself is enormous. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the darkening forest beyond the compound, soft lighting illuminates the space, and several large couches surround a television that currently occupies most of the room’s attention. The rest of the team drifts in and out throughout the evening, some stopping to stare at the giant wolf now living in their headquarters, others barely reacting at all because after alien invasions, killer robots and Norse gods, an injured wolf somehow doesn’t seem that strange. Eventually, however, most of them disappear to their own rooms, leaving the common area quieter and considerably more peaceful.
Natasha and Wanda remain. Apparently, post-mission takeaway has become a sacred tradition between them, one neither injury nor exhaustion is allowed to interrupt. Several containers are spread across the coffee table while a movie plays on the television. Natasha has already changed into comfortable clothes and sits stretched out across one end of the couch. Wanda occupies the other, though only briefly before Natasha hooks an arm around her waist and effortlessly pulls her closer. Wanda rolls her eyes but doesn’t resist for even a second, immediately settling against her side with the kind of casual familiarity that only comes from years together.
From inside your enclosure, you watch the interaction with far more interest than the film currently playing. Earlier, after what felt like an unfair amount of debate from the men, Wanda had finally convinced them to remove the muzzle. More specifically, she had waited until Tony left the room, spent twenty minutes researching what wolves could safely eat, then used her powers to float a plate through the bars while giving everybody a look that clearly dared them to argue.
The meal itself sits mostly untouched beside you now. You’d eaten enough to stop Wanda worrying, but your appetite remains limited by pain, exhaustion and confusion. Your head rests against the cool metal bars instead, chin propped between two of them as you quietly observe the women across the room. The scent of food fills the air alongside the steady rhythm of their conversation, occasional laughter and the comforting knowledge that neither of them seems remotely bothered by your presence.
You tell yourself you’re watching because they’re interesting. Humans are fascinating creatures, after all. These particular humans even more so. They possess extraordinary abilities, live inside a futuristic fortress, and somehow spend their evenings arguing about which takeaway restaurant is superior. That should be enough to justify your attention.
Unfortunately, even you know that’s not entirely true. The reality is significantly more embarrassing. You simply can’t stop looking at them. Every time Natasha presses a kiss against Wanda’s temple while pretending to focus on the movie, your ears twitch. Every time Wanda unconsciously leans closer to Natasha while reaching for food, your eyes follow the movement. They fit together so naturally it almost seems effortless. Comfortable. Safe. Familiar. The sort of bond most people spend their entire lives searching for. A small, unhappy feeling settles somewhere in your chest.
You don’t fully understand it. Maybe it’s loneliness. Maybe it’s homesickness. Maybe it’s simply the knowledge that while they sit together surrounded by warmth and companionship, you’re currently occupying a cage in the corner of the room. Whatever the reason, you find yourself lowering your head further onto the bars and staring quietly at the pair.
Across the room, Wanda notices first. Her expression immediately softens. “She’s not eating much.” Natasha glances over. “She’s eaten enough.” “She looks sad.” “She’s a wolf.” “She still looks sad.” Natasha studies you for several seconds before shrugging. “Okay. Slightly sad wolf.”
Wanda’s attention remains fixed on you long after the conversation ends. Every few minutes you catch her looking over. Not out of caution. Not out of concern that you’ll suddenly become aggressive. Just checking on you. Making sure you’re comfortable. Making sure you’re okay.
It’s a level of care you’re entirely unprepared for. Back home, your pack looks after one another because you’re family. Protection is expected. Support is expected. Here, however, these people owe you nothing. They barely know you exist beyond being the wolf that saved Morgan. Yet Wanda still worries when you don’t finish your dinner. Natasha still casually points out that your water bowl needs refilling before getting up to do it herself. The entire situation feels bizarre. The movie continues playing in the background while darkness settles fully beyond the windows.
Eventually Natasha stretches, pulling Wanda even closer until the redhead is practically curled against her side. “You know,” Natasha says, glancing toward your enclosure again, “for something that’s technically a giant predator, she’s ridiculously well behaved.” Wanda smiles faintly. “Maybe she knows we’re helping her.”
You lower your gaze before either woman can notice how intently you’ve been watching them. The truth is that you don’t know what tomorrow will bring. You don’t know how long your injuries will take to heal. You don’t know how you’re supposed to eventually explain being a werewolf when that particular problem inevitably arrives.
Right now, however, none of that feels especially important. The television flickers softly across the room, the compound remains peaceful around you, and for the first time since waking up inside a building full of strangers, you slowly close your eyes and begin drifting toward sleep while listening to Wanda and Natasha quietly talking on the couch.
The movie eventually ends sometime after midnight. The takeaway containers are cleared away, the television is switched off, and the compound gradually settles into the quiet stillness that only arrives when dozens of people finally go to sleep.
Before leaving, Wanda kneels beside your enclosure one last time. Her expression softens as she studies you resting amongst the blankets, though she still reaches for caution over sentiment. With a small wave of her hand, red magic surrounds the muzzle resting nearby and gently secures it back around your snout. You immediately huff your displeasure.
Wanda offers an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, detka. Just for tonight.” Natasha snorts from behind her. “The giant predator is judging you.” “I know.” “Harshly.” Wanda reaches through the bars to scratch lightly behind one of your ears before standing. “Goodnight.”
The simple word shouldn’t matter. Humans tell each other goodnight all the time. Yet somehow, as you watch the two women disappear toward the elevators together, the common room immediately feels emptier than before. Much emptier. Soon the sound of their footsteps disappears entirely, leaving only silence, distant ventilation systems and the occasional hum of electronics somewhere deeper within the compound.
For a while you remain curled amongst the blankets, trying to settle back down. You close your eyes. Open them again. Shift positions. Try another position. Nothing helps. The common room is comfortable enough. You’re safe. Warm. Fed. Your injuries are being treated. Rationally, there is absolutely no reason for the uncomfortable feeling sitting heavily inside your chest. Yet it refuses to go away.
Several hours pass before the loneliness finally wins. It begins with a small sound escaping your throat. Barely noticeable. A quiet whine. Then another. Then another. You don’t entirely understand why you’re making the noise. Back home, wolves are rarely alone. Pack members sleep together, hunt together, exist together. Solitude is unusual. Wrong, almost. The compound is filled with people, yet none of them are here. The common room feels too large. Too quiet. Too empty. Before long, soft whining begins slipping from your muzzle every few minutes despite your best efforts to stop.
Unfortunately, the architects responsible for designing the compound made one critical mistake. Directly above the common room sits Wanda and Natasha’s bedroom. Every single sound carries upward with remarkable efficiency. Upstairs, Natasha is the first to recognise what she’s hearing. She groans into her pillow. “Ignore it.” Beside her, Wanda lifts her head immediately. “She’s upset.” “She’s a wolf.” “She’s whining.” “She’s dramatic.” Another muffled whine drifts through the floorboards. Wanda’s eyes narrow.
Natasha immediately recognises the expression. “No.” “Natasha.” “No.” “What if she’s scared?” “What if she wants attention?” Wanda pulls the blankets aside. “Then she’s getting attention.” Natasha falls backwards onto the mattress with all the suffering of somebody deeply wronged by the universe. “This is how it starts. One minute you’re checking on the wolf. Next minute she’s paying rent.”
By the time the elevator doors open, Wanda is already halfway across the common room wearing oversized pyjamas and fluffy socks. Natasha follows several steps behind, muttering complaints she clearly doesn’t mean. The moment you spot them emerging into view, the change is immediate. Your ears perk up. The whining stops entirely. Your tail begins thumping against the blankets.
Wanda pauses beside the enclosure and immediately points triumphantly toward you. “See?” Natasha folds her arms. “Traitor.” Wanda crouches beside the bars. “Were you lonely?” The question is ridiculous. You cannot answer. Yet your tail somehow starts wagging even harder. Natasha notices.
“Don’t encourage her.” “Look at her.” “I am looking at her.” “She’s sad.” “She was sad.” Wanda studies you for another few moments before standing again. A thoughtful expression appears on her face. Natasha immediately looks concerned. “Don’t.” “What?” “Whatever you’re thinking.” “I’m not thinking anything.” “Wanda.” The redhead glances between you and the elevator. Then back to Natasha. Then back to you. “She can come upstairs.”
Natasha stares at her. “Absolutely not.” “Why?” “Because she’s a giant wolf.” “She’s injured.” “She’s still a giant wolf.” “Natasha.” “No.” Wanda doesn’t even argue. Instead, red energy immediately begins surrounding your enclosure. Natasha closes her eyes. “You’re not listening to me.” “I listened.” “You ignored me.” “That’s different.”
The journey upstairs is probably one of the strangest experiences of your life. One moment you’re inside a cage in the common room. The next you’re floating through hallways suspended in glowing red magic while several night-shift agents openly stare. Wanda ignores them entirely. Natasha follows behind carrying armfuls of blankets while continuing her entirely unsuccessful campaign against the idea.
When you finally arrive at their bedroom, you discover it is significantly less intimidating than expected. Large bed. Soft lighting. Bookshelves. Personal photographs. Comfortable furniture. It feels lived in. Safe. Familiar. Wanda immediately directs your enclosure toward an empty corner of the room before finally lowering it onto the floor.
Natasha drops the blankets beside it with a dramatic sigh. “This is ridiculous.” “You’re helping.” “I’m helping because if you’re doing this, we’re doing it safely.” Despite her complaints, she begins arranging the blankets anyway.
Within minutes she has constructed what can only be described as a wolf-sized nest. Additional blankets line the floor. Extra cushions are added for comfort. Water is placed nearby. Then comes the final precaution. Natasha disappears briefly before returning with a length of sturdy rope from one of the room’s drawers (😏). “There.” She secures it carefully to create a boundary between your corner and their bed. “Perfect.”
Wanda raises an eyebrow. “Really?” Natasha points directly at you. “That wolf could probably bite through steel if she wanted to. The last thing I need is waking up to discover she’s decided two in the morning is cuddle time.” Wanda laughs despite herself. “She’s not going to maul us.” “You don’t know that.” “I do.” “You absolutely do not.” The argument continues as they prepare for bed, but it grows softer with each passing minute.
Eventually both women settle beneath the blankets. The room darkens. Silence returns. This time, however, it feels entirely different. Because instead of being alone several floors below them, you’re only a few metres away. You can hear Natasha turning pages of a book. You can hear Wanda quietly speaking to her. You can smell both of them nearby. The loneliness that had twisted uncomfortably in your chest earlier disappears almost instantly.
As sleep finally begins pulling at your consciousness once more, you curl deeper into the blanket nest Natasha built for you and listen to the gentle sound of the women talking until their voices gradually fade and the room falls completely silent.
The arrangement that began that night somehow became permanent. Not officially, at least not at first, but nobody seems capable of stopping it. Your injuries heal steadily over the following weeks. The angry wounds across your side gradually close. The bandages disappear. The limp fades. Bruce declares you healthy enough to return to the wild on at least three separate occasions. Unfortunately, nobody ever accounted for the fact that you had absolutely no intention of cooperating.
Somewhere along the way, the blanket nest in Wanda and Natasha’s room becomes your blanket nest. The common room enclosure is quietly dismantled and removed. The muzzle disappears entirely after several weeks without a single incident, much to the visible horror of the male members of the team.
Tony claims it is reckless. Clint claims they’re all going to die. Sam insists he wants written documentation proving the decision wasn’t his idea. Wanda ignores all of them. Natasha occasionally joins in solely because she enjoys watching them suffer.
You, meanwhile, spend most of your days following the two women around the compound with the determination of a particularly oversized shadow. Training room? You’re there. Kitchen? There. Movie night? There. If Wanda gets up to refill her coffee, you immediately lift your head to make sure she’s coming back. If Natasha disappears for a mission briefing, you’re waiting outside the room by the time she emerges.
Steve attempts to bond with you several times. Bruce brings treats. Clint tries bribery. Thor enthusiastically declares you a warrior beast worthy of Asgard. None of it works. The only people you consistently choose are Wanda and Natasha. It becomes such an established fact that nobody even questions it anymore.
Morgan, however, quickly becomes a special exception. The young girl absolutely adores you. Every time she visits the compound, she immediately seeks you out. It starts with cautious petting and nervous excitement but rapidly develops into complete confidence. She sits beside you during movie nights, reads stories aloud while leaning against your side, and occasionally attempts conversations that make absolutely no sense whatsoever.
One afternoon she discovers that you enjoy licking the cheese powder from her fingers after she’s been eating Cheetos. From that moment onward, the behaviour becomes a tradition. Tony nearly has an aneurysm the first time he witnesses it. “Morgan!” he practically shouts. “Stop feeding the giant wolf your fingers.” “She’s not eating my fingers.” “That’s not the point.” “She likes the Cheeto dust.”
You do, in fact, like the Cheeto dust. Morgan giggles every time your tongue cleans the orange powder from her hands while Tony watches with the exhausted expression of a father who has long since accepted that nobody listens to him. Wanda finds the entire thing adorable. Natasha takes photographs specifically to annoy Tony later. Life settles into a comfortable routine. A surprisingly normal one considering it involves superheroes and a wolf living inside a high-security compound. For the first time since being dragged from the forest, everything feels stable.
Naturally, that is precisely when Secretary Ross arrives to ruin it. The disruption begins on an otherwise ordinary afternoon when a government vehicle pulls up outside the compound. Nobody is particularly happy to see him.
Ross spends the first fifteen minutes arguing with Tony, the second fifteen arguing with Steve, and then somehow finds time to annoy everybody else as well. You pay little attention until your name—or rather, your species—enters the conversation.
The moment the word wolf reaches your ears, you immediately become interested. Unfortunately, the news is not encouraging. According to Ross, there are laws regarding wildlife. Lots of laws. Apparently keeping a wolf inside an Avengers facility falls into several extremely complicated legal categories.
Tony argues that they didn’t capture you. Bruce argues that they rescued you. Steve argues that releasing you while injured would have been irresponsible. Ross agrees with all of them. Unfortunately, the law does not particularly care. The solution seems obvious at first. Release the wolf. End of discussion.
The team actually attempts it. Once. Bruce drives you back toward the forest. Steve walks you to the tree line. Everybody says their goodbyes. You wait until they’re halfway back to the compound before sprinting directly past them and returning home. The second attempt lasts even less time. The third attempt ends with you somehow arriving back before Bruce’s vehicle does. By then even Ross appears irritated.
Several days of phone calls, paperwork and governmental nonsense follow. Eventually a compromise is reached. A legal exception. A special permit. Some absurd mountain of documents that only bureaucrats could create.
The conclusion is simple enough. You may remain at the compound. However, somebody must legally assume responsibility for you. Any damage, incidents or accidents become that person’s liability. Technically the responsibility could belong to anyone.
Practically speaking, everybody already knows how the vote would go. You spend approximately ninety percent of your time attached to either Wanda or Natasha. Nobody else even comes close. “This is ridiculous,” Sam says during the discussion. “The wolf already chose.” Clint nods. “She’s basically their kid at this point.” Natasha immediately points at him. “Don’t call her our kid.” “Your giant wolf daughter.” “Clint.” “Furry daughter.” Wanda is trying very hard not to laugh.
By the end of the meeting, the paperwork is signed. Wanda signs. Natasha signs. Just like that, they become your official owners in the eyes of the government. The entire concept feels deeply insulting from your perspective. You are a werewolf. A member of a pack. A fully capable person. Yet all anybody else sees is a very large animal. Still, there is something unexpectedly comforting about the way neither woman hesitates before accepting responsibility.
A few days later, Wanda and Natasha return from town carrying several shopping bags. The moment they enter the compound, you immediately investigate. Natasha attempts to stop you. You ignore her. Wanda laughs. Inside one of the bags is a collar. Not the cheap kind found in ordinary pet stores.
This one is clearly custom-made. Thick padded leather. Soft lining. Durable metal fittings. It smells new. Expensive. Natasha holds it while Wanda kneels beside you. “Before you get offended,” Natasha says, as though you can somehow understand every word, “this was not my idea.” “You helped choose it,” Wanda immediately points out. “I helped stop you buying the one covered in stars.” “The stars were pretty.” “The stars were ridiculous.”
While they argue, Wanda carefully fastens the collar around your neck. It fits perfectly. Not restrictive. Not uncomfortable. Just secure enough to stay in place. Hanging from the front is a custom metal tag. On one side is Wanda’s symbol. On the other is Natasha’s. The metal catches the light as it settles against your chest.
For several seconds, neither woman says anything. Then Wanda reaches forward to smooth the fur beneath it. Natasha scratches behind one of your ears. “There,” Natasha says quietly. “Official.” You should probably hate it. You should definitely hate the entire concept. Instead, standing between the two women while they admire the collar they’d chosen together, you find yourself doing something deeply embarrassing. Your tail starts wagging.
The collar somehow marks the beginning of an entirely new phase of your life at the compound. Once the novelty wears off and everybody accepts that you are, apparently, staying forever, the team gradually stops treating you like a rescued animal and starts treating you like part of the household. It begins innocently enough.
Wanda teaches you basic commands, mostly because she thinks it’s funny. Sit. Stay. Come here. Spin. The first time she asks you to shake her hand, you stare at her in complete disbelief. You are a werewolf. A hunter. A member of an ancient pack. Yet five minutes later you’re placing your paw into her hand because the look of excitement on her face makes refusing impossible.
Natasha finds the entire thing hilarious. She begins inventing increasingly ridiculous tricks solely to see if you’ll do them. Bruce walks into the common room one afternoon to discover you balancing a biscuit on your nose while Wanda counts down dramatically. Sam nearly falls over laughing. Clint records the entire thing.
The problem is that you’re embarrassingly good at all of it. You understand what they want almost immediately. Your intelligence is significantly higher than any normal wolf’s, and years of pack communication have made interpreting body language second nature. Within a matter of weeks you’ve mastered every trick either woman can think of.
Eventually Natasha narrows her eyes at you one evening after watching you flawlessly follow a complicated chain of commands. “Okay,” she says. “I have an idea.” Wanda immediately looks concerned. “That’s never good.” Natasha ignores her. “I wonder if she can do tactical commands.”
What begins as curiosity rapidly evolves into training. Real training. Natasha starts small. She hides objects around the compound and teaches you to locate them. Then she begins using volunteers. Usually Clint. Sometimes Sam. Once Tony, who spends the entire exercise loudly protesting that billionaires shouldn’t be hunted for sport.
Natasha teaches you hand signals. Silent directions. Ways to circle around a target without being noticed. Methods for steering people exactly where you want them without ever physically touching them. The first time she points toward a fleeing agent during a training exercise and signals for you to intercept, you understand instantly.
Instead of tackling him, you cut off every escape route until he unknowingly moves exactly where Natasha wants him. The look on her face afterwards is almost alarming. “Oh no,” Clint says from nearby. “Don’t make that face.” “What face?” Natasha asks. “The face that means you’ve discovered something.” “I’ve discovered something.” Clint groans.
Over the following weeks the exercises become more advanced. Tracking scents through forests. Locating hidden individuals. Moving quietly through difficult terrain. Working alongside Wanda’s powers. The entire thing feels so natural that it barely registers as training. You’ve hunted with a pack your entire life. Coordinating movements. Anticipating teammates. Understanding positioning. Reading body language. None of it is new. The only difference is that your packmates now happen to be a telekinetic witch and one of the deadliest spies on the planet.
Eventually Natasha decides there’s only one way to find out if the training works. “Absolutely not,” Steve says the moment she suggests it. “Absolutely yes,” Natasha replies. “She’s not going on a mission.” “She’s more qualified than half the people Clint recruits.” Clint immediately points at her. “Leave me out of this.”
The argument somehow continues for three days. Tony sides with Steve. Wanda sides with Natasha. Bruce attempts neutrality. Thor enthusiastically supports bringing the giant wolf warrior into battle. Nobody is surprised. In the end Natasha wins, mostly because the mission in question is relatively straightforward.
A small HYDRA facility operating deep within a remote forest. Limited personnel. Minimal risk. The objective is simple. Get inside. Gather intelligence. Shut the operation down from the inside. The plan relies heavily on stealth, tracking and coordinated movement.
In other words, exactly the things you’ve been doing for months. Even so, the atmosphere inside the Quinjet feels different on the day of the mission. Steve looks like he’s preparing for disaster. Tony keeps finding reasons to repeat safety instructions. Wanda spends most of the flight scratching behind your ears while Natasha reviews the operation for the tenth time. “She’s going to be fine,” Natasha eventually says. “You don’t know that,” Steve replies. Natasha gestures toward you. “Look at her.” Everyone does. You’re currently asleep.
The mission itself begins just after nightfall. The HYDRA facility sits hidden amongst dense woodland, isolated from nearby towns and protected by layers of security designed to detect approaching humans. Humans being the important word.
You move through the trees almost effortlessly. Every scent. Every sound. Every vibration beneath your paws paints a picture of the environment around you. Long before the others spot the first patrol, you’ve already identified three separate guard routes and two concealed entrances. Wanda and Natasha follow close behind while communicating through earpieces.
The coordination feels effortless. Familiar. Comfortable. Natasha gives a silent signal and immediately you move. One guard notices movement in the trees and leaves his assigned position to investigate. Exactly as intended. Another follows. Then another. By the time they realise something is wrong, Natasha has already guided them directly into an ambush.
Further inside the facility the pattern repeats. Guards are distracted. Patrols separated. Escape routes quietly eliminated. Whenever Natasha points, you understand. Whenever Wanda shifts position, you adjust automatically. The three of you move through the operation with a level of coordination that surprises even yourselves. At one point Wanda glances toward Natasha after watching you flawlessly herd two fleeing agents directly into her line of sight. “You trained her too well.” Natasha looks entirely too pleased with herself. “I know.”
By the time the facility finally falls, most of the fighting is already over. SHIELD teams move in to secure prisoners while agents begin collecting intelligence. The mission is declared an overwhelming success. Steve congratulates everybody over the comms. Tony reluctantly admits the operation went smoothly. Natasha spends the entire return flight looking unbearably smug. You curl up on the floor of the Quinjet, exhausted but content, while Wanda absentmindedly runs her fingers through the fur around your collar.
For the first time since arriving at the compound, it truly feels like you’ve found your place. Not as a rescued animal. Not as a guest. Not even as Wanda and Natasha’s oversized shadow. Out there in the forest, moving beside them through the darkness, working together without needing words, everything had felt instinctive. Natural. Like slipping back into a role you’d been born for. The only difference was that this pack looked very different from the one you’d left behind.
For a while after the HYDRA mission, everything seems perfect. The team’s concerns about bringing a giant wolf into active operations disappear almost overnight after seeing how effectively you work alongside Wanda and Natasha. Training becomes less about teaching you and more about refining what already comes naturally.
You spend mornings following Natasha through obstacle courses and afternoons stretched across the common room floor while Wanda reads with her feet resting against your side. Life settles back into its familiar rhythm.
On the afternoon everything changes, the team has gathered outside to enjoy one of the rare warm days where nobody is actively saving the world. Someone has produced a baseball bat. Someone else has produced enough enthusiasm to convince half the team to participate.
Natasha is currently standing in the middle of the makeshift field arguing with Clint about rules that neither of them are actually following. Sam is laughing. Steve is trying unsuccessfully to keep things organised. Tony is insisting that technology should be allowed in sports. Morgan is cheering for whichever team happens to be winning at any given moment.
You lie comfortably in the grass nearby with your head resting across Wanda’s lap while her fingers move absentmindedly through the fur around your neck. The collar sits comfortably against your throat now, so familiar you barely notice it anymore. Every now and then Wanda scratches behind your ears and you find yourself leaning into it without thinking.
Across the field Natasha glances over and catches the sight. “Spoiled,” she calls. Wanda doesn’t even look up from her book. “She’s earned it.” You close your eyes, content to simply enjoy the moment. The smell of freshly cut grass fills the air. Laughter drifts across the compound grounds. Everything feels peaceful.
Then the wind changes.
Your eyes snap open instantly.
The scent hits you before anything else.
Wolf.
Not one.
Many.
Every muscle in your body immediately locks.
Wanda notices the change at once. Her hand stills against your fur. “Detka?” she asks quietly. Across the field Natasha turns as well. Years of experience make her notice danger the same way you do. The laughter gradually dies as the team picks up on the tension spreading through both of you.
The bushes bordering the compound begin to shake. Once. Twice. Then violently. Steve straightens immediately. Natasha lowers the baseball bat. Wanda stands. For several long seconds, nobody moves.
Then figures begin emerging from the tree line. One after another. And another. And another. Some appear fully human. Others remain in wolf form. Every single one carries themselves with the same confidence as an apex predator. They are large. Powerful. Scarred by years of survival. Several of the wolves are nearly your size. One is larger. The atmosphere changes instantly. Even the Avengers look unsettled.
The newcomers don’t appear frightened by the heavily armed superheroes standing between them and the compound. If anything, they barely seem interested. Their eyes pass over the team entirely. Their focus settles on only one person. You.
By now you’ve already risen to your feet. Your tail is rigid. Your ears flattened. A low growl vibrates through your chest. The wolves spread slightly as they approach. Not threatening the Avengers. Not even acknowledging them. Their attention remains fixed entirely on you.
The first voice comes from a broad-shouldered man standing at the front of the group. “There you are.” The words immediately freeze half the team. Because wolves aren’t supposed to talk. Behind him, a woman folds her arms and openly scoffs. “Unbelievable.” Her gaze drifts over your collar. Over Wanda. Over Natasha. Disgust twists across her face. “Look at you.” Nobody says anything. Even Tony appears too stunned to interrupt. The man steps closer. “We’ve been looking for months.” Your growl deepens. “And this is what we find?” another pack member asks. “Living with humans?” “Wearing a collar?” “Sleeping in their house?”
The accusations come one after another. Natasha slowly moves toward your side. Wanda does the same. Neither woman takes their eyes off the strangers. “Care to explain what’s happening?” Natasha asks quietly. You can’t answer. Not without revealing everything.
Unfortunately, the pack has no such concerns. The broad-shouldered man laughs harshly. “You didn’t tell them?” Wanda’s expression shifts. “Tell us what?” The woman beside him gestures directly toward you. “That she’s one of us.” Silence falls across the field. You feel it immediately. The confusion. The disbelief. Wanda’s gaze snaps toward you. Natasha’s follows a second later. “One of you?” Steve asks carefully. The man smirks. “A werewolf.” The word lands like a grenade.
For several seconds nobody moves. Nobody speaks. Then all at once the carefully controlled situation collapses. “You’re kidding,” Tony says. “You’re not kidding.” Clint looks personally offended. “The wolf was a person this entire time?” “Technically,” Sam mutters. Natasha still hasn’t looked away from you. Neither has Wanda. The emotions flickering across their faces are impossible to ignore. Confusion. Shock. Hurt.
Not because you’re a werewolf. Because you’ve apparently been capable of understanding everything for months without ever being able to tell them. The pack continues speaking. “You abandoned us.” “For them.” “You traded your pack for humans.” “For a collar.”
The last comment finally snaps something inside you. Before anyone can react, you’re moving. The nearest wolf barely has time to dodge before you slam into him. The impact sends both of you tumbling through the grass. Another pack member lunges. You meet her head-on.
The fight erupts instantly. Growls tear through the air. Teeth flash. Bodies collide. Years of resentment and frustration explode all at once. The Avengers start forward. Steve shouts something. Natasha curses. Wanda’s eyes begin glowing red. None of it matters. Not until one particularly large wolf crashes into you and the two of you roll dangerously close to Morgan’s position. That is the moment Wanda finally intervenes.
Chaos simply stops.
Scarlet energy erupts across the field.
Every werewolf is ripped apart from the fight and suspended in midair before they can react. You included. One moment you’re snarling at a pack member. The next you’re floating several feet above the ground, completely immobilised by Wanda’s magic.
The field falls silent except for heavy breathing. Wanda stands in the centre of it all. Her eyes glow brightly. Her expression is impossible to read. Natasha steps forward beside her. Neither woman looks angry. Somehow that makes it worse.
They look hurt. Genuinely hurt. Wanda’s gaze settles on you first. Then on the collar around your neck. Then back to your eyes. “You understood us,” she says quietly. It isn’t really a question. Natasha folds her arms. “Months.” The word hangs heavily in the air.
Around you, the rest of your pack remains trapped in scarlet energy while the Avengers stare in stunned silence. Nobody seems entirely sure what to do next. Least of all you. Because for the first time since arriving at the compound, there is no hiding behind being a wolf. No pretending. No misunderstandings. The truth has finally arrived. And judging by the expressions on Wanda and Natasha’s faces, it may have cost far more than you ever intended.
Nobody says anything for a long time after Wanda stops the fight.
The field remains frozen in an uncomfortable silence broken only by heavy breathing and the distant rustling of leaves. Scarlet energy still glows around every member of your pack, holding them suspended several feet above the ground. The anger that had fuelled the confrontation has long since faded, leaving behind something much worse. Embarrassment. Regret. Uncertainty.
You remain trapped amongst Wanda’s magic as her gaze moves across the assembled werewolves. Some glare back defiantly. Others avoid her eyes entirely. The sheer power radiating from her is impossible to ignore. Even your pack seems to understand that pushing things further would be a very bad idea. Eventually Wanda takes a slow breath and lowers her hands slightly.
One by one, every member of your pack is released. Boots hit grass. Paws hit dirt. Nobody immediately moves. For several tense seconds it seems like another fight might break out. Then the broad-shouldered man who had spoken first glances toward you. His expression softens slightly, though not by much. “Come on,” he says quietly to the others. The woman beside him gives one final look toward the compound before turning away.
Gradually the rest of the pack follows. Human forms disappear back toward the tree line. Wolves melt into the shadows between the trees. Within moments the forest begins swallowing them once more. They leave without another word. Without another accusation. Without looking back. Everyone is released except you. Scarlet magic continues holding you motionless above the grass while Wanda watches the last traces of your former life disappear into the woods.
The moment the final pack member vanishes from sight, Wanda’s attention returns entirely to you. Natasha’s does too. Somehow that feels significantly more intimidating. Neither woman appears angry. You almost wish they were. Anger would be easier. Simpler. Instead they simply look at you. Really look at you. As though they’re trying to reconcile the wolf they’ve spent months caring for with the person they now know has been hiding behind those golden eyes the entire time.
Natasha’s expression remains unreadable, though the hurt is obvious if you know where to look. Wanda doesn’t even attempt to hide hers. Confusion flickers across her face. Questions. Doubt. She opens her mouth as if to say something. Then closes it again. Whatever words she had don’t seem sufficient. For several more seconds nobody moves.
Then, without warning, the magic disappears. You drop back onto all four paws. The impact barely registers. Your attention remains fixed entirely on the two women standing before you. Wanda studies you one final time before turning away. No dramatic speech. No confrontation. No shouting. She simply turns and begins walking toward the compound. Natasha hesitates slightly longer. For a brief moment it almost looks like she wants to say something. Instead she follows Wanda. Together they disappear through the glass doors and leave you standing alone on the lawn.
One by one, the others eventually follow. Steve offers you a sympathetic look before heading inside. Bruce looks concerned. Clint awkwardly pretends not to be staring. Sam gives a small nod before leaving as well. Nobody knows what to say. How could they?
The wolf they’ve been living with for months apparently isn’t a wolf at all. Eventually the field empties entirely. The baseball game is forgotten. The equipment remains scattered across the grass. The afternoon sunlight gradually shifts toward evening. Through it all, you don’t move. You simply stand there.
The compound’s enormous glass walls make it impossible to avoid looking inside. Every room seems brighter now. More distant. More unreachable. Occasionally you catch glimpses of Wanda moving through the common room. Natasha appears beside her. Sometimes they’re talking. Sometimes they’re simply sitting together. Every so often one of them glances toward the window. Toward you.
The looks aren’t angry. That’s what hurts the most. They aren’t glaring. They aren’t avoiding you. They just look thoughtful. Processing. Trying to understand. Hours pass this way. The sun sinks lower. Shadows stretch across the grounds. Inside, life continues. Outside, you remain exactly where they left you.
As darkness begins creeping across the compound, a strange realisation slowly settles over you. You have spent months building a life here. Months becoming part of something. You learned routines. Earned trust. Found a place within a new pack. Yet standing alone in the grass, watching the people you care about through a wall of glass, you’ve never felt further away from them.
The truth is finally out. The secret you’ve carried since the day you collapsed outside the compound no longer exists. And somehow everything feels worse now than it did when nobody knew.
Your eyes find Wanda one final time. She’s sitting beside Natasha on the couch. Neither woman is looking outside at the moment. For the first time all day, you finally break your stare away from the compound. Slowly, you turn around. The forest waits silently beyond the edge of the property. Familiar. Dark. Home. Or at least it used to be.
You take a step toward it. Then another. Nobody notices. Nobody stops you. The grass gives way to dirt beneath your paws. Trees begin surrounding you once again. Within minutes the compound is hidden behind trunks and leaves. The lights disappear. The voices vanish. Soon there is nothing left except the forest stretching endlessly ahead. And without allowing yourself a chance to look back, you continue walking deeper into the darkness.
The compound feels wrong that night.
Not quieter. Not emptier. Wrong.
The difference is subtle enough that neither Wanda nor Natasha notices it immediately. After everything that happened outside, after the pack, the revelations, the fight and the silence that followed, neither woman has much energy left for analysing why the atmosphere feels off. They simply move through the evening together.
Natasha makes coffee she never drinks. Wanda spends almost an hour staring at a book without turning a single page. Neither brings up you. Neither brings up the fact that the wolf they’ve spent months caring for apparently understood every conversation, every argument and every embarrassing nickname they’d ever used around you. Neither mentions the look on your face when you realised they were hurt.
Eventually exhaustion wins over confusion and they make their way upstairs. The routine is automatic by now. Natasha brushes her teeth. Wanda changes into pyjamas. Lights are switched off. Curtains are drawn. The bedroom settles into darkness.
For a few moments both women simply stand there staring at their bed. The bed that suddenly seems much larger than it did yesterday. Wanda climbs in first, pulling the blankets over herself before instinctively leaving a gap near the foot of the mattress. Natasha notices immediately. Neither comments on it.
A few seconds later Natasha slides beneath the covers as well. Silence settles between them. The room should feel familiar. Comfortable. Safe. Instead there is a strange absence hanging over everything. An absence both women are becoming increasingly aware of.
Wanda is the first to suffer from it. Sleep refuses to come. She shifts onto one side. Then the other. Pulls the blankets higher. Kicks them lower. Every position feels wrong. More than once her foot drifts toward the bottom of the bed without conscious thought, searching for a familiar bundle of fur that should be curled there.
Every single time she remembers halfway through the movement and immediately stills. The first few times it’s merely frustrating. After the fifth or sixth attempt it starts becoming painful. Beside her, Natasha remains motionless. At least outwardly. Her hands rest behind her head while she stares up at the ceiling as though it contains some secret answer she hasn’t found yet. It doesn’t. The ceiling remains spectacularly unhelpful.
Hours seem to pass with neither woman speaking. Eventually Wanda lets out a quiet huff and rolls onto her back again. “Stop looking at the ceiling.” Natasha doesn’t move. “I’m thinking.” “The ceiling isn’t helping.” “I know.” Another silence follows. Longer this time. “Do you think she left?” Wanda finally asks. Natasha closes her eyes briefly.
The question hangs heavily in the darkness. “No.” The answer comes immediately. Certain. Confident. Wanda turns her head. “You don’t?” “No.” Natasha stares upward again. “She’s stubborn.” Despite everything, a tiny smile briefly appears on Wanda’s face. It disappears just as quickly.
Eventually they both drift asleep. Not properly. Not deeply. The sort of sleep people fall into when their minds refuse to fully switch off. Every few hours one of them wakes. Sometimes it’s Natasha checking the time. Sometimes it’s Wanda reaching toward the foot of the bed before remembering why it’s empty. Neither sleeps for longer than an hour or two at a time.
By the time morning finally arrives, both women feel exhausted. The pale sunlight creeping through the curtains drags them awake properly. Neither moves for several moments. They simply lie there staring at opposite walls. Thinking. Processing. Wondering. Finally Wanda sits up. Natasha does the same. No discussion takes place. None is necessary.
One look passes between them and an entire conversation somehow happens without words. They both know exactly what the other is thinking. Whatever happened yesterday, whatever conversations need to happen later, whatever questions remain unanswered, the first thing they need to do is find you.
Wanda is already climbing out of bed by the time Natasha stands. Within minutes they’re dressed and heading downstairs together. Neither heads toward the kitchen. Neither stops for coffee. They walk straight through the compound and out onto the grounds where they’d last seen you standing.
The morning air is cool. Dew clings to the grass. The field remains exactly as it was left yesterday. A few forgotten pieces of baseball equipment still lie scattered near the edge of the lawn. Wanda scans the area immediately. Natasha does the same. Neither sees what they’re looking for.
For several seconds they continue walking forward anyway, as though expecting you to appear from behind a tree or emerge from somewhere nearby. Nothing happens. The patch of grass where you’d stood for hours is empty. Wanda’s pace slows. Natasha’s expression tightens slightly. Together they reach the edge of the property and stop. Beyond them, the forest stretches endlessly in every direction. Dense. Silent. Unfamiliar. The same forest you’d disappeared into the night before.
Wanda studies the tree line for a long moment. Then another. Then another. Eventually she lowers her gaze. Natasha follows the direction of her stare. There, pressed into the damp earth at the forest’s edge, are a set of pawprints leading away from the compound. Deep. Clear. Fresh enough that neither woman has any trouble recognising them.
Neither speaks. Neither needs to. Because for the first time since finding an injured wolf bleeding on their lawn all those months ago, there is no sign of you anywhere.
The panic begins approximately thirty seconds after Wanda and Natasha reach the tree line.
At first neither of them says the word out loud. Neither woman is particularly eager to admit that they’re worried. Wanda keeps insisting there must be a reasonable explanation. Natasha keeps insisting that if you wanted to leave permanently, you would have done so months ago. Both arguments sound increasingly hollow with every passing minute. The pawprints leading into the forest are impossible to miss. Fresh enough to follow. Clear enough to confirm exactly where you’d gone.
Before long they’re gathering supplies and heading into the woods themselves. Steve attempts to convince them to bring backup. Natasha refuses. Tony suggests drones. Wanda ignores him entirely. Within an hour they’re moving between the trees, following the trail deeper than either of them has ever travelled before. The forest surrounding the compound is enormous. Larger than most people realise. The Avengers have mapped sections closest to the facility, primarily for security purposes, but nobody has ever found much reason to venture further.
As the hours pass, even those familiar landmarks disappear. Cell signals fade. Marked routes vanish. The terrain becomes rougher and less travelled. More natural. More wild. Wanda occasionally spots broken branches or faint traces of movement through the undergrowth. Natasha finds tracks. Neither says much. Both remain focused entirely on finding you.
By the third hour of walking, even Natasha is beginning to look concerned. “How far out does this forest go?” Wanda asks quietly. Natasha studies the endless trees ahead. “Apparently further than we thought.”
Eventually the landscape begins changing. The signs are subtle at first. A narrow path that clearly didn’t form naturally. Cut logs stacked neatly beside a stream. Marks on trees. Evidence that people live here. Both women immediately become more alert.
They continue following the trail until the forest finally opens into a small clearing. Nestled amongst the trees sits a structure that looks somewhere between a cabin and a hunting lodge. Smoke curls lazily from a stone chimney. The building itself appears handmade, weathered by years of exposure.
Natasha and Wanda exchange a look. Neither says anything. They simply continue forward. A few minutes later another building appears. Then another. Then two more. Some are little more than huts. Others are larger communal structures. Children dart between them. A few wolves nap lazily beneath shaded trees.
Human voices drift through the air. The entire settlement seems to emerge naturally from the forest itself, hidden so effectively that it would be almost impossible to locate without knowing exactly where to look. “This has to be it,” Wanda murmurs. Natasha nods slowly. “Pack territory.” The words feel strange to say aloud. Until yesterday werewolves had been something neither of them believed existed. Now they’re standing in the middle of an entire village filled with them.
The pack notices them almost immediately.
Conversations gradually stop as heads turn toward the newcomers. Several adults rise from where they’d been sitting. None appear particularly alarmed. Curious, perhaps. Wary. But not hostile. Many of the faces are familiar from the confrontation outside the compound. The broad-shouldered man stands near one of the larger buildings speaking with a younger wolf. The woman who had mocked your collar the day before sits sharpening a knife near a fire pit. Several pups in wolf form immediately stop playing to stare openly at the strangers.
Natasha instinctively scans the area. Wanda does the same. Both searching for the same thing. Brown fur. Golden eyes. Any sign of you. They find neither. Instead Wanda suddenly stops walking altogether. Natasha notices immediately. “What?” Wanda doesn’t answer. She simply points.
Standing beside one of the largest huts in the settlement is a carved wooden post.
And hanging from that post is your collar.
The thick padded leather is unmistakable. Wanda recognises it instantly because she spent almost forty minutes choosing it. Natasha recognises it because she spent twenty arguing over which design looked least ridiculous. The metal tag glints softly in the sunlight. Wanda’s symbol on one side. Natasha’s on the other.
Seeing it hanging there feels strangely wrong. Too final. Too deliberate. For several seconds neither woman moves. The sight creates an uncomfortable knot somewhere deep in Wanda’s chest. Natasha’s jaw tightens slightly. The collar had become part of you. As ridiculous as that sounds. Seeing it removed and abandoned here feels like a message neither of them particularly enjoys receiving. “Well,” Natasha says carefully. “She’s definitely been here.”
“Obviously.”
“Not helping.”
Wanda doesn’t respond.
Because a much larger problem has just occurred to her.
Every werewolf in sight appears human.
Every single one.
The adults standing nearby. The children. The people moving between buildings. None of them resemble the wolf they’ve spent months living with. Not because you aren’t here.
Because they have absolutely no idea what you actually look like.
The realisation arrives simultaneously for both women.
Months.
They’ve known you for months.
They know your favourite sleeping spot. Your favourite food. The exact way your ears twitch when you’re annoyed. They know you secretly like being brushed despite pretending otherwise. They know you steal Wanda’s side of the bed whenever given the opportunity.
Yet they don’t know the simplest thing of all.
Your face.
Natasha slowly looks around the settlement again.
“Do you know which one she is?”
Wanda opens her mouth.
Then closes it.
Because she doesn’t.
Neither of them do.
Somewhere amongst the dozens of werewolves moving through the village is the person they’ve spent months caring about. And they have absolutely no idea who they’re looking for.
You catch their scent long before you actually see them.
Even amongst dozens of pack members, countless overlapping smells and the constant presence of the forest itself, their scents remain unmistakable. Wanda’s carries traces of coffee, old books and something warm that has always reminded you of home. Natasha’s carries leather, gunpowder and the faintest hint of whatever shampoo she stubbornly refuses to admit she uses.
The moment those scents reach you, every muscle in your body locks. You’d spent the entire night convincing yourself they wouldn’t come. That they’d be angry. That they’d be relieved to finally be rid of the giant wolf that had apparently lied to them for months. Yet somehow, despite all logic, they’d followed you. Followed you further into the forest than any human should reasonably be willing to travel.
Now, standing amongst your pack in a half-shifted form, you find yourself wishing you’d had more time to prepare. Thirty feet separates you from them. Thirty feet and an entire world of uncertainty. Around you, other pack members continue watching the strangers cautiously. Some are openly suspicious. Others merely curious. You barely notice any of them. Your attention remains fixed entirely on the two women standing near the central huts.
Seeing them here makes everything hurt far worse than it did yesterday. Guilt twists painfully inside your chest. Every memory seems determined to replay itself at once. Wanda sneaking you treats when Bruce said no. Natasha pretending she didn’t enjoy your company while secretly building you a blanket nest. Movie nights. Training sessions. Sleeping curled at their feet before eventually earning a place on the actual bed. You’d never meant to deceive them. Not really. Yet looking at them now, you can suddenly understand exactly why they felt betrayed.
Unfortunately, your body chooses this exact moment to completely betray you as well.
Specifically, your tail.
At first it’s only a slight movement behind you. Barely noticeable. Then Natasha shifts her weight slightly and your tail immediately starts wagging. You freeze. It freezes. Wanda turns her head and your tail starts wagging again. Mortified, you attempt to force it still. The effort lasts approximately three seconds. Because despite everything that happened yesterday, despite the guilt currently eating you alive, despite being surrounded by your actual pack, seeing them again fills you with an embarrassing amount of happiness.
Your ears flatten slightly as you realise exactly what this means. Somewhere along the way, entirely against your better judgement, you’ve become hopelessly attached. Across the clearing, Natasha’s eyes narrow. You know that look. It is the look of a predator noticing something important. The same look she gets during missions. The same look she gets whenever Clint attempts to lie.
Your tail continues wagging. “Traitor,” you mutter under your breath. The tail does not care. Natasha’s gaze moves across you carefully. Not threatening. Not judgemental. Just observant. She notices your eyes repeatedly flicking toward the collar hanging from the wooden post. She notices how quickly your attention returns to her and Wanda every time you try looking elsewhere. She notices the obvious guilt written all over your face.
Most importantly, she notices that every other werewolf in the clearing is looking at her and Wanda like outsiders. Potential threats. Strangers. You’re looking at them like you’ve just found something important that you thought you’d lost.
The problem, unfortunately, is that Natasha Romanoff is very, very good at noticing things.
“You see that?” she asks quietly.
Wanda follows her gaze.
For several seconds she doesn’t seem to understand what Natasha means.
Then she notices your tail.
A tiny, unwilling smile immediately appears before she quickly suppresses it.
“Oh.”
“Yep.”
The smile almost returns.
Meanwhile, neither woman seems particularly prepared for finally discovering what you actually look like. Back at the compound, every image they’d ever formed of you had been filtered through fur, paws and golden eyes. The reality standing before them is… different. Your half-shifted form leaves the wolf traits obvious enough. Brown ears protrude through your hair. Your tail continues its humiliating display behind you. Yet the rest of you is undeniably human. Or close enough.
Like most of the pack, your clothing consists primarily of practical materials gathered from the forest itself. Leather wraps around your waist. Woven vines and natural fibres cover your chest and shoulders. Functional. Traditional. Entirely normal by pack standards. The arrangement leaves your arms and much of your skin exposed, revealing years of hunting, climbing and surviving in the wilderness. Strong muscles shift beneath sun-bronzed skin every time you move.
Yet somehow the intimidating image is completely ruined by the fact your tail refuses to stop wagging. Natasha notices that too. In fact, she notices everything. Her expression slowly becomes more complicated with every passing second. Wanda seems equally distracted. Neither woman had expected this. Not really. They’d imagined meeting you eventually. They’d wondered about it countless times without realising it. But now that the moment has actually arrived, neither seems entirely certain what to do.
The silence stretches.
You don’t approach them.
They don’t approach you.
The distance remains exactly the same.
Yet somehow it feels far smaller than it did a few minutes ago.
Around the clearing, several pack members are beginning to notice the strange exchange taking place. The broad-shouldered man who’d confronted you outside the compound folds his arms. A few of the younger wolves openly watch with interest. One of the elders looks suspiciously amused.
You wish the ground would swallow you whole. Your tail is still wagging. Natasha is still watching. Wanda’s gaze keeps softening every time your eyes meet hers. Everything is becoming increasingly unbearable. Then, after what feels like an eternity, Wanda finally takes a small step forward. Not enough to invade your space. Not enough to force anything. Just one step. The sort of step someone takes when approaching a frightened animal. Or perhaps someone they care about.
Your tail somehow wags even harder. Natasha immediately notices. Of course she does. And for the first time since arriving at the pack grounds, a faint smirk appears on her face.
“Oh,” she says quietly.
“What?” Wanda asks.
Natasha never takes her eyes off you.
“I think we found her.”
And despite everything, your stupid tail practically confirms it for her.
The moment Natasha says it, every survival instinct you possess immediately takes over.
Run.
The command slams through your brain with enough force to make your ears flatten against your head.
You don’t wait to see what happens next. The second Wanda takes another step forward, you turn and bolt. Straight into the forest. Branches whip past as you sprint between trees, heart hammering violently against your ribs. Behind you, voices erupt from the clearing. You don’t stay long enough to hear what they’re saying. Shame burns through every inch of you. Embarrassment. Guilt. Relief. All twisted together into something impossible to untangle. You’d spent months imagining what would happen if Wanda and Natasha discovered the truth. Somehow every scenario had been less humiliating than this one.
Because now they knew. They knew you understood every conversation. Every argument. Every movie night. Every time Natasha secretly let you onto the bed after pretending not to want you there. Every time Wanda called you pet names when she thought nobody was listening. And worst of all, they knew exactly how attached you’d become.
Your tail had made absolutely sure of that. You hear movement behind you. Not footsteps. Something much worse. Red magic.
“Oh come on,” you groan.
A second later scarlet energy wraps around your waist. The forest disappears beneath your feet. You immediately find yourself suspended several feet in the air.
“Really?” you call.
“Really,” Wanda’s voice replies.
The world moves alarmingly fast as the magic carries you backwards through the trees. Several branches narrowly miss your face. One doesn’t. “Ow.”
“You ran.”
“I panicked.”
“You always panic.”
“I do not always panic.”
“You literally turned around and sprinted away.”
Unfortunately, she has a point.
The clearing comes back into view moments later. Several amused pack members are openly watching the entire thing. One of the elders is laughing so hard she has tears in her eyes.
You decide you hate everyone. Especially Wanda. Mostly because she’s right. The magic finally lowers you back onto solid ground a few feet from the two women.
For a moment nobody moves. You stare at the grass. Wanda stares at you. Natasha stares at you. The silence stretches.
Then suddenly both women are moving. Before you can react, Wanda’s arms are around your shoulders. At almost the exact same moment Natasha wraps her arms around your waist. The impact nearly knocks the breath from your lungs.
“What—”
Wanda hugs tighter. Natasha somehow hugs tighter than that. The result is less a hug and more a coordinated assault.
“You idiot,” Natasha mutters.
You blink. That isn’t the response you expected.
“We thought you were gone,” Wanda says quietly.
Her voice sounds suspiciously emotional. Your confusion only deepens.
“You left.”
“You left us first.”
“I thought you hated me.”
Both women immediately pull back just enough to stare at you. The looks on their faces are almost offended.
“Hate you?” Wanda repeats.
“You lied to us,” Natasha says. “That’s not the same thing. We were confused. We were hurt. But we didn’t hate you.”
Wanda’s arms tighten again.
“If anything,” she admits quietly, “we were more upset with ourselves.”
You frown.
“What?”
The women exchange a glance. Then Natasha sighs.
“We shouldn’t have left you out there.”
Your ears twitch.
“What?”
“Yesterday,” Wanda says softly. “After the fight.”
The guilt returns immediately.
“We found out this huge secret and instead of talking to you…” Her expression falls slightly. “We just walked away.”
“You were hurt.”
“So were you.”
The simple response steals every argument from your mouth.
For several moments nobody says anything. The forest around you feels strangely distant. Eventually you lower your gaze.
“I didn’t know how to tell you.”
Wanda and Natasha remain silent. Waiting. So you continue.
“At first I couldn’t.”
Your tail lowers slightly behind you.
“Then after I healed…” You swallow. “You already thought I was a wolf.”
Natasha nods slowly.
“And every day that passed made it harder.”
You laugh weakly.
“How do you even start that conversation?”
Neither woman interrupts.
“‘Hey, thanks for rescuing me. Also I’ve secretly understood every word you’ve said for six months.’”
To your immense relief, Natasha snorts. Wanda covers her mouth. Encouraged, you continue.
“Then I got scared.”
Their expressions soften immediately.
“If I told you, everything would’ve changed.”
Your eyes finally lift to meet theirs.
“And I liked it.”
The admission leaves your mouth before you can stop it. You immediately regret it. Your tail, however, begins wagging. Traitor.
“I liked being there.”
Wanda’s eyes soften even further.
“The compound felt like home.”
Your throat tightens.
“You felt like home.”
Silence follows. A dangerous silence. The sort that makes your heart beat significantly faster. Especially when Natasha keeps looking at you like that. You try very hard not to notice. Really. You do. Unfortunately, Natasha Romanoff has spent the last several minutes finally getting a proper look at you.
A very proper look.
Your half-shifted form leaves very little to the imagination compared to the giant wolf she’d become accustomed to. Years of hunting and surviving in the wilderness are obvious in every movement. Strong muscles shift beneath sun-warmed skin. Wolf ears protrude through your hair. Your tail continues wagging with absolutely no regard for your dignity whatsoever.
Natasha notices all of it. Every single bit. You pretend not to. Desperately. The problem is that pretending becomes significantly harder when her gaze briefly drops before returning to your face. Then does it again. Your tail somehow wags harder. Mortified, you immediately focus on literally anything else. Trees. Clouds. The ground. A random squirrel. Anything.
Across from you, Natasha’s lips twitch suspiciously. Wanda notices both your tail and Natasha’s expression at the exact same moment.
“Oh my god,” Wanda says.
“What?” you ask instantly.
“Nothing.”
Natasha looks away far too quickly. Your tail continues wagging. The elder watching nearby starts laughing again. And for the first time since everything fell apart outside the compound, Wanda and Natasha are smiling.
The conversation with your pack takes far longer than expected. Not because anyone is actively trying to stop you from leaving, but because the entire settlement seems fascinated by the fact that two Avengers have wandered several hours into werewolf territory just to find you.
By the time the sun begins dipping lower through the trees, you’ve endured enough teasing to last a lifetime. The elder who had laughed at your tail earlier somehow finds even more reasons to do so. The broad-shouldered man apologises, in his own gruff way, for causing problems at the compound. Several of the younger wolves openly ask Natasha questions about fighting. Through all of it, Wanda remains close enough that her shoulder occasionally brushes yours, while Natasha hovers nearby with the casual protectiveness of somebody pretending not to be protective at all.
Eventually the topic everyone has been carefully avoiding finally comes up. “So,” Wanda says softly, glancing toward the path leading back through the forest. “Are you coming home?” The simple question immediately steals your attention. Home. Not the compound. Not the Avengers facility. Home.
Your ears twitch slightly. Natasha notices. Of course she does. “You’re not getting rid of us that easily,” she adds. “Besides.” A faint smirk appears on her face. “You’re our girl.” Heat immediately rises into your cheeks. Wanda smiles. “Our best girl.” Your tail begins wagging before you can stop it.
Around you, several pack members groan dramatically. One of them pretends to gag. You completely ignore them. Because despite everything that happened, despite the confusion and hurt and misunderstandings, the thought of returning with Wanda and Natasha fills your chest with a warmth you haven’t felt since leaving the compound. The decision becomes surprisingly easy after that.
The journey back feels very different from the journey out. Nobody is rushing this time. Nobody is desperately following tracks or searching for signs. Instead, the three of you walk together through the forest, gradually leaving the hidden settlement behind. Conversation comes slowly at first. Then more naturally. Wanda asks questions about your pack. Natasha asks questions about shifting.
You answer what you can. Some things make sense to them. Some clearly don’t. More than once Natasha has to stop herself from reaching out to touch your ears when they twitch. More than once Wanda fails entirely. By the time the compound finally comes into view through the trees, the tension that had lingered since the confrontation outside has largely disappeared.
Unfortunately, a new problem immediately presents itself. Namely: the rest of the Avengers. “Absolutely not,” Natasha says the second the building comes into view. “Absolutely not what?” you ask. “If Clint sees you first, we’re never hearing the end of it.” Wanda immediately agrees. “Or Tony.” “Definitely Tony.” “Especially Tony.” Before you can question their logic further, you’re being ushered around the side of the compound like part of some highly classified operation.
Thankfully, the boys appear distracted elsewhere. Within minutes you’ve been successfully smuggled through side corridors, up elevators and into Wanda and Natasha’s room without a single person spotting you. Natasha actually looks proud of herself afterwards. “See?” she says. “Perfect.” “We’re literally sneaking a werewolf into our bedroom,” Wanda points out. “Exactly.”
The moment the door closes behind you, however, both women suddenly seem to notice something they’d previously been too distracted to fully process. Specifically, your clothing situation. Or lack thereof, compared to normal human standards. You immediately become aware of it the second Wanda’s eyes flick downward. Then Natasha’s do. The woven vines across your chest. The leather around your waist. The practical attire of someone who grew up in the wilderness rather than modern civilisation. Perfectly normal amongst your pack. Significantly less normal standing in a high-tech Avengers compound.
“Right,” Wanda says after a moment. “We should probably fix that.” You glance down at yourself. “What’s wrong with it?” Natasha makes a small choking noise that suspiciously resembles laughter. Wanda immediately elbows her. “Nothing’s wrong with it.” “You just might be more comfortable in actual clothes.” “Actual clothes are overrated.”
Both women stare at you. “Actual clothes,” Natasha says firmly, “are happening.” Wanda disappears toward the wardrobe while Natasha remains where she is. For several moments neither speaks. Wanda begins sorting through drawers. Natasha watches her. Wanda glances back. Natasha watches her a little more. A completely silent conversation seems to pass between them.
One you’ve seen countless times over the months. Tiny expressions. Small looks. Entire discussions occurring without a single word. This one feels different somehow. More nervous. More deliberate. When Wanda finally turns back around holding a bundle of clothes, neither woman immediately moves to hand them over.
Instead, the room grows unexpectedly quiet.
You glance between them.
Then back again.
Your heart begins beating a little faster.
Natasha takes a single step forward.
Then another.
Close enough now that you can see every tiny detail in her expression. Every flicker of uncertainty. Every trace of affection she isn’t bothering to hide anymore. Her hand rises slowly, brushing lightly against your cheek. For a moment she simply looks at you. Really looks at you. Not the wolf she’d rescued months ago. Not the mystery she’d spent weeks trying to understand. Just you.
Then she leans forward.
The kiss is soft.
Gentle.
Almost hesitant.
Nothing rushed.
Nothing demanding.
Just Natasha’s lips meeting yours as though she’s trying to memorise the feeling for the first time. The contact lasts only a few seconds before she slowly pulls away again. Yet somehow those few seconds leave your heart attempting to escape your chest entirely. Your tail is wagging. Obviously. Because apparently it has completely abandoned all loyalty to your dignity. Natasha’s forehead briefly rests against yours before she finally steps back.
And then Wanda is there.
Warm fingers finding your jaw.
A smile so soft it almost hurts.
She waits just long enough for you to look at her.
Then her lips meet yours too.
The kiss is every bit as gentle as Natasha’s had been.
Careful.
Affectionate.
Like she’s been wanting to do it for far longer than she’s willing to admit.
When she finally pulls away, the three of you remain standing there for a moment in complete silence.
The clothes are still forgotten in Wanda’s hands.
Your tail refuses to stop wagging.
And neither woman seems particularly interested in pretending they don’t find that adorable.
The room remains quiet after the kisses, though it feels like an entirely different kind of silence now. Not awkward. Not uncertain. Heavy. Warm. The sort of silence that settles between people when something important has finally been acknowledged.
Wanda is still holding the clothes she’d pulled from the wardrobe, though judging by the way her fingers have gone still against the fabric, she’d completely forgotten about them. Natasha remains standing close enough that you can feel her body heat, her attention fixed entirely on you with an intensity that makes it difficult to think straight. You become painfully aware of every little thing all at once. The way your heart is hammering against your ribs. The way your tail continues sweeping behind you despite your desperate attempts to stop it. The way both women keep looking at you differently now. Not because you’ve changed. Not because you’ve suddenly become someone else.
But because for the first time there are no misunderstandings left between you. No pretending. No secrets. Just you. Standing in front of them. And somehow that feels far more exposing than running around the compound covered in fur ever did.
A faint smile tugs at Natasha’s mouth as she watches your increasingly failed attempts to force your tail still. “You know,” she says, voice lower than before, “for somebody who spent months hiding the fact she understood everything we said, you’re actually terrible at keeping secrets.” Heat immediately rushes into your cheeks. Wanda lets out a soft laugh beside her. “She really is.” You groan and look away, only for Wanda to immediately reach out and guide your attention back toward them with a gentle hand beneath your chin.
The movement isn’t forceful. If anything, it’s almost unfairly tender. “Don’t hide now,” she murmurs. Her thumb brushes lightly across your cheek as she speaks, and the simple contact nearly short-circuits your brain. Natasha notices instantly. Of course she does. You see the amusement flicker across her expression before something softer replaces it. Something that makes your stomach perform an alarming number of somersaults. “Look at her,” Natasha says quietly. “She’s still trying to run.” “I am not.” “You literally ran into a forest earlier.” “That was different.” “Was it?” Natasha asks. “Because this looks exactly the same.”
Wanda laughs again, shaking her head fondly before finally setting the clothes down somewhere behind her. The action feels oddly significant. Like she’s consciously choosing not to interrupt whatever this moment has become. You swallow hard as both women remain close. Too close to ignore.
Then Natasha’s lips connect with yours again, hungrier this time. Like she’s a starved woman. Wanda appears behind. Her arms wrap around your waist and her lips connect with the side of your neck. If it weren’t for them holding you up, you’re sure you would’ve turned into mush on the floor by now.
Natasha finally parts from you, only to sink her teeth down into the side of your neck. A whimper escaped your mouth before you can stop it. You didn’t even realise when they started pulling your clothes off, and their own, until they were pulling you back towards the bed.
Wanda moves to sit against the headboard and pulls you down into her lap, your eyes immediately find her breasts. They’re bigger than yours, fuller. Her nipples stood hardened against the cold breeze and the arousal coursing through her body. Wanda follows your gaze and a soft smirk graces her lips. “You can touch, Detka. I don’t bite.” She murmurs as her hands find yours, pulling them up to her soft mounds.
Your tail wags even harder, if that was even possible at this point, as you squeeze her. Wanda watches as literal drool forms on your lips whilst you obsess over her body like a teenage boy seeing a bare woman for the first time. Her thumb absentmindedly wipes it away, even as her chest begins to heave from your touches. Then without warning, the digit moves into your mouth and your lips wrap around it like second nature.
You’d almost forgotten about Natasha at this point. Almost being the keyword. Then her hands wrap around your neck from behind and the familiar sound of your collar buckling sounds out as she attaches the thick leather back around your neck with a sultry whisper of: “You’re ours, pretty girl”
Wanda’s thumb, the one in your mouth, moves to press down on your tongue and a little whine escapes you. Natasha’s hands move from your neck and down to your own breasts, her large hands easily cup both of them before she rolls your nipples between her fingers. A broken moan slips from around Wanda’s thumb in your mouth.
Her eyes flicker red for a brief moment, and you feel something pressing against your core that wasn’t there before. You try to look down, but unfortunately Natasha keeps your head raised.
Wanda’s free hand moves down to the dick she’s enchanted into her body, guiding it to your entrance that is soaked by now. In one movement she bottoms out, causing you to cry out. Your teeth clamp down around her thumb but she doesn’t care or at least react to it.
Natasha’s hands find your hips and start moving you to grind against Wanda’s cock. Every movement of her inside you hits deep and hard, cries turn into moans as you get used to the feeling of her. Her thumb slides out of your mouth only to rub up and down your sides, occasionally squeezing your breasts.
One of Natasha’s hands moves from your hip to press hard circles against your throbbing clit, each one making your hips buck against her hand.
“You’re doing so good, pup… so good.” The praise comes from one of the girls, you can’t exactly tell which one, too lost in the pleasure of Wanda hitting every wall inside of you.
Her eyes glow red again, you barely pick it up this time. And before you know it, Natasha is rubbing, an admittedly smaller, cock against your ass. She uses the arousal from between your legs as makeshift lubricant before pushing the cock into your ass. That completely wrecks you. You collapse against Wanda’s bare chest, hands clutching the bedsheets beneath her as both your holes are fucked by the two most attractive women you’ve ever seen.
“Breathe baby, your okay… your doing amazing.” Wanda says, now rolling her own hips up into you since you stopped when you collapsed against her. She presses a soft kiss to the top of your head and guides your lips to wrap around her nipple. You easily take the hardened bud into your mouth, the skin muffled your cries and absorbs your tears. Wanda revels in this, her baby girl crying whilst taking two cocks at one. She couldn’t be prouder honestly.
Natasha’s hand on your hip moves to wrap around your waist, her movements are a lot more juttery and uncontrolled compared to Wanda’s. She’s also a lot louder than Wanda is, soft groans leaving her as she pressed her lips between your shoulder blades.
The feeling of being so full eventually pushes you over the edge, your back arches up and toes curl against nothing. You mouth opens but no sound comes out. Then like clockwork, both of the cocks inside you begin to twitch as the women let their loads sink into each of your holes.
The room gradually settles into a comfortable silence.
Not the awkward sort.
Not the uncertain sort.
The kind of silence that only exists between people who feel completely safe around one another.
You barely have enough energy left to move. Every muscle in your body feels heavy, your thoughts pleasantly slow and fuzzy as you remain curled against Wanda’s side beneath the blankets. At some point she’d pulled you fully against her chest, one arm wrapped securely around your shoulders while her fingers drift lazily through your hair. The motion is absent-minded. Instinctive. The same way she’d stroked your fur countless times when she thought you were just a wolf. Somehow the familiarity of it makes your chest ache.
Home. The word keeps returning. Home.
Natasha eventually slips out of bed with a quiet groan, disappearing into the bathroom for a few moments before returning with a damp cloth, a glass of water and an entire armful of snacks she’d apparently stolen from somewhere. You watch her approach through half-lidded eyes, your ears twitching lazily when she sits back down beside you.
“Were those already in here?” you mumble.
“No.”
“Did you go downstairs?”
“Maybe.”
“Natasha.”
“What?”
“You robbed the kitchen.”
“It wasn’t robbery.”
Wanda doesn’t even open her eyes.
“It was absolutely robbery.”
“I live here.”
“You stole my crackers.”
“I stole our crackers.”
Wanda finally peeks one eye open.
“That isn’t better.”
Natasha looks deeply offended.
You let out a tired laugh and immediately regret it because it uses far too much energy.
“There she is,” Wanda murmurs softly.
One of her hands leaves your hair long enough to gently cup your cheek.
“You okay, Detka?”
The concern in her voice immediately melts something inside your chest. You nod. Then, after a moment’s consideration, shake your head. Then nod again. Both women laugh.
“I’m taking that as a yes.”
“It means she’s tired,” Natasha says knowingly.
“I am not.”
“You once fell asleep standing up.”
“That happened one time.”
“It happened three times.”
You glare weakly. Natasha looks entirely too pleased with herself.
The glass of water is gently pushed into your hands before you can continue arguing. Both women watch until you’ve taken several proper drinks. Only then does Natasha seem satisfied. The crackers are next. You take one mostly because refusing seems like too much effort. Then another. Then another.
“You were prepared for this,” you realise.
Natasha shrugs. “I know you.”
Wanda hums in agreement. ”She does.”
Your tail immediately thumps beneath the blankets.
Traitor.
The movement earns a smile from both women.
“You did good today, pup.”
The praise catches you completely off guard.
Your ears twitch.
Natasha reaches over and scratches lightly behind one of them.
“You came back.”
Something unexpectedly emotional tightens in your chest.
You lower your gaze. “I almost didn’t.”
The admission slips out quietly. Immediately both women go still. Wanda’s arm tightens around your shoulders. Natasha’s expression softens.
“Hey.”
You glance up. Natasha is looking directly at you now.
“You came back.”
The words are simple. Matter-of-fact. Yet somehow they hit harder than anything else could have. Because she’s right. You did. And they came looking for you. The thought settles warmly somewhere beneath your ribs.
Before the room can become too emotional, Wanda reaches for another cracker and immediately discovers Natasha has already eaten half the packet.
Her eyes narrow.
“Natasha.”
“What?”
“You ate all the cheese ones.”
“No I didn’t.”
“There are literally none left.”
Natasha glances into the packet.
“Oh.”
“Natasha.”
“I didn’t realise.”
“You absolutely realised.”
“It happened accidentally.”
“You sorted them.”
“I was organising.”
“You organised them into your mouth.”
You bury your face against Wanda’s shoulder as laughter threatens to escape.
Natasha points accusingly.
“Don’t encourage her.”
“I’m not encouraging anything.”
“You are smiling.”
“Because you’re ridiculous.”
“You love me.”
Wanda’s entire expression softens instantly.
“Unfortunately.”
“See?”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“It was close enough.”
The argument continues for another ten minutes. It isn’t really an argument. Just the familiar back-and-forth that you’ve spent months listening to from various corners of the compound. The same bickering that always ends with one of them laughing and the other pretending they aren’t.
Somewhere during it, your eyes begin drifting closed. Wanda notices first. Of course she does. Her fingers never stop moving through your hair. Natasha notices a few moments later when your head slowly slides further onto Wanda’s shoulder.
“Oh, she’s gone.”
“I’m not gone.”
“You answered that three seconds late.”
You choose not to respond. Mostly because you are, in fact, nearly asleep.
A warm blanket is pulled higher around you. Someone presses a kiss to your forehead. Then another to the top of your head. You aren’t entirely sure who does which.
By the time the girls finally stop bickering and settle down themselves, you’re practically glued to Wanda’s side, your tail loosely wrapped around both of their legs beneath the blankets.
Safe. Warm. Loved.
The last thing you hear before sleep finally wins is Natasha’s quiet voice from somewhere beside you.
“Our girl.”
Wanda immediately hums in agreement.
“Our best girl.”
Your tail gives one final sleepy wag.
Then everything fades into darkness.
:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:••:۞:
Masterlist
A/N: I started writing this as “what if Wanda and Natasha found a wolf?” and somehow ended up 16.8k words deep into a story about them accidentally adopting a werewolf. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the fluff, the angst, the possessive girlfriends, and Natasha discovering that she has absolutely no authority in a relationship where Wanda exists.
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You text Natasha from a bar because a man is not taking your hints to back off. She arrives by motorcycle and handles the situation accordingly. Then she fucks you to celebrate it. Featuring Liho.
featuring: possessive/protective Nat, spit kink (thank you to my unc anon), breeding kink
18+, NSFW, oneshot | 5.9k words
Based on the song from Victorious
ao3
This wasn't the first time this had happened.
It was always men, and it was always the ones who just didn't seem to get it. You liked to think you were a nice person—you genuinely tried to be, tried to lead with warmth and give people the benefit of the doubt—but maybe that was exactly the problem. Maybe the polite nod and the friendly smile read as something other than what it was, which was you being too kind to say what you actually meant, which was: please stop talking to me. Please take your cologne and your name-dropping and your incremental lean and redirect them toward literally any other person in this building.
Kate and Yelena had been gone for twenty-three minutes.
You'd clocked what they were up to the moment they'd both excused themselves to the bathroom at the same time, with the poorly concealed urgency of two people who had been eye-fucking each other across the table for the better part of an hour. You'd checked your phone with resignation, having seen this coming from the moment Yelena had suggested this particular bar—which had, you'd noted upon arrival, a single-occupancy bathroom that locked from the inside. You were happy for them. Genuinely, completely happy that they were in love and passionate about it in bar bathrooms on Friday nights. You were also alone now, your drink getting low, with a man standing approximately eight inches closer to you than he'd been when he first materialized at your elbow, and the gap was still shrinking.
He had been talking for a while now. You'd stopped absorbing the content of it around the five-minute mark, somewhere in the middle of his third celebrity name-drop, which you were fairly certain represented a one-time encounter he'd since promoted in his memory to a close personal friendship. Since then you'd been performing the minimum facial expressions required to sustain the impression of a conversation—a small nod here, a neutral sound there—turning your glass slowly on the bar and waiting for literally anything else to happen.
"—so at that point I just told him, look, I know more about this than you do—"
"Mm," you said.
"—and honestly the numbers backed me up completely—"
"Hm."
He shifted his weight, leaning further on the bar in a way that angled his whole body toward yours, and you noticed immediately. He had the confidence of someone who had never seriously entertained the possibility that this conversation might be going worse than he thought, not aggressive but something almost worse than aggressive, simply and completely certain of himself in a way that made your skin prickle. He'd had you at hello, if you were being honest with yourself. You had thought he was nice and this would simply be a casual conversation. And then he'd opened his mouth, and here you were.
He leaned in slightly when he laughed at something he'd said, and his breath reached you, and you thought very privately that he could use a mint. Several, maybe. A whole pack and a lifestyle change.
"You know what I mean?" he said.
"Totally," you said, having retained nothing.
He smiled, encouraged—the wrong reaction on your part, you knew it the moment his posture opened up—and his eyes dropped to your mouth in a way he'd been doing periodically for the last ten minutes, a recurring check that had started to make the back of your neck prickle. He looked back up and seemed to think the eye contact was going well.
"So what's your sign?" he asked.
"Stop," you said, laughing it off because it was a little funny, like a stop sign. You were still trying to be nice.
He laughed too. "You’re a funny one. Can I buy you a drink?”
"I'm good," you said, lifting your current one to demonstrate.
"Come on," he said, with the smile of someone who had decided your no was a negotiating position rather than an answer. "Let me get you something. I know the bartender."
You looked at him steadily. "No, thank you."
He smiled again, wider, like your refusal was a move in a game rather than a conclusion, and you thought if you had a dime for every name he'd dropped tonight, for every thinly supported claim, for every moment of this conversation—you'd be somewhere considerably more pleasant than this bar stool. He said something else, something about a rooftop bar nearby, and you were doing the math on how bad it would actually be to just text her, whether that was the nuclear option or just the sensible one, when his hand settled at your hip.
He wasn’t aggressive about it, not trying to hurt you or restrain you. He genuinely thought this was a reasonable course of action based on the way he perceived the conversation to be going.
It wasn't.
You went very still, but he kept talking. You weren't hearing it anymore. You pulled out your phone, angled it away from him, and typed. You knew she’d be able to decipher the words being typed, so it didn’t worry you that you couldn’t quite see the entire keyboard as your thumb slid against it.
Bar n Clement. Kate and Ylena in bthroom. Man tlking to me
The three dots appeared before you'd finished the sentence.
Are you okay?
He wont take th hint
On my way.
You locked your phone, tucked it away, and turned back to the man with the polite expression of someone who had just quietly solved the problem and was simply waiting for the solution to arrive.
"Sorry," you said. "You were saying?"
He was saying something about interest rates. You chose to sing the ABC’s in your head to pass the time.
(-)
You heard the motorcycle before the door opened.
It cut through everything—the music, the hum of conversation, the man who had now progressed to telling you about his apartment—and it didn't go to your ears so much as land somewhere lower, somewhere that didn't require conscious processing. A sound you'd learned to recognize the way you recognized her voice. Your body knew it before your brain had finished the sentence, some deep-wired thing that had developed over a year and a half of her arriving places and your nervous system treating it like a fixed point.
The door opened and she was moving before you'd fully located her in the room.
The leather jacket was the dark one, worn soft at the elbows and fitted to her like it had been made specifically for the geometry of her shoulders, which knowing Natasha it might well have been. Dark jeans, her boots, her hair down and longer than it had been last spring. She had all her ear piercings in, the small silver ones climbing the curve of her left ear, the simple ones in her lobes. When she was just herself, the version of herself that existed in the spaces between everything else, and you thought every time you saw her like this that it was your favorite version, which was saying something because you were partial to all of them.
She wasn't scanning the room. She already knew where you were. She'd known before she walked in.
Her eyes found you and she read the situation in the two seconds it took her to cross half the distance—the man at your side, the placement of his hand still at your hip, the careful neutral set of your face that she knew was not relaxed neutrality but managed neutrality, which were two different things and she had always been able to tell them apart. Something in her expression did a thing, like the physical look of a decision completing itself. She was already done deliberating before she reached you.
Natasha didn't look at him at all.
Her hand came to your jaw—warm, certain, the cool familiar weight of her rings—and she kissed you. You tasted coffee and underneath it the warmth that was just her, and you felt it move through you from the point of contact outward. Down your spine, into your fingertips, somewhere warm and low. The man ceased to be a factor you were tracking for several consecutive seconds.
Her thumb moved once across your cheekbone when she pulled back. Those green eyes, darker in the bar light, asked their question without asking it out loud.
You were fine. She already knew you were fine. She was checking anyway, because she always checked, because that was who she was underneath everything else.
The man had recalibrated. You could hear it in the way he broke the silence. "Okay, so—" his hand hadn't moved from your hip, and now his other arm was beginning to move, angling toward Natasha— "if you're both—I mean, I'm very open-minded—"
Natasha looked at his hand on your hip.
Then she looked at his face. The sequence of it was very controlled, very still, and you watched something happen to his expression in real time—the beginning of the understanding that he had fundamentally miscalculated something—and then his arm finished its motion, trying to loop around toward Natasha's shoulder.
She caught his wrist. One hand, smooth and immediate, and then she had his head and it met the bar with a sound that made the nearest tables go completely quiet. The efficiency of someone who had done this many times and saw no reason to perform it. He made a sound that was both startled and pained. She let him start to straighten and her knee found his stomach before he'd finished the motion, and the air went out of him entirely, and he folded. She stepped back and looked at him on the floor for a moment with the expression of someone completing a checklist, and then, almost as an afterthought, she placed one boot on his crotch and applied just enough weight to make her feelings on the matter clear.
She held it for a moment. Then she stepped off when she was satisfied.
The bar was very quiet.
Natasha reached past you for a cocktail napkin. She wiped her hands—methodical, unhurried, the way she did most things—and set it down. She looked at her hands briefly, checking, and then looked at you with an expression that had loosened around the edges, the loosening that happened when the thing she'd been carrying since your text had been handled and set down.
"Ready?" she said.
You looked at the floor. You looked at her. "We should probably—"
"No," she said.
"But—"
"No." Her hand found the small of your back, steady and familiar through your shirt, and she steered you toward the door with the calm certainty of someone who had already closed the chapter.
Outside, the night air was cool and smelled like the city, and the motorcycle sat at the curb where she'd left it, and Natasha was already pulling the spare helmet free and holding it out.
You took it and stood with it in your hands, looking at her in the low light from the bar window—hair loose around her shoulders, rings catching the light, the leather jacket, the small silver piercings along her ear—and felt the thing that had been sitting warm in your stomach since the sound of the engine on Clement Street.
"Nat."
She raised an eyebrow.
“Aren’t you—”
"He had it coming," she interrupted. The corner of her mouth twitched into her familiar smirk.
The laugh arrived before you could do anything about it. "Okay," you said. "Okay. But are we—should we be worried about—"
"Get on the bike, baby," she said.
You didn’t argue with that tone. She swung on in front of you with the easy automatic grace of someone who had been doing this for decades, and you wrapped your arms around her waist and pressed your face between her shoulder blades and felt the warmth of her through the leather, the solid reality of her back against your chest. The engine came alive beneath you both—low and certain, a sound you felt in your sternum—and just before the helmet went on, she paused.
"The cops know better by now," she said.
You didn’t question it.
(-)
Natasha kept her eyes on the road and let the rhythm of the bike work through her the way it always did, stripping things down to their simplest version.
She'd been moving before she'd finished your text. She had just grabbed her jacket and her keys without deliberation. The whole ride over she'd been running the numbers on how long you'd been sitting there being polite while some man who didn't deserve a minute of your time had taken twenty-four of them, and by the time she'd walked through that door she'd already decided.
She hadn't been angry, exactly. Anger was loud and imprecise and she'd never found much use for it. What she'd been was certain, in the way she was certain about things that mattered to her—clear-eyed and calm and entirely, completely sure of what was going to happen next.
You pressed closer against her back through a long curve and she felt your arms tighten at her waist and one hand press flat against her stomach briefly, just a moment of contact, and it moved through her chest and settled there warm in a way she'd stopped trying to catalog because the catalog had gotten too long.
Mine, something in her said, the way it always said it. Simple and blunt and not interested in being argued with.
Yeah, she told it. I know.
(-)
The apartment was quiet when you got in, smelling like home, and Liho appeared from the hallway within seconds—black cat, hazel eyes. She wound around Natasha's ankles with focused thoroughness and then, after visible deliberation, extended the same courtesy to you.
"Hi, Liho," you said. “Have you behaved?”
Liho walked away, which was the typical response you got.
Natasha hung up the leather jacket and turned, finding you watching her with an expression she recognized—that look, the one you had when you were feeling something large and hadn't decided what to do with it yet. She crossed the room, taking your face in her hands and kissing you. You got your hands into the front of her shirt, and she walked you toward the bedroom without breaking the kiss.
She sat you on the edge of the bed and stood in front of you in the lamplight and just looked at you for a moment, really looked, the way she let herself look in rooms like this one when there was no performance required of her. She'd seen you in lamplight hundreds of times by now, in this room and in rooms that weren't this room, and she should have been past the part where the sight of you did something to her chest. She wasn't past it. She suspected she never would be.
She reached for her own shirt first and pulled it over her head, set it aside, stood there in the unselfconscious way she'd arrived at gradually over years—the scars, the map of everything she'd survived written into her skin, none of it something she needed to manage or explain. You looked at her the way you always looked at her and she felt it land in the place it always landed, which was the place she'd never thought to armor because she hadn't known anyone would aim there.
She reached for you, undressing you with careful hands, each piece of clothing removed deliberately, her eyes following what her hands uncovered with the focused attention she gave to things she found worth her full care. By the time she pressed you back against the pillows there was warmth in her chest alongside everything else, something she'd stopped trying to name because naming it hadn't ever done justice to it. She settled over you and looked at your face again in the lamplight.
She kissed your throat first, finding the spot below your ear that she'd mapped the very first time and committed to memory because your breath changed there without fail. She let herself stay there for a while because she wanted to, her mouth warm against your pulse point, feeling your heartbeat quicken under her lips while her hands moved down your sides in long, slow strokes. She found your breast and her thumb traced circles against it until you arched into her hand, and she kept the pace deliberate, not rushing toward anything, letting the warmth build at whatever pace it wanted to build.
She kissed down your body after—your collarbone, the center of your chest, the soft curve of your ribs—pressing her lips to each place with intention, spending time where your breathing changed. She found the birthmark at your hip and pressed her mouth there, acknowledging it, and felt the small sound you made above her move through her chest. She kissed along the inside of your hip where the skin was thin and sensitive and felt you shift against the mattress, and she took her time there too, not because she was teasing but because she was here and she wanted to be here, wanted every part of this the way she'd wanted it since the first time she'd understood that she wasn't going to stop wanting it.
She pushed your thighs apart gently and settled between them, looking up at you with dark eyes that seemed to explain everything she wanted to do to you.
She slid her hand up the inside of your thigh and found you through your underwear and pressed, and the sound she made at what she felt there was involuntary and entirely sincere—quiet and satisfied, something low in her pulling tight in response. She pressed again, feeling the soaked fabric give, and felt your hips tilt toward her hand before you'd decided to move them.
"Christ," she said softly, almost to herself. She rubbed slow circles against your cunt through the fabric, learning the pressure that made your thighs tremble, and listened to the sounds you were making above her get less managed. "You're soaked through. All of this is for me?"
“Natasha—please—"
"I know,” she said, grinning at you.
She hooked her fingers into your underwear and drew them down and off in one smooth motion, and then her hand was back and there was nothing between her and you. She slid through your folds slowly, thoroughly, the way she always started—learning you again even though she already knew every part of you. She pressed two fingers to your entrance and felt you clench toward them and held them there, not pushing in yet, just letting you feel the promise of it.
"You did a good job,” she said. “Texting me tonight. I hate that you had to deal with that.”
"Natasha," you said. "Please—can you just—”
She pushed inside, both fingers deep and immediate, your back coming off the mattress before she'd finished the motion. She curled them on the first stroke, finding the right place with the accuracy of someone who had learned you completely, and the sensation of that curl dragging against your inner walls made you make a sound that filled the room entirely. She held that angle and started to move—not slow, because tonight wasn't a slow night, because she could feel how wound up you were and had been since the bar—purposeful and steady, the curl on every stroke deliberate, her thumb finding your clit and pressing in circles that matched her rhythm. Her free hand spread flat across your lower stomach and she felt the movement of her fingers from the outside and you clenching around her.
"Natasha—" Your voice was already broken at the edges. "I'm already—I'm going to—"
"Not yet." She eased the pressure by a fraction, held you right at the edge with the particular patience of someone who found the edge interesting. "You can wait."
"I really—I genuinely—Nat—please—"
"You can," she said, against your hip. "You're going to be so good about it." Her fingers pressed deeper and you made a sound that wasn't a word. "Aren't you?”
"Yes—yes, please—I'll wait—"
"Good girl." She felt you clench hard at that, the immediate response you always had, and the pull in her stomach went sharp and low. She added a third finger gradually, feeling you stretch around them, heard the sound you made—different from the others, fuller—and held there for a long moment, just letting you feel it, before she began to move again. The fullness of all three, the curl on every stroke, her thumb working your clit without mercy, was intoxicatingly intense and you were gripping the sheets in both fists, making sounds that had moved well past language.
She built it and held it and built it and held it—watching your face the whole time, reading every shift and sound and the way your expression kept cresting toward something and falling back—and when she finally pressed her thumb hard over your clit and curled her fingers one final time and said "okay", the orgasm that broke over you came from somewhere compressed and suddenly released, rolling through you in long deep waves. Your back came fully off the mattress, your thighs locked around her hand, and she worked you through every second of it without stopping until you were trembling and pulling weakly at her wrist.
She slid free, looking at her hand for a moment. Then she started moving down your body.
Her lips at your ribs, your stomach, the soft skin below your navel, each place acknowledged with the warm press of her mouth. She found the mark she'd left at your hip and pressed her mouth there briefly, and then settled between your thighs and looked up at you.
She let the spit gather slow in her mouth and released it—warm and deliberate, landing directly on your cunt—and the sound you made was completely undignified and she felt a low pull of satisfaction move through her at it before she lowered her head.
The first press of her tongue was thorough and exploratory, moving through your folds like she was relearning something she already knew. She didn't go to your clit first. She mapped the rest of you with slow attention, the taste of you moving through her, and you found her hair with one hand and held on without directing. Her tongue moved and she heard every sound you made in response.
Then her hands slid under your thighs and pushed them wide.
She was strong, and the experience of her using that strength to hold your thighs open and simply keep them there—while your body tried instinctively to close them against the overwhelm and found that it couldn't, that she was simply holding you where she wanted you without apparent effort—registered in a category entirely its own. She held you wide and lowered her mouth to your clit and the sound you made was loud enough that she was briefly aware of Liho somewhere in the apartment making a mildly concerned noise, and she didn't slow down at all.
She worked your clit with focused attention, in tight circles that varied just enough to keep your whole body chasing, pressure building and redirecting, her arms locked around your thighs. Then she sealed her lips around it and sucked once, brief and precise, and the sound you made filled the room completely.
She pressed the flat of her tongue against you and held. She didn't move and your hand in her hair was not gentle anymore and she didn’t care. She held your thighs wide and stayed exactly where she was, your back coming fully off the mattress again. The orgasm arrived enormous and deep, rolling through you in long waves that started in your chest and moved outward, and she stayed through every second of it—licking you through each wave, easing gradually as the oversensitivity built—until you were trembling and making sounds that were nearly the word stop.
She lifted her head, looking at you. You were flushed, your chest heaving, barely coherent—exactly what she loved seeing. She crawled up your body again, strong biceps supporting her weight over you. She cocked her head to the side, an idea visibly forming on her face.
"Say ahh," she said, her voice very close to a coo.
Your brain processed that slowly and opened your mouth.
She grinned in satisfaction, leaning over you and letting the spit gather and fall from her lips to your tongue in one slow, warm drip. You felt it land on your tongue, the weight of your taste left in her mouth and the thought of what had just happened at the same time, and then she kissed you—deep and slow, her tongue moving against yours. You barely kept up, your body still reacting to the act in ways you didn’t know how to explain. She pulled back and looked at you for a long moment with that open expression, the one that only surfaced in rooms like this one, and then she reached for the nightstand.
She got the harness on with practiced efficiency, no ceremony, the way she approached everything she'd already decided. She checked the reservoir carefully, ran her thumb along it, and came back between your thighs and looked down at you in the lamplight.
"Still with me?" she asked.
You made a sound that was approximately yes.
"Good." She settled her weight, lining the strap up against your entrance, and she pressed forward slowly, watching your face the entire time. She felt you stretch around the strap as she pushed inside, the ridging catching at your entrance and dragging along your inner walls on the way in, each ridge distinct and registering clearly in your oversensitized body.
Once she bottomed out inside of you, she held there for a long moment—both of you breathing, the strap fully seated, the base of the harness against her clit—and she let you feel the fullness of it, the warmth of what was already inside you, before she started to move.
The rhythm she built was deep and deliberate, long strokes that gave you everything on every push forward, the ridging dragging back along your inner walls on every pull. She felt the base grinding against her clit on each stroke and the accumulation of it was something she had to focus through, the pleasure building steadily alongside yours. At the deepest point the strap filled you completely and she held there on each stroke for a half-beat longer than necessary just to feel it, just to hear the sound you made at the fullness of it.
"You feel incredible," she said in a low tone, and she meant it completely. "So perfect. Taking me so well." She moved deeper and you made a sound that went straight through her. "Mine. You understand that? All of this is mine."
"Yes—" Not really a word.
"Good—fuck—good girl." She kept the rhythm steady and deep, her breathing going less even with each stroke, the base working against her. The sounds you were making were just sounds, incoherent and unmanaged, filling the quiet apartment. She groaned softly on a particularly deep stroke, the sensation of the base against her clit sharp and exact, and she felt your nails in her back at the sound.
Natasha was shaking slightly with the effort of maintaining herself through it, the base relentless, and she pressed the mechanism at the bottom of each deep stroke, small measured releases, and felt more fake cum filling you each time. Every time she bottomed out she could feel it, the increasing warmth and fullness of you around the strap.
She pulled out and grabbed your hips and flipped you, and before you'd finished registering the position change she pushed back inside from behind. The angle was entirely different—deeper, more direct—and you dropped onto your forearms with a sound that filled the room. She grabbed a handful of your hair, gentle enough not to hurt, tilting your head back slightly, and she felt you push back toward her, your body asking for more before you could have formed the words.
She gave it to you. Of course she did.
She moved fast from here, the rhythm she'd been managing coming loose, her hips striking yours with a sound she felt in her sternum. She was groaning on the deep strokes—the base against her clit, the feeling of being inside you, the sounds you were making below her all layering into something she was losing the edges of.
Her hand came down on your ass—clean and sharp—and she felt you clench hard around the strap at the impact and she hissed through her teeth and smoothed her palm over the heat before doing it again, lower. You made a sound that was not a word and she groaned at it and reached around to find your clit with her fingers.
"Come on," she breathed. "Give it to me. You're so—god—" Her rhythm stuttered slightly and it took her longer than either of you expected to steady it. "So perfect. Mine. Say it."
"Yours—" Not quite a word. "Yours—please—"
She felt you clenching toward another orgasm and moved harder and you came apart. She groaned through it with you and then pulled you upright—her arm hauling you back against her chest, the strap still buried inside you, your back against her front. She held you there with one arm across your chest and her hand splayed across your stomach, and you grabbed her forearm with both hands and held on.
She rolled her hips slow and deep and from this angle the strap hit somewhere new and the sound you made against her throat was broken and helpless. You both loved it.
"I've always protected you," she said, into your ear. Low and certain, nothing performed in it, just true—the way the truest things came out of her, plainly, like stating something decided long ago. "I'll always protect you. You know that."
It was said in desperation, like she needed you to know. She needed you to understand it. You were hers, and she would never let anyone harm you. She’d slam every man who annoyed you into a bar, and she would break any law she needed to, if it meant you were safe and happy.
"You're mine," she said. "So fucking mine." Her hips thrusted deeper and you sobbed. "And you're going to feel that. Right now. You're going to feel exactly who you belong to."
You came completely apart.
She held you through every wave and then eased you down—one hand gentle between your shoulder blades, pressing you forward until your face was in the pillow and your hips were up—and she moved with everything she had left. Her arms were trembling on either side of you with the sustained effort of it, the base of the harness grinding against her clit on every stroke, and her groans were real and uncontrolled as she approached her own orgasm. Each thrust brought her close, and it was the way you arched into her even in your current fucked-out state that allowed her to fall over the edge.
She pushed deep and held there, pressing the mechanism for the last time, giving you the full release. Her whole body was shuddering, her breaths uneven through her parted lips, beads of sweat forming on her brow.
Natasha’s forehead dropped to the back of your shoulder, both of you breathing in the quiet apartment. When she could move without falling on top of you, she pulled out slowly, shushing you softly when you whined.
She reached between your thighs after removing the strap—gentle now, entirely gentle, the shift from one thing to this happening without a gap or an announcement, just a change in temperature—and felt where the fake cum had begun to slip out. She pressed it back in slowly, two fingers careful and deliberate. You made a small sound, and she kept going, until she was satisfied.
"There," she said softly. Maybe it was to you. Maybe to herself. Maybe just to the room.
She cleaned you up with a warm cloth from the bathroom—careful with every mark, her lips pressing briefly and without comment to the ones at your hips—and got you into the sheets with the efficient tenderness she brought to this part every time. She lay down beside you, and you turned into her immediately. She let you, her arm coming around your back, her chin at the top of your head. Her fingers began their slow arcs along your spine.
You lay there in the warmth of her and felt your heart rate making its slow return to something resembling normal. The city outside did whatever cities did, and in here there was just the lamplight and both of you breathing.
The mattress dipped, and Natasha smiled into your skin.
Liho landed with the authority of a cat executing a decision that didn't require anyone's input. She walked the full length of the bed, assessed the situation with hazel eyes that missed nothing, turned in a precise circle, and settled against Natasha's side. Her small warm weight pressed against you both.
One small black paw extended and came to rest on your neck, and you didn't move it.
Natasha's hand migrated from your back to Liho's fur and then back, the same slow rhythm for both without any apparent awareness that she was doing it, and you felt that somewhere in your chest in a way that didn't need explaining. The tenderness of being included in the same motion as something else she loved and would never fully admit to loving.
A long quiet settled. Liho purred. Your eyes were closed.
"She’s beautiful, isn’t she?" Natasha mused quietly to Liho, the way she talked to Liho when she thought you were asleep.
Liho purred once, an agreement.
"There was a man," Natasha said, with the serenity of someone reporting mild weather. "He had his hand on her hip." The hand in your hair stilled briefly. Then resumed. "He made a miscalculation."
Liho made a small sound, and Natasha interpreted it as a knowing laugh.
"She's mine," Natasha said, the way she said things she had decided were simply true and required no further support. "And I’m glad she trusts me with that.”
Liho flexed her small paw against your neck.
"Think I’ve been softened up," Natasha laughed, sighing at the end as she stared at the ceiling for a few moments before her eyes came back down to Liho. “Did you ever expect that?”
Liho purred again. Natasha could’ve sworn the cat said “yes, I did”.
Natasha laughed once again, closing her eyes and burying her face in your neck. You smelled like yourself, but you had her scent as well, and that comforted her in a way nothing else could.
Liho was the last to fall asleep, settled against both of you like she knew it was right where she belonged.
And somewhere, probably at home with his golden doodle named “Gracie”, the man from the bar held a bag of frozen peas to his crotch and whimpered with every breath he took.
Summary: There has been a significant decline in your performance at work after a recent relationship breakdown. This has been scaled up to higher management and Wanda Maximoff, CEO of the company, decides if you deserve punishment.
Warnings: This series is 18+ only! It contains smut. Individual warnings are available on each chapter.
CHAPTERS:
Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four
Do not copy, translate or publish my work as your own.
Summary: Y/N release a new song that goes viral immediately.
Word Count: 9,398
Request: Yes
Warning: Fluff, Little Smut, (18+), Reader has a P.
Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist
---
---
The internet didn’t explode right away.
It cracked first.
Like a glass under pressure—silent, subtle fractures spreading before anyone realized it was about to shatter.
Y/N’s name had already been trending that morning. That wasn’t unusual anymore. Ever since her debut, everything she touched turned into noise—charts, headlines, speculation. But this… this was different.
Because at midnight, without warning, she dropped a new single.
“Pillowtalk.”
No teaser.
No countdown.
No explanation.
Just a black cover, her name, and the track.
---
Lizzie’s POV
Elizabeth woke up to the sound of her phone vibrating relentlessly against the nightstand. She groaned, burying her face deeper into the pillow—Y/N’s pillow, she noted absently, still faintly smelling like her—before blindly reaching for the phone.
“...what,” she mumbled, eyes barely open.
Notifications flooded her screen.
Mary-Kate: DID YOU HEAR IT??
Ashley: Lizzie. Call me. Now.
Trent: Uh… so is this about you or—
Unknown Number: “Pillowtalk?? Girl???”
Lizzie frowned.
“…what did she do now…”
She tapped one of the links. A music app opened, and the song started.
---
Climb on board…
We’ll go slow and high tempo…
Lizzie froze.
Her eyes snapped open.
“…oh no.”
---
Y/N’s POV
Across the city, Y/N was very much awake—pacing, phone in hand. Regret? No. Nerves? Definitely. She stared at the ceiling of her apartment, jaw tight as notifications rolled in faster than she could process. Streams skyrocketing. Fans losing their minds. Speculation threads already forming.
And then—
Lizzie ❤️ calling…
Y/N stopped pacing immediately. “…shit.” She answered.
“Hey—”
“Did you write a sex song about me?”
Straight to it.
Y/N blinked. “…good morning to you too?”
“Y/N.”
There it was—that tone. The one that made her both want to laugh and immediately behave. She exhaled, running a hand through her hair. “Okay, first of all—”
“—it’s very detailed,” Lizzie cut in.
“I—”
“Second of all, my entire family just woke me up.”
Y/N winced. “…okay, that part I’m sorry about.”
“Y/N.”
“…yes?”
A pause. Then, softer—dangerously softer: “…is it about me?”
Y/N leaned back against the wall, staring at nothing. There it was. The real question. Not teasing. Not playful. Something vulnerable underneath it. And suddenly, all the confidence she had at midnight? Gone.
“…you tell me,” she said quietly.
Lizzie huffed on the other end. “Don’t do that.”
“I’m serious,” Y/N replied, a small smile tugging at her lips despite herself. “You’ve been in my life long enough. You know how I write.”
Lizzie didn’t answer right away—because she did know. Y/N didn’t just write songs. She documented feelings. Moments. People. And this song—the intimacy, the tension, the want threaded through every line—
Her cheeks flushed. She pressed her lips together, pacing once before dragging a hand through her hair. “…you’re unbelievable,” Lizzie muttered, but there was no real bite to it now—just warmth, familiarity… recognition.
On the other end, Y/N smiled softly. Not nervous this time. Just… fond.
“You know,” Y/N said, voice quieter, steadier, “it’s about this girl I’ve been dating for over six months.”
Lizzie rolled her eyes immediately, even as her heart picked up. “Oh really? Tell me more,” she said dryly.
Y/N huffed a quiet laugh. “She’s kind of a menace. Steals my clothes. Judges my cooking. Wakes up grumpy if I’m not there—”
“I do not—”
“—and I’ve been in love with her for a while now.”
That stopped her.
Not because it was new—it wasn’t. Y/N had said it before, softly, late at night, half-asleep, pressed into her skin like a secret meant only for her. But this—hearing it now, wrapped inside a song the whole world was dissecting… it hit differently.
“…you’re really leaning into this, huh,” Lizzie murmured, quieter now.
Y/N smiled. “I mean, it’s not exactly breaking news.”
Lizzie let out a small breath, shoulders relaxing despite herself. “No,” she admitted. “…it’s not.”
A pause settled between them—comfortable, lived-in. Then Lizzie spoke again, quieter now. “…come over tonight.”
Y/N didn’t hesitate. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
There was a soft shift on the other end, like Y/N had straightened, like something in her had warmed at the invitation. “I’ll be there.”
Lizzie nodded to herself, even though she knew Y/N couldn’t see it. “…good.”
A beat. Then, softer—almost shy, but not quite: “And for the record…”
Y/N hummed. “Yeah?”
Lizzie’s lips curved, her heart steady now. “I really like the song.”
Y/N’s smile grew, slow and certain. “Good,” she said. “Because I wrote it thinking about you.”
Lizzie shook her head, huffing under her breath—but she was smiling. Of course she was. Because this wasn’t the beginning. It wasn’t some sudden confession. It was just them—six months in, already in love, and now, apparently… with a hit song to prove it.
---
Lizzie’s POV
The apartment felt quieter after the call ended. Not empty—never empty—but… full in a different way, like the air itself had shifted. I stared at my phone for a few seconds longer than necessary, Y/N’s contact still open, her last words lingering in my ears. Because I wrote it thinking about you.
God.
I dropped the phone onto the bed beside me and fell back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling. “…she’s insane,” I whispered, but my lips were already curving. Because this wasn’t new.
That was the thing. Anyone else listening to Pillowtalk would think it was some bold confession, some reckless, romantic reveal—but they didn’t hear her the way I did.
They didn’t know how she sounded at 2 a.m., voice low and soft, tangled up in me as she murmured I love you like it was the easiest thing in the world. They didn’t know how she looked at me when she thought I wasn’t paying attention.
They didn’t know the way she felt.
I did.
And somehow… that made the song feel even more intimate—not because it was the first time, but because it wasn’t. Because it was ours—just… louder now.
I turned my head, glancing at the nightstand—at her hoodie half hanging off the edge, at the faint imprint of where she’d slept last time she stayed over. My chest tightened, soft and warm. “…six months,” I murmured. It hadn’t felt like six months. It felt like something that had just… settled into place, like she had always been there and I just hadn’t noticed until suddenly I couldn’t imagine anything without her in it.
And now the entire world was trying to piece her together through a three-minute song.
I huffed, sitting up again and reaching for my phone. Big mistake. Notifications exploded across the screen the second it lit up, but curiosity got the better of me anyway. I tapped into Y/N’s page—and immediately, chaos. Comments flooding in faster than I could even read them.
“WHO IS THIS ABOUT???”
“SHE’S IN LOVE I CAN HEAR IT 😭”
“I VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE—PICK ME Y/N”
“WHOEVER SHE’S DATING IS LIVING MY DREAM”
“GIRL WHAT DID YOU DO TO HER???”
I snorted despite myself, scrolling—thread after thread, fans dissecting every lyric like it was a crime scene. Some were sweet, some unhinged, most were… thirsty.
My eyes paused on one:
“I wish I was the one she’s singing about.” Another: “The way she sings?? I’d fold instantly.”
I shook my head, lips pressing together to hide the smile creeping in. “…you have no idea,” I murmured.
But then—another comment.
“Have you SEEN her Calvin Klein shoot?? Whoever she’s with is GOD’S FAVORITE.”
I froze. Oh. That. That week.
I groaned, dropping my head back dramatically. “…don’t remind me.” I could still picture it perfectly—those photos, the way she looked at the camera, the comments that followed, the absolute feral energy her fans had unleashed.
I had been so annoyed—not at her, never at her—but at… everything else. At the fact that everyone got to look. At the fact that people talked about her like she wasn’t—
Mine.
I rolled onto my side, staring at my phone again. And yet… now? Now I was just smiling. Softly. Because the comments kept coming—
“WHO IS SHE AND HOW DID SHE PULL Y/N???”
“SHE MUST BE INSANE LEVELS OF LUCKY.”
“I’D NEVER SHUT UP IF Y/N WROTE THIS ABOUT ME.”
My chest warmed, a quiet, almost smug kind of warmth. “…yeah,” I whispered. Because they didn’t know. They didn’t know what it felt like to have Y/N’s hands on you, steady and sure. To hear her voice drop just for you. To be the one she *looked at* when the world wasn’t watching. They didn’t know how soft she could be—how gentle, how *hers* she was when it was just the two of us.
I locked my phone, bringing it down to rest against my chest. A small smile stayed on my lips. Because for all the noise—for all the speculation, for all the people wishing, hoping, imagining—
Y/N was mine.
Only mine.
And tonight?
I’d have her right here again. Not through a song, not through a screen—just…
Mine.
My phone buzzed again against my chest.
I groaned. “Please don’t be—”
Ashley.
Of course.
I unlocked it slowly this time, bracing myself.
Ashley:
So… we’re all just going to ignore the fact your girlfriend dropped the horniest love song of the year?
I snorted. Before I could even type back—another notification.
Mary-Kate:
Be serious for one second. Is this the same girl you’ve been secretly smiling at your phone about for six months?
“…I hate both of you,” I muttered under my breath, already typing.
Lizzie:
You’re both dramatic.
Three dots appeared instantly. Then—
Ashley:
That’s not a no.
Mary-Kate:
That’s VERY much not a no.
I pressed my lips together, fighting the smile that was trying to give me away—even though they couldn’t see me.
Lizzie:
You already know I’m dating her.
Ashley:
Dating is one thing.
Being the muse of THAT song is another.
I rolled my eyes, flopping back against the pillows again. God, they were relentless.
Mary-Kate:
Okay, jokes aside—
That made me pause.
Because Mary-Kate only said that when she actually meant something.
Another message came through.
Mary-Kate:
We need to meet her.
My fingers stilled over the screen.
Ashley:
Yeah. Before this whole thing goes public and suddenly she’s everywhere with you.
A small knot formed in my chest—not bad, just… real. Because they weren’t wrong. This—whatever this was turning into—It wasn’t going to stay quiet forever.
I sat up again, pulling my knees in slightly as I read the next message.
Mary-Kate:
If she’s important to you, Lizzie… we want to know her.
Ashley:
Also I need to see if she’s actually worthy of inspiring THAT song.
I huffed out a laugh at that, shaking my head.
“…you two are unbelievable.”
But my heart had softened. Because underneath the teasing—they cared about me. About who I was letting into my life.
And Y/N…
My gaze drifted briefly to the hoodie still draped over the chair. To the quiet presence of her that lingered everywhere.
“…she is,” I murmured.
More to myself than anything.
Then I looked back at my phone and typed.
Lizzie:
You’ll meet her.
A pause. Then I added—
Lizzie:
Soon.
The replies came instantly.
Ashley:
Oh my god it’s serious serious.
Mary-Kate:
Of course it is Ash! They’ve been dating for six months!
I laughed, shaking my head as I locked my phone again.
“Idiots,” I said fondly.
But the word soon lingered in my mind. Because tonight—
Tonight wasn’t about family. Or the public, or any of that. It was just us.
But after that?
After the song…
After everything it stirred up—things were changing.
And maybe—Just maybe—I was ready for them to.
---
At Night
Lizzie’s POV
By the time I got home, my head was full.
Meetings always did that—too many voices, too many opinions, too many versions of my future being laid out in neat little bullet points like it was something that could actually be controlled.
My PA had gone over scripts, scheduling conflicts, press timelines… the usual. I said yes to some things. Maybe to others. No to a few I already knew I didn’t want. But through all of it—there was this quiet pull in the back of my mind.
7 p.m.
I slipped my shoes off by the door, exhaling as the silence of my apartment wrapped around me again.
Finally.
Just me.
Well…
Me—and her, in all the little ways she seemed to exist here even when she wasn’t.
My phone buzzed in my hand. Right on cue.
Y/N ❤️:
Still alive? Or did your meetings kill you?
I smiled instantly, dropping my bag onto the chair.
Lizzie:
Barely. I think I signed my soul away to at least two projects.
The reply came fast.
Y/N ❤️:
Damn. Should I be jealous?
I scoffed, walking toward the kitchen.
Lizzie:
You wish.
Three dots.
Y/N ❤️:
I mean… I am the one getting you tonight, so I think I’m winning.
My cheeks warmed.
God.
I leaned against the counter, biting back a smile.
Lizzie:
Don’t get cocky.
Y/N ❤️:
Too late.
Another message followed right after.
Y/N ❤️:
I’ll be there around 7. Still at the studio right now.
I glanced at the time. Just past five. Two hours.
My chest did that annoying little thing again—tightening, but in a way that felt more like anticipation than anything else.
Lizzie:
Okay.
I hesitated. Then—
Lizzie:
Drive safe.
A pause. Longer this time.
Then—
Y/N ❤️:
I can’t wait to see you.
And with that I smiling stupidly. I stared at that for a second longer than necessary before locking my phone.
“…okay,” I murmured to myself.
Two hours. I pushed off the counter, looking around my apartment again.
Still clean.
Still… very obviously lived-in by two people, if anyone looked close enough.
I walked into the bedroom, opening my closet without really thinking about it.
My hand hovered over a few options.
Something casual?
Something comfortable?
Something that would absolutely get a reaction out of her?
I huffed a quiet laugh.
“…why am I like this?”
Because it mattered. Because she mattered.
I pulled out one of her shirts instead. Of course I did. Slipping it on, I caught my reflection in the mirror—hair a little messy from the day, her shirt falling just right on me.
My lips curved slightly.
“…yeah. That’ll do.”
I left the room, glancing at the clock again.
6:12 p.m.
Still time.
I tried to distract myself—turned on the TV, flipped through channels, didn’t actually watch anything. Checked my phone. Put it down. Picked it up again.
Scrolled. Locked it.
“…this is ridiculous,” I muttered.
But my leg wouldn’t stop bouncing. Because no matter how many times she’d been here—no matter how normal this should’ve felt by now—it didn’t. Not completely. There was always that little spark. That anticipation. That pull.
And tonight…
After the song.
After everything it stirred up—
It felt just a little more intense.
6:47 p.m.
I stood up.
Paced once.
Twice.
Then stopped in front of the door, like somehow that would make time move faster.
“…relax,” I told myself.
As if that was going to happen.
6:55.
The handle moved. I blinked.
“…wait—”
The door unlocked before I could even react, and then it opened—
And there she was.
Like she had just appeared.
Y/N stood there, slightly breathless, hair a little messy like she’d run a hand through it too many times, jacket still on—
And the second her eyes landed on me—
She smiled.
Wide.
Immediate.
Like it had been longer than three days. Like those three days had actually mattered.
My chest tightened.
“Hi—”
I didn’t even get to finish.
She stepped in, closing the door behind her without looking, already moving toward me—and then her arms were around me, pulling me in like she’d been waiting all day for this.
Like she needed it.
The height difference made it effortless. I barely had time to react before I was pressed against her, her warmth wrapping around me—her face burying into the side of my neck.
“Hey,” she murmured, voice soft, a little rough.
I exhaled, my hands coming up instantly, gripping onto her like I had something to prove.
“Hi,” I whispered back.
God. Three days. It wasn’t long. It shouldn’t have felt like this.
But it did.
She held me tighter, like she was making up for lost time. “Gosh, I missed you,” she mumbled against my skin.
And this time—I didn’t tease her.
“…I missed you too,” I admitted, quieter.
She stilled for half a second at that, like she felt it—really felt it—before pulling back just enough to look at me. Her eyes softened, something warm and a little undone flickering there. “Yeah?” she asked gently.
I nodded, not trusting myself to say it again without sounding… too much. But she already knew. She always did.
And then—she kissed me.
Not rushed. Not playful. Slow. Like she was grounding herself, like she was reminding herself I was actually here. My hand slid up to her jaw, holding her there as I leaned into it, letting it linger just a little longer than usual.
When we finally pulled back, my forehead rested briefly against hers. “…you’re early,” I murmured softly.
Y/N smiled faintly. “Couldn’t stay away.”
That did something to my chest. Of course it did.
Her gaze dropped slightly—and she paused. “…is that my shirt?” she asked.
I glanced down, then back up at her, completely unapologetic. “Maybe.”
Her smile returned, softer this time. “…looks better on you.”
I rolled my eyes, but I didn’t move—didn’t step away. Because after three days, this—this was exactly where I wanted to be.
Her smile lingered for a second longer before she finally shifted, like she’d just remembered something. “Oh—” Y/N pulled back slightly, one arm still loosely around my waist as she lifted the other.
A takeout bag.
I blinked. “…you brought food?”
She raised a brow, a hint of amusement slipping into her expression. “You just noticed?”
I glanced down at it, then back up at her, a little sheepish. “I was… distracted.”
Y/N huffed a soft laugh. “Yeah, I could tell.” She gently nudged the bag toward me. “Figured you wouldn’t have eaten properly,” she added, tone casual—but there was that underlying care she didn’t even try to hide anymore.
My chest warmed. “…I had a meeting,” I defended weakly.
“Exactly,” she said, like that proved her point.
I rolled my eyes, but took the bag from her anyway, peeking inside. The smell hit immediately. “…oh my god.”
Y/N watched my reaction, clearly pleased with herself. “Yeah?”
I looked up at her, genuinely impressed. “You got my favorite.”
“I know.”
Of course she did.
I shook my head, smiling as I walked toward the kitchen, setting the bag down on the counter. “You didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to,” she cut in easily, shrugging off her jacket.
I turned back just in time to see her toss it over the chair, already making herself at home like she always did—like this place was just as much hers as it was mine. And honestly? It kind of was.
“You eat yet?” I asked, opening the containers.
Y/N shook her head, leaning casually against the counter across from me. “Not really.”
I paused, glancing up at her. “Then we’re sharing.”
She smirked. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
I grabbed two sets of chopsticks, handing one to her as I nudged the food between us. We stayed by the counter at first, eating straight from the containers like we always did when neither of us felt like being proper—comfortable, easy, familiar.
But it didn’t take long before the silence shifted—subtle, but noticeable. Because there was something sitting between us. Unsaid.
I glanced at her, catching the way she was focused on her food a little too much. “…so,” I started casually, leaning my hip against the counter. “The song.”
Y/N’s chopsticks paused mid-air for a second. Then she resumed eating like nothing happened. “Mm,” she hummed. “What about it?”
I narrowed my eyes slightly. “You really just dropped that,” I said. “No warning. No heads-up. Nothing.”
She glanced up at me, already reading the tone behind it. “I wanted it to be a surprise,” she said simply.
I blinked. “…a surprise?”
A small smile tugged at her lips. “Yeah.”
“For who?” I asked, half incredulous.
“For everyone,” she replied—then her eyes softened slightly when they met mine. “For you, too.”
That… did something to me. But still—
“You couldn’t have, I don’t know, mentioned it?” I pressed, though there wasn’t real anger behind it. “Like, ‘hey Lizzie, I’m about to release a very—very—specific song’?”
Y/N huffed a quiet laugh, scratching the back of her neck. “Okay, yeah… maybe I should’ve.”
I raised a brow. “Maybe?”
She exhaled, her expression shifting—more serious now. “I didn’t think it would hit like this,” she admitted. “The reactions. The speculation… all of it.” Her gaze flickered over my face, searching. “And I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” she added quietly. “So if it did, I—”
“Hey.”
I didn’t even let her finish. My chopsticks clattered softly onto the counter as I stepped forward, closing the small distance between us.
She looked up, slightly caught off guard.
I didn’t say anything else—just moved.
One second I was standing in front of her—the next, I was settling onto her lap, turning slightly so I was facing her properly.
Her hands instinctively came to my waist, steadying me.
“Liz—”
“I liked it,” I said immediately.
She blinked.
“…what?”
“I liked the song,” I repeated, softer this time, my hands resting lightly on her shoulders. “A lot.”
Something in her expression shifted—like tension she hadn’t even realized she was holding started to ease.
“You did?” she asked, almost careful.
I nodded, a small smile pulling at my lips.
“Yeah.”
Her thumbs brushed absently against my sides, grounding, but there was still a hint of uncertainty in her eyes.
“…it didn’t freak you out?” she asked.
I shook my head.
“No.”
A pause. Then, quieter—“It’s not the first time you’ve said those things to me,” I added. “It’s just… the first time the world heard it too.”
Y/N watched me for a second, really watched me.
“…and you’re okay with that?” she asked.
I held her gaze.
There was still that carefulness in her eyes—like she was bracing for something, like she didn’t want to push too far.
God.
She really didn’t get it sometimes.
My hands slid up slightly on her shoulders, grounding myself before I spoke.
“I love you too,” I said softly.
The words landed between us—familiar, but still heavy in the best way. Her breath caught just a little.
And I didn’t look away.
“I’ve loved you,” I continued, quieter but steadier now. “This doesn’t change that.”
Her eyes searched mine, like she was making sure—really making sure.
So I gave her more.
“And I don’t care if the world knows about us,” I added.
That did it.
I felt the shift in her hands immediately—tightening just slightly at my waist, like something in her had finally settled.
“Lizzie…” she murmured.
“I mean it,” I said, brushing my thumb lightly along her shoulder. “Yeah, it’s a lot. And yeah, people are going to talk and speculate and be… insane.”
That pulled the faintest smile from her.
“But they already are,” I added softly. “And none of that changes what this is.”
I leaned in just a little closer.
“What we are.”
Her gaze dropped briefly to my lips, then back up again. Something warm. Something certain.
“…you sure?” she asked, almost like she needed to hear it one more time.
I smiled.
“Yeah.”
A small pause.
Then, a little teasing—because I couldn’t help it:
“Besides,” I murmured, “if you’re going to write songs like that about me…”
Her lips twitched.
“…kind of hard to stay a secret.”
She let out a quiet breath, somewhere between a laugh and something more emotional.
“Fair point,” she said.
But then her expression softened again, deeper this time.
More real.
Her hand came up, brushing lightly against my cheek.
“…I meant what I said too,” she murmured.
“I know.”
And I did.
Because I could feel it—
In the way she held me.
In the way she looked at me.
In everything she didn’t even have to say anymore.
Her forehead rested briefly against mine.
“…you’re really okay with this?” she asked one last time.
I didn’t hesitate.
“I’m okay with you.”
That was the answer. That had always been the answer. And whatever came with it—the world, the noise, the attention—
None of it mattered as much as this.
As her.
Y/N smiled then. Not the confident, teasing smile the world knew. Something softer. Something only I got to see.
“…come here,” she murmured.
I was already there.
Her lips were already on mine before I could say anything else.
This time, it wasn’t slow. It wasn’t careful.
It deepened almost immediately—like something that had been building all day, all week, all three days apart finally snapping into place.
I inhaled sharply against her, my hands sliding up into her hair as hers tightened at my waist, pulling me closer—closer—until there was barely any space left between us.
“Y/N…” I breathed, but it came out softer than I intended.
She answered by tilting her head, kissing me deeper, more certain—like she didn’t want to stop now that she had me again.
And I didn’t want her to.
God, I didn’t.
My fingers curled slightly in her hair, holding her there as I leaned into it, completely giving in to the warmth, the familiarity, the pull of her.
Her hands shifted—one pressing firmer against my lower back, grounding me, keeping me right where she wanted me.
And somewhere in the middle of it, I start to grind down on her lap.
It wasn’t intentional. Not really. Just instinct. Just the way my body reacted to hers—
The way I shifted on her lap, closer, seeking more without even thinking about it.
A soft, breathless sound slipped out of me before I could stop it. The sound was barely more than a ghost, but in the quiet of the kitchen, it felt deafening.
Y/N let out a low, rough groan against my mouth, and I felt it everywhere—vibrating through my chest, settling deep in my stomach. It was raw, unfiltered want. The kind of sound that never belonged in public, never belonged to the polished version of us the world saw.
Hearing it now, after everything today, made something in my blood spark.
I didn’t pull away. I leaned into it.
My hands tightened in her hair, and I started to move—slow, deliberate. A gentle roll of my hips, pressing myself down into the heat of her lap, testing, teasing.
Y/N hands, steady on my waist just seconds ago, suddenly gripped harder. Fingers digging into the fabric of the shirt—her shirt—that I was wearing.
“Lizzie,” she rasped.
Her voice cracked just slightly as she pulled back an inch, her forehead still resting against mine. Her breathing was uneven, her eyes dark and completely locked onto me.
I didn’t stop.
If anything, I slowed down, making every movement count. Every shift of my hips more intentional, more precise.
And then I felt it.
That firm, growing pressure beneath me—impossible to miss, impossible to misunderstand. The heat of her, even through the denim, sending a sharp, electric feeling straight through me.
My lips curved before I could stop them.
Not soft. Not shy.
A smirk.
Because I knew exactly what I was doing to her.
“Oh…” I whispered, letting it trail into a quiet hum as I shifted again, deliberately chasing that friction. “Is that for me?”
Her eyes fluttered shut, her jaw tightening like she was trying to hold herself together—and failing.
Another groan slipped out of her, deeper this time.
“You know it is,” she managed, her hands sliding from my waist down to my hips, guiding me—or maybe just holding on. “God, Lizzie… you’re going to be the death of me.”
I let out a quiet, breathy chuckle, the sound brushing right against her lips.
Leaning in, I nipped lightly at her jaw before murmuring into her ear, “Good. Because after that song… I think you owe me.”
I pressed down once more—slow, firm—feeling the way her breath hitched, the way her whole body reacted under me.
The rest of the world could keep talking, guessing, analyzing. Right here, in this dim kitchen—there was only one thing that mattered.
And I was sitting right on top of it.
The heat in the kitchen had become too much—too consuming, too intense to stay contained against the counter. I barely remember how we moved, only that I didn’t let her go for more than a second before we ended up in the living room, collapsing together onto the couch.
The change of space didn’t cool anything down. It made it worse.
The kiss deepened instantly—hungrier, more desperate—like the three days apart had left something aching under my skin that only she could fix. My hands moved over her without thinking, tracing the lines of her body through her clothes, relearning, needing more.
Too much fabric.
I grabbed the hem of her shirt and pulled it up, the motion urgent, wordless. She understood immediately, breaking the kiss just long enough to lift her arms so I could drag it over her head and toss it somewhere behind me.
The second her skin was bare, she was back on me—her mouth crashing into mine with a force that made my head spin.
Then it was my turn.
Her hands found the bottom of the oversized shirt I was wearing—her shirt—and tugged it up and off. The moment it cleared my head, our skin met, and—
God.
It was like fire.
I let out a shaky breath as I settled back into her lap, straddling her, my chest rising and falling against hers. Without the layers between us, everything felt sharper. Every movement, every shift of my hips—
I felt her.
Firm. Heavy. Pressing through the denim of her jeans. Familiar.
My lips curved slightly despite how unsteady my breathing had become.
“You’re so desperate for me tonight,” I murmured against her mouth, the smirk slipping back into place even as my voice came out softer than I intended.
Her hands slid down to the small of my back, pulling me closer—flush against her.
“Can you blame me?” she breathed. “I spent twelve hours in a booth singing about exactly this. Having the real thing is… a lot better.”
Then she moved.
Her hips tilted up, pressing against me in a way that made my head fall back, a sharp gasp tearing out of my throat before I could stop it. The directness of it—the way she reacted to me so openly, so unapologetically—it sent a rush straight through me.
My hands moved on instinct, fumbling slightly in my haste as I reached for the button of her jeans. I popped it open, dragging the zipper down, the sound loud in the otherwise quiet room.
She exhaled—long, shaky—as she was released from the constraint of the denim, the tension eased.
And I felt it. Her cock, already slick and aching, sprang free, pulsing against my stomach. My eyes dropped, my breath catching as I took her in, my hand moving almost automatically, wrapping around her—warm. Soft. Alive under my touch.
I tightened my grip, drawing a slow, deliberate stroke that pulled a broken sound from her.
“Lizzie…” she warned, her head dropping on my shoulder, her voice strained.
“I’ve got you,” I murmured, my voice dropping—lower, steadier, something possessive threading through it without effort. I shifted slightly, moving in a way that teased both of us, letting the contact build just enough to make her react again.
“I’ve got you,” I repeated softly, closer this time, my lips brushing near her ear. “And I’m not going anywhere.” The “soon” I’d promised earlier—everything waiting outside this moment—felt impossibly far away. Right now, none of that existed. No public. No expectations. No noise. Just her beneath me—and the undeniable, electric reality of us.
The air felt thick—heavy with the scent of us, with everything that had been building since that song dropped at midnight.
I didn’t slow my hand.
I kept that same steady rhythm—firm, knowing—and I felt the exact moment her composure started to crack. She leaned into me, her hips lifting instinctively into my touch, like she couldn’t help it anymore. Our kiss turned messy—desperate, teeth catching, breath mixing—until she pulled away, like she needed air just as much as she needed more of me.
Then her face was in my neck.
Her breath hit hot and uneven against my skin, and I shivered as she started moving—slowly, deliberately—her lips dragging along my jaw, then down my throat. Every small bite, every soft press of her tongue after, pulled sharp, shaky breaths out of me before I could stop them.
“Don’t stop,” she murmured against my skin.
I felt it more than I heard it.
“God, Lizzie… don’t stop.”
I wasn’t going to. My grip tightened, my thumb sweeping over the crown of Y/N’s cock, catching the beads of moisture gathering there. I watched her—really watched her—the way her eyes rolled back, the tension in her arms as she braced herself against the couch.
It did something to me.Seeing her like that. Undone. Because of me.
But she wasn’t the only one losing control.
Her hands moved over me, sliding up my sides, fingers spreading over my ribs like she was feeling everything—my breath, my heartbeat. Then higher, thumbs brushing just beneath my breasts before her mouth followed.
I gasped softly, my head tipping back as she moved lower, her kisses turning slower, heavier, more deliberate along my collarbone. My fingers tightened in her hair, holding her there without even thinking.
And when Y/N reached my chest—She didn’t hesitate. The moment her mouth closed around my nipple, her tongue moving in a way that sent a sharp, direct pulse straight through me—I gasped, my hips jerking forward on instinct.
The movement pressed me harder against the base of Y/N’s pulsing length, the friction sudden and overwhelming, and for a second it was almost too much.
But I didn’t stop. If anything, I sped up. My hand moved faster, more urgent now, feeling the way she was swelling, the way everything in her was starting to give.
I could feel it—the way she was winding up again, every small break in her control finally collapsing into something much sharper, much heavier. And I held onto it. Pushing her right to the edge.
The room felt smaller, like everything had narrowed down to just us—the sound of our breathing, heavy and uneven, and the soft brush of skin against skin.
I barely had time to think before her hands moved to the clasp of my bra. Even with the slight tremor in her fingers, she was sure, steady. A quick flick—and it gave way, the lace loosening and falling from me. Y/N pulled back just enough to reach for the clasp of my bra, her fingers sure and steady despite the slight tremor of adrenaline. With a deft flick, she released it, letting the lace fall away.
A sharp, cut-off gasp slipped from my lips.
Y/N’s mouth was on me immediately—warm, firm, claiming—while her hand cupped the other one. The sensation hit all at once, overwhelming and grounding at the same time, like the only thing keeping me tethered while everything else blurred.
My hand never stopped. Still wrapped around her, still moving—firm, slick—feeling every pulse, every shift in her as she reacted. My other hand stayed tangled in her hair, holding her there, silently urging her not to stop.
“God, you’re so good to me,” she groaned against my skin. I felt it more than I heard it, the vibration running straight through me. She pulled back just enough to look at me, her eyes dark—heavy with something deeper than just want.
“Lizzie, you’re perfect. Everything about you.”
The smirk I’d been holding onto slipped away. All I could do was look at her, breathless, my chest rising and falling as I felt the way she harder and harder beneath me—the tension building in her thighs, her breathing turning sharp, uneven. Her cock starting to throb in my hand.
“Lizzie… I’m close,” she rasped, her voice breaking. “I’m so close.”
I didn’t answer. I just tightened my grip. My hand moved faster, more focused, every movement deliberate as I pushed her closer. My thumb brushed the crown focusing there, and her head fell back to my shoulder, a deep, raw sound tearing from her.
Then suddenly—
She surged forward, pulling me into a kiss that stole whatever breath I had left.
And I felt it. Her whole body tensed, a sharp shudder running through her as a hot, heavy release coated my fingers as she came in my hand—hot, overwhelming, the force of it making her go weak against me. She collapsed into me, arms wrapping tight, almost desperate, her face pressed into my shoulder as she rode it out.
I held her there, my own breathing uneven, my heart pounding against hers. For a moment, neither of us moved. Just that—our hearts racing, bodies pressed together.
Then she shifted.
Before I could react, her arms hooked under my thighs and she flipped us in one smooth motion. A breathless laugh escaped me as I landed back against the couch, her body now above mine.
Y/N reached for her bra, tossing it aside like it didn’t matter anymore, her hands already moving to the waistband of my jeans. I looked up at her—and the look in her eyes made my breath catch again.
Bright. Focused. Dangerous in a way I knew meant I was in trouble.
“My turn,” she whispered, her smile slow, certain.
My breath hitched as I felt her tug at my jeans, my heart already racing for what came next.
---
Next Morning
The next morning came softly—warm, quiet.
And then—
Ding dong.
I groaned, my face still buried somewhere warm and familiar. “…no,” I mumbled, voice thick with sleep.
Ding dong.
I shifted slightly—and that’s when I realized.
I wasn’t in bed.
I was… on the couch.
More specifically—on Y/N.
My eyes blinked open slowly, adjusting to the soft morning light spilling through the windows. Y/N was still asleep beneath me, completely still except for the steady rise and fall of her chest. One arm was wrapped securely around my back, the other resting loosely at my side, like even in her sleep she hadn’t wanted to let me go.
And we were—
Oh.
Right.
Naked.
I huffed a quiet, sleepy laugh, my lips curving as I took her in. “…you’re going to have the worst back pain,” I murmured softly. Because somehow, at some point, we’d ended up here—half tangled, half collapsed—falling asleep in the middle of everything. There was a blanket thrown over us, barely covering anything, like one of us had tried… and then given up halfway.
I didn’t remember when. Or how. I must’ve passed out.
But still—she’d held onto me. Even like this.
My fingers lifted, brushing gently through her hair, slow and careful. God. She looked peaceful. Soft in a way the world never got to see.
Ding dong.
I groaned again, dropping my forehead lightly against her shoulder. “…whoever that is, I hate them.”
The bell rang again. Persistent. Annoying. Very much not going away.
I sighed, reluctantly pushing myself up—careful not to wake her as I slipped out of her arms. She shifted slightly at the loss, brow furrowing just a little, but didn’t wake. “Sorry,” I whispered, pressing a quick kiss to her shoulder.
Then I stood.
And immediately paused.
“…oh my god.”
The living room was a mess. Clothes everywhere—on the floor, on the couch, half hanging off the table. And—
I pressed my lips together, trying, and failing, not to smile. Used condoms. Two on the floor, one definitely on the coffee table, wrappers scattered around like we hadn’t even tried to be discreet.
“…wow,” I muttered under my breath.
I shook my head, heat creeping up my neck despite everything. “…okay.”
Grabbing a robe quickly, I slipped it on and tied it tight before making my way to the door, running a hand through my hair in a half-hearted attempt to look presentable.
Ding dong.
“I’m coming!” I called, still a little hoarse. I reached for the handle, pulling the door open—and froze.
“…oh my god.”
There she was. Mary-Kate. Standing on my doorstep like she hadn’t just flown across the country on a mission, looking way too pleased with herself.
Her eyes flicked over me instantly—taking in the robe, the messy hair, the very obvious context. Her lips curved. “Well,” she said casually. “Good morning.” She leaned slightly to peek past me into the apartment. “…I came to meet your girlfriend,” she added, far too calm.
I just stared at her.
“…you said soon,” she continued, completely unapologetic. “I interpreted that as immediately.”
I blinked once. Twice. Then glanced back over my shoulder—at the very naked, very asleep singer currently on my couch, and the very incriminating state of my living room—then back at her.
“…you have got to be kidding me.”
Mary-Kate’s smile only grew. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”
I immediately stepped out just enough to block the doorway. “No,” I said quickly. “No, it’s not. You can’t just—show up like this—”
“Lizzie,” Mary-Kate cut in, already trying to peek around me again, “you’re wearing a robe at”—she checked her phone—“eight in the morning.” She tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing just enough to take in the details. “…and your hair looks like that.”
I deadpanned. “Thank you.”
Her smirk turned sharper. “So she’s here.”
I crossed my arms. “That is not the point.”
“That is exactly the point.”
She leaned a little closer, lowering her voice just enough to make it worse. “…I can smell it.”
I froze. “…you can—what?”
Mary-Kate waved a hand vaguely. “Not literally. Just—” she gestured toward me, then past me—“the vibe.”
I stared at her. “…you’re insane.”
“Move,” she said simply.
“No.”
“Lizzie.”
“No.”
A beat.
Then Mary-Kate spoke again, calm as ever—“Is she naked?”
I choked. “Okay—nope—conversation over.”
Her eyes lit up. “Oh my god, she is.”
I pressed my lips together, trying very hard not to laugh and scream at the same time. “You are not coming in here right now,” I said, lowering my voice. “She’s asleep.”
That made her pause. A small shift. Because despite everything—she wasn’t completely heartless.
“…I flew all the way here,” Mary-Kate said, softer this time—but still stubborn.
“And you’ll survive waiting five minutes,” I shot back.
She studied me for a second. Then, unexpectedly—she smiled. Small. Knowing.
“…you really like her,” she said.
I didn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”
No deflection. No teasing. Just—yeah.
Her expression softened, just for a second. “…okay,” she said, holding her hands up slightly. “I’ll behave.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You don’t know how to behave.”
“That’s fair,” she admitted.
I sighed, running a hand through my hair. “…give me a minute.”
She nodded—reluctantly.
I stepped back inside, closing the door just enough to leave them outside, then leaned against it for half a second. “…oh my god,” I whispered to myself.
Then I pushed off and turned—and immediately softened. Because there she was. Still on the couch. Still asleep. Barely shifted from where I left her, except now one arm was stretched out where I had been, like she’d reached for me even in her sleep.
My chest tightened.
“…hey,” I murmured quietly, walking back over. I crouched beside Y/N, brushing my fingers gently through her hair again.
She stirred this time—brows furrowing slightly before her eyes blinked open, slow and heavy with sleep. “…Lizzie?” she mumbled, voice rough.
“Hi.”
She squinted up at me, clearly still half asleep. “…what time is it?”
“Too early,” I said.
That earned a faint, sleepy huff from her. Then her gaze focused a little more. “…why are you dressed?”
I smiled despite myself. “Because—”
I didn’t get to finish.
Her hand caught my wrist, tugging me forward before I could react. A soft yelp left me as I lost my balance, landing right back on top of her, the blanket shifting around us. “Y/N—” I started, but it came out more breath than protest. She was already smiling—sleepy, warm, dangerous in that quiet way of hers.
“Mm,” she hummed, eyes still half-lidded as her hands settled at my waist. “You left.”
“I was gone for like—two minutes,” I said, but my voice softened automatically as she pulled me closer.
“Too long,” she murmured.
Her fingers brushed the edge of my robe, slowly, like she was rediscovering me all over again. My breath caught slightly.
“Y/N…” I warned, though there wasn’t much strength behind it.
She looked up at me, a small smirk tugging at her lips.
“What?”
Her hands slid a little higher, pushing the robe open just enough to expose my shoulder. “You are not supposed to wear this yet,” she added, quieter now.
My breath hitched as her lips brushed just under my ear—soft at first, then a light nip that sent a sharp shiver down my spine. I bit my lip instantly, trying to keep quiet, but it barely helped.
“Y/N…” I whispered, already losing a bit of my resolve.
She hummed against my skin, clearly pleased with herself, her voice dropping as she murmured teasingly into my ear—“Thought you liked it when I take my time…”
That did it.
I turned my head, catching her lips in a kiss that was anything but slow this time—harder, needier, like the night before hadn’t been nearly enough. Her hands moved instinctively, sliding along my sides, pushing the robe further open—and then one of them lifted, settling against my chest—
“Wait—”
I caught her wrist gently but firmly, breaking the kiss just enough to breathe.
She frowned slightly, confused, still close enough that I could feel her breath against my lips. “…why?”
I let out a shaky exhale, pressing my forehead lightly against hers. “Because,” I said, trying—and failing—to sound unaffected, “my sister is outside.”
A pause.
Y/N blinked. “…your sister.”
“Mm-hm.”
Another pause.
Then her eyes closed briefly as she groaned under her breath. “…that is incredibly bad timing.”
I laughed softly, still a little breathless. “You think?”
She opened her eyes again, looking at me—really looking—like she was debating whether or not it was worth ignoring that fact. “…we have five minutes,” she said slowly.
I raised a brow. “Y/N.”
“I’m just saying—”
“No.”
She huffed, but there was a faint smile tugging at her lips. “…fine.”
I leaned in, pressing a quick, softer kiss to her mouth—gentler this time. “Later,” I murmured.
Her expression shifted instantly at that. “…yeah?” she asked.
I smiled. “Yeah.”
That seemed to satisfy her.
For now.
I pushed myself up with a quiet exhale, forcing my brain to actually function. “Okay—move,” I muttered, already stepping off her.
Y/N let out a soft, reluctant groan as I left her, but she didn’t argue this time. Instead, she ran a hand through her hair and sat up, blinking away the last of her sleep.
I grabbed the nearest thing—a shirt from the floor—and started picking up whatever I could reach. “…condoms,” I muttered under my breath, scooping up the very obvious evidence from the table and floor. “Great. Fantastic. Love that for me.”
Y/N snorted softly behind me. “Hey,” she said, voice still rough, “that’s teamwork.”
I shot her a look over my shoulder. “You’re helping.”
“I am helping,” she said, already leaning down to grab her boxers from the floor.
I huffed but didn’t argue, tossing wrappers into the trash as fast as I could. Behind me, I heard the soft rustle of fabric as she pulled on her boxers, then reached for the rest of her clothes—her bra, her shirt, her jeans—moving quickly but without that earlier rush. Now it was… focused. Real.
“We have, like, two minutes,” I said, glancing at the door.
“We’re fine,” she replied, way too calm for someone about to meet my sister for the first time.
“Easy for you to say.”
She smirked faintly. “I’m charming.”
I rolled my eyes, grabbing the last of the mess before backing toward the hallway. “Bathroom,” I pointed.
“Got it.”
I disappeared into my room while she headed the other way.
---
A few minutes later, I stepped out, now fully dressed, hair quickly fixed, trying to look like I hadn’t just—well. Everything.
At the same time, the bathroom door opened. Y/N walked out, running a hand through her hair one last time, looking… annoyingly put together for someone who had been asleep on my couch five minutes ago.
She glanced at me immediately. “…do I look okay?” she asked.
I didn’t even hesitate.
I stepped closer, reaching up slightly before leaning in and pressing a quick, soft kiss to her lips. “You look perfect,” I murmured.
Her shoulders relaxed just a fraction at that. “…good.”
I smiled faintly, then grabbed the perfume from the table, spraying it quickly. “Okay,” I said, more to myself than anything. “We’re doing this.”
Y/N nodded once. “Yeah.”
I took a breath, reaching for the door. And then—I opened it.
Mary-Kate was still there. Waiting. Watching.
And the second she saw us, her expression shifted—curious, assessing, and just a little too amused.
I glanced back at Y/N briefly, then stepped aside.
“Alright,” I said. “You wanted to meet her.”
A small pause.
Then—
“This is Y/N.”
I stepped aside, giving her a clear view.
For a split second, everything went… still.
Y/N, standing just behind me, lifted her hand in a small, polite wave—calm, composed, like she wasn’t standing in front of my sister for the first time after… all of that. “Hi,” she said simply.
Mary-Kate didn’t wave back.
She just looked at her—up, down, then back up again. A slow, impressed hum left her.
“…okay,” she said, tilting her head slightly. “You’re hotter in person.”
“—Mary-Kate,” I snapped immediately.
Y/N blinked, clearly caught off guard—and then, just slightly, she blushed. Actually *blushed*. Which somehow made it worse.
Mary-Kate let out a quiet breath through her nose, clearly amused—but at least she didn’t push it further. “What?” she said, glancing at me. “I’m just being honest.”
“You’re being inappropriate,” I shot back.
Y/N cleared her throat softly, lowering her hand with a small, slightly awkward smile. “…hi,” she said again, a little more unsure this time.
Mary-Kate stepped forward then, shifting gears. “Hi,” she replied calmly this time, extending her hand. “I’m Mary-Kate.”
Y/N took it immediately, grateful for the normal interaction. “Nice to meet you.”
There was a brief pause. A weird one. Not uncomfortable exactly—but new. Everyone taking each other in.
I cleared my throat, stepping in before Mary-Kate could say anything else that would make this worse. “…so,” I said, forcing a small smile, “how about breakfast?”
That seemed to break the tension just enough. Mary-Kate shrugged. “I flew here. I’ll take food.”
“Great,” I said quickly, already turning toward the kitchen—and, without thinking, reaching back to grab Y/N’s hand and pull her along with me.
The second we were out of direct view, I let out a quiet breath. “…oh my god.”
Y/N chuckled softly beside me. “That went well.”
I shot her a look. “Did it?”
She smiled, relaxed despite everything. “I’m still alive, so yeah.”
I huffed a laugh, moving around the kitchen to grab plates. Then, out of nowhere—
“You know,” Y/N said casually, leaning against the counter, “you really do look like her.”
I paused. “…what?”
She gestured vaguely toward the living room. “Your sister. You look like twins.”
I stared at her for a second—then laughed. “Okay, first of all—rude. And second, she has her own twin.”
She grinned. “I’m serious.”
I shook my head, still smiling as I turned back to the counter. But then—I glanced at her again, a thought clicking into place.
“…wait,” I said slowly, narrowing my eyes. “Is that why you blushed?”
Y/N blinked. “What?”
“Earlier,” I pressed, pointing slightly. “At the door. When she said…” I stopped myself, rolling my eyes. “When she said you were hotter in person.”
She immediately lifted her hands in defense. “No—no,” she said quickly. “That’s not—”
I raised a brow.
“I was just caught off guard,” she added, a little more carefully this time.
I studied her for a second. “…uh-huh.”
“I was,” she insisted, softer now.
Then she stepped closer—and just like that, the teasing faded a little.
“Yeah, you look alike,” she said, voice quieter. “But…” Her eyes met mine. “…you’re different.”
Something in my chest shifted. “How?” I asked, before I could stop myself.
Y/N smiled—small, but real. “You’re you.”
Simple. But the way she said it—like it meant everything.
“…smooth,” I muttered, but there was no bite to it.
She huffed a quiet laugh. “I mean it.”
I looked at her for a second longer, then shook my head, turning back to the counter to hide the way I was smiling. “Yeah, yeah,” I murmured. “Help me before she comes in here and starts judging my cooking.”
Y/N pushed off the counter immediately. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” she said, stepping beside me.
And just like that—it felt normal again.
Well.
As normal as it could be—with my sister in the other room, and the girl I loved standing right next to me.
---
Everything… actually went well.
Surprisingly well.
There were a few teasing comments—mostly from Mary-Kate—but nothing Y/N couldn’t handle. In fact, she handled it better than I expected. Calm, easy, just the right amount of charm without trying too hard.
Mary-Kate warmed up to her quickly. That quiet, observant way she had? Y/N met it with the same kind of steady presence, and somewhere between breakfast and coffee, they just… clicked. Mary-Kate, of course, still tested her a little. Pushing. Waiting to see if Y/N would crack.
She didn’t.
And by the time they were both laughing over something stupid I’d said—completely at my expense, obviously—I realized something.
Y/N fit.
Not perfectly. Not instantly. But naturally.
Like she wasn’t forcing her way into my world—she was just… stepping into it.
---
Later, after MK left—after the apartment finally went quiet again—my phone buzzed.
I glanced down.
A message from Mary-Kate.
Mary-Kate:
Y/N is approved! I really like her.
I smiled before I could stop myself. Then—another message came through.
Ashley:
So you’re telling me you met her WITHOUT ME?
A second one, almost immediately—
Ashley:
I’m offended.
…another.
Ashley:
Actually no, I’m jealous.
I huffed out a quiet laugh. Of course she was.
Mary-Kate:
You were busy.
The reply came instantly.
Ashley:
That’s not the point and you know it.
I shook my head, locking my phone. “…unbelievable.”
But I was smiling. Of course I was. I looked up from my phone—and there she was. Y/N, sprawled comfortably on my couch like she belonged there, scrolling through something on her own phone, completely unaware of the messages I’d just gotten.
My chest softened.
“…hey,” I said.
She glanced up immediately. “Yeah?”
I shook my head, smile still lingering. “Nothing.”
She narrowed her eyes slightly. “You’re smiling.”
“Am I not allowed to smile?”
“Not like that,” she said, already suspicious.
I laughed, shaking my head. “Just—come here.”
She didn’t question it—just got up and walked over, settling beside me like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Which, at this point—It was.
---
Outside our little bubble, though—the world hadn’t slowed down.
Pillowtalk kept climbing. Streams rising, charts updating, the buzz getting louder. It hit Billboard.
And the speculation? It only got worse.
Fans digging through interviews, clips resurfacing, every glance, every interaction, every *moment* being picked apart.
“WHO IS SHE???”
“SHE HAS TO BE SOMEONE FAMOUS.”
And all the while—we stayed quiet. Stayed in this space that was still ours, for a little while longer.
---
Until few weeks later—we were spotted.
Just a simple moment. A walk, a laugh, a hand that lingered a little too long.
My hands are cold, but your lips are warm (natasha x fem!reader)
word count: 1,800ish
warnings: oral (r receiving), kissing, biting, slight argument, lesbian yearning, and they were best friends!
context: failed mission in siberia, both are cold frustrated in shitty cabin in middle of nowhere. natasha and reader are best friends since red room, basically reader is a black widow like natasha and follows all same events. they are partners in SHIELD.
—
When fury said siberian weather conditions were not that bad during this time of the year, he clearly didnt mention this. the wind howled outside of the small cramped cabin that was supposed to be a safe house. everything was freezing cold. snow began covering the windows to the brim, fogging up every way to look outdoors.
only heavy sound that could be heard was the big door slamming open, shaky exhales from utter pain of the cold.
rubbing your ripped fingerless gloves together, trying to warm up at least a bit while thinking about the mission. you turned to natasha, about to start arguing about assignment gone wrong but she beat you to it. shoving frustratedly past you, she sat on a beaten up twin sized bed that was placed in the corner of the small bedroom. with her jaw violently tensing, she looked up at you then threw the broken comms device at your face. still not saying anything.
with a deep sigh, pinching the nose bridge and looking back at her, you took the broken comms device and put it on the small table. sitting down with your back turned, refusing to talk to her as you began taking off your shredded gear. only leaving yourself in the compression long sleeved thermal top and leggings. shit. those bruises hurt bad.
neither of you acknowledged one another for a long time. not the failed mission you were forced to retreat because of lost broken signal. not the tension that has been building up. not even checking each other for injuries like usual.
all your focus was on fixing the comms that you didnt even notice natasha moving. stepping behind your chair, she hesitantly tried to place her rough cold hands on your shoulders, making you jerk away. your head snapped back, looking up at her from your seat. you didnt relax, it looked like you became even more tense. brushing her hands off you sternly, you shooed her off in russian so you could fix the goddamn comms. it looked like you were going to be stuck in the safe house for quite a while.
—
after hours, you finally managed to scrap up a few signals and wires. managing to send a morse code message. all you now had to do was wait, which was not a good thing. it was getting darker outside, snow storm intensified, and it was becoming even colder. you shivered at just thought of it, sighing you finally looked around the cabin.
it wasn’t anything special. dust everywhere, broken closet, walls made out of old oak trees that did nothing to isolate the cold. looking down at the floor, your eyes finally spotted the ginger haired woman who was laying down with a thin ripped blanket covering her body, her head bumped into imitation of a pillow that was made out of her gear clothes. she was wearing just thermal clothing like you.
with a blank face, you took in her expressions. her eyes were clammed shut, eyelashes fluttering as she tried to fight off the shivers from the cold. jaw clenching, hurdling up into herself. pity took over your chest, looking down at your best friends of god knows how many years. you walked over, crawling up to the bed before leaning down to try tug at her. stopping yourself just moments before reaching her, you pulled back and let her be. you wouldn’t want the tension to get worse.
covering yourself with a thin spare blanket, you tried to use military methods that were taught in Red Room to keep the warmth in. it was a hard fight with siberian winter, one you were losing. you werent the only one it seemed. natasha finally let a shiver through, exhaling harshly through cackling teeth, her breath visible in the dark of the room.
giving up, you softened. you couldn’t stay mad at her for long. even if she was a bitch during the mission. she was still your supposed girl best friend and you didnt like seeing her in pain. with a frustrated sigh and a soft noise, you leaned down tugging at her sleeve.
ginger finally turned, acknowledging you. plopping on her elbows, she quirked her eyebrow tiredly. her braid was messy, baby hairs sticking out. yet she still looked beautiful, even in the dark. looking at her like that always made something churn in your lower stomach, bringing heat up your cheeks even in freezing cold. and when you two did act up on it, both of you wanted to keep it casual and not mention it again. it somehow felt different tonight, not just because of the failed mission or the constant tension. something has been changing lately, for a good while in fact.
snapping out of a daze, you scooted towards the wall, making space in the twin bed, petting the spot next to you and looking at her with best soft, warm eyes you could muster. and it always worked on her. she plopped on her knees fully just as you began talking
“come here, draga? its so cold, i need to warm up… please ‘tasha?” the words were raspy coming out of your mouth, little voice crack and accent slipping in. it made natasha look up at you with a strange familiar look in her green eyes. her lips tugged, moving up and dragging the thin blanket with her, she settled next to you.
getting in a comfortable position wasnt an issue for the two of you. you both had too much experience with one another for that. you settled half on top of natasha’s side, leg thrown over her hips, your chest completely smushed up against side of hers and her strong arm. she herself got loose, trying to gain as much warmth as she could, she snuggled her hips up against your inner thigh, pulling you closer to share body warmth. her arm was supporting your back, your face was right against her neck, breathing the sweat and gunpowder in.
staying like that for a while, you managed to get some body warmth but it wasnt enough for this kind of weather. it was never enough with natasha. gripping her bicep with one hand, and side of waist with another, you tried to angle her more towards you. she let out a soft grunt after a moment, gripping your hands away and quickly moving on top of you to cover your body like a human blanket.
her thighs didnt let your hips escape, gripping them tightly she snuggled deeper. letting out another sigh which you responded with a little hitch in the breathing. your chests were smushed together, her face right above yours. you felt her breath hot and quick on your lips, just a little closer and you will meet her halfway.
if natasha’s goal was to make you hot, she did succeed. except now you were hot and bothered, just like her. restless, you squirmed under her, matching her strength but not wanting to fight for dominance. you were submissive in your nature, and you werent going to deny your beautiful control freak best friend of having charge over you.
staring at each other, you analyzed one another’s features. before you knew it, tips of your noses were touching. the next moment, you were making out with her. hot lips pressed against yours, passionately pulling you in. it quickly escalated, she was pinning you down with her hands while her tongue licked and nibbled your bottom lip. asking for the permission in. you subconsciously parted your lips back, letting out a quiet moan at feeling of her saliva and tongue in your own mouth.
the more you kissed, the more hot you got. the earlier freezing cold seemed to never exist as heat took over. trying to grind and strut your hips up, trying to find any relief, you pulled out a sharp grunt from the ginger. she pinned your hips down, not allowing you anywhere and making you whine. you felt her shit eating grin against your neck.
soon enough, she began moving her mouth south. kissing your jaw. focusing on underside of it, she sighed into it, breathing you in before moving onto the neck. then lower. sucking at yours collarbone, then sneaking under your shirt and making your back arch instantly. taking one of your sensitive, already hard nipples in her mouth, warmth enveloped you. you sighed out her name, bringing her other hand up to your other breast.
kisses were getting lower and lower. licking and kissing your tummy muscles, she bit softly around your ribs. lower. licking your hipbones. lower.
the thermal leggings quickly came off, she adjusted your position, getting all up against your thighs. you rested your legs on her shoulders, needy expression coming across your beautiful face. chewing on your lower lip, you looked down at her only to see she was already glancing up. her eyes were filled with animal like hunger as she let her tongue swipe over fabric of your panties.
the teasing was endless. her hot breath hitching over the wet patch on the fabric, nudging her nose up to the sensitive bud through the underwear, gripping and biting all over your inner thighs. it made you ache, hot coiled feeling swarmed your tummy, your hips were raised as you gripped the back of her ginger hair.
she began eating the panties off of you, her warm tongue finally found your needy soaking cunt, making her groan in pleasure of the taste when she lapped up your slit. it made you moan in unison. you were so sweet, she couldve stayed like that forever, but you were getting impatient and overly needy.
lapping up your juices, she focused on the sensitive bundle of nerves. she didnt hesitate or tease anymore. her tongue flicked expert circles on your clit, finding its nervy sensitive spot, making you whimper and moan even louder, jerking your hips into her face, helplessly gripping her hair.
“please… please- oh god yes— nat please”she huffed from down there with a heavy breath when she heard you finally getting vocal. gripping your thighs closer, she watched you while eating you out. wanting to see and memorize every face that her best friend made through the hazes of pleasure she was giving them.
“come on… come on, give it to me” natasha grunted through, her rare accent thickening. strong forearms flexing. you melted at her words, intensifying the warm feeling that pooled through you. you felt yourself getting closer. your vision blurred, the stomach muscles clenching and flexing and your hips violently tried to grind.
“i cant—god i cant, i cant i cant i—“ the words turned into a deep moan of gingers name as white hot pleasure washed over you. your thighs clenched around her head, trapping her in until you rode it out. legs were shaking as you finally came to your mind, breathing out heavily and letting go of her head after she ate all of the essence with deep enjoyment.
after her lapping up your sensitive pussy, natasha smugly sat up, pulling your panties and thermal leggings back on, tucking herself into your side on top of you. sharing a taste of you through a kiss, she murmured
part 4 out of 4 parts (link for pervious at the end)
She kicks off the heels.
They land somewhere on the carpet with two soft thuds, the first time those shoes have hit a surface without purpose all day. She pulls back the duvet on the other side and slides in, careful, controlled, keeping a deliberate distance between her body and yours like the six inches of mattress between you is a professional boundary she's still pretending exists.
She lies on her back. Stares at the ceiling.
You lie on your back. Stare at the ceiling.
The room is dark and quiet and her sheets smell like her.
Your foot moves.
Your toes brush her calf, light, barely there, the kind of contact that could be accidental if either of you were stupid enough to believe that.
"You're touching my leg," she says to the ceiling.
"My foot slipped."
"It slipped."
"I'm on medication, Wanda. I can't control my extremities."
Her lips press together. Her chest rises with a breath she's holding hostage.
"Both your extremities seem to know exactly where my leg is," she says.
"Coincidence."
"Your foot is still there."
"Do you want me to move it."
Silence.
"Wanda."
"I'm thinking."
You smile in the dark. It pulls at something sore in your chest but it's worth it, all of it is worth it, because beside you Wanda Maximoff is staring at the ceiling with the faintest smile on her face and your foot is against her leg and she hasn't moved away.
"Your ceiling is nice," you say.
"Thank you."
"Very.....white."
"That is generally how ceilings work."
"Mine has a crack in it. In my quarters. Shaped like a river. I've named it."
"You've named a crack in your ceiling."
"Gerald."
She turns her head on the pillow and looks at you. Like she's trying to figure out how someone who took a bullet days ago is lying in her bed naming ceiling cracks.
"Gerald," she repeats
"He's been there since I moved in. We have a relationship."
"You have a relationship with a crack."
"Don't judge me. I was lonely."
Something shifts behind her eyes. Quick. Tender. Gone before she can stop it.
She turns back to the ceiling. "You won't need Gerald anymore."
You let that sit between you. Let it breathe.
Your foot is still on her leg.
"Wanda."
"Hm."
What happened. After."
She's quiet for a moment. Her breathing doesn't change but something in her body tightens, a stiffness that moves through her shoulders and settles in her jaw.
"After what," she says, and she knows exactly what you mean.
"After I went down. I don't remember anything past the floor. The concrete. You were there and then..." You trail off. Your hand drifts to your throat without thinking. Fingers brush the bandage. "Then I woke up at the hospital."
Wanda stares at the ceiling.
"Natasha saved your life," she says. Her voice is even but her hand, resting on her stomach, curls into the fabric of her shirt. "Your airway was closing. She performed an emergency procedure in the corridor."
Your fingers press lightly against the bandage. "The scar."
"Yes."
"Natasha did this."
"With a knife. On a concrete floor." A pause. "She didn't hesitate."
You process that.
"I'll have to thank her," you say.
"She won't want you to."
"I know. Thats why I why have to."
Wanda almost smiles.
"What else," you say.
Her jaw works. "You were in surgery for hours. Chest tube. Internal bleeding. Rib fractures." She lists them like items on a report. "They kept you in a medically induced coma for over a day."
"And you were there."
It's not a question.
"Yes," she says
"The whole time."
"Yes."
"In heels."
Her head turns on the pillow again. "What is your obsession with my shoes."
"I'm just picturing you standing outside a surgical wing in stilettos for hours. That's commitment."
You look at each other in the dark. Her green eyes catch the faint city lights from the window. Your foot presses a little firmer against her calf.
"What about Calloway," you say.
Her face changes.
"Calloway is handled." she says
"Thats not an answer."
"It's the only one youre getting tonight."
"Wanda—"
"Tonight," she repeats, and her voice is quiet but final. "You're healing. You don't need that in your head right now."
You want to push. You always want to push with her.
"Okay," you say.
"Okay."
"But you're telling me eventually."
"Evenutally."
"Promise."
She turns back to the ceiling. Her hand uncurls from her shirt. Her breathing settles.
"I promise," she says.
Weeks pass.
It passes in the small, ordinary ways that Wanda Maximoff would never admit she's been starving for.
She cooks. Not well, not at first. The first night she makes pasta and the sauce was too salty and you eat it anyway and tell her it's perfect and she looks at you like she knows you're lying and is furious at how much it means to her that you'd bother.
By the third night she's better. She stands at the stove in bare feet, the heels abandoned by the door, a concession to domesticity she made without announcement and stirs something that actually smells right while you sit at the kitchen island with your oxygen line and watch her likes she's performing surgery.
"Stop staring," she says without turning around.
"I'm supervising."
You don't outrank me."
"I outrank you in the kitchen. You burned rice yesterday."
"We agreed never to speak of the rice."
You laugh. It hurts. You do it anyways.
She brings you your plate and sits across from you and you eat together like it's something you've always done. Like the kitchen island isn't a battlefield and the silence between bites isn't loaded with every word neither of you has said yet.
She learns how you take your coffee. You learn that she drinks tea at night, something herbal, something Sokovian she orders online and won't explain. She holds the mug with both hands and tucks her feet under her on the couch and looks younger than you've ever seen her before.
You play cards
She's terrible at poker. Not because she can't read people, she reads people better than anyone alive, but because she refuses to bluff. She plays every hand like it's a moral position. You win six games in a row and she looks at you like you've committed treason.
"You're cheating," she says.
"I'm not cheating. You just play your aces like they're classified information."
"They are. That's the point of the game."
"The point of the game is to lie, Wanda."
"I don't lie."
"You lie constantly. You told Fury you were fine last Tuesday."
"That's different."
"How."
"That was necessary deception. This is cards."
You win the seventh game. She doesn't play the eighth. She turns on a movie instead and sits close enough that your shoulders touch and neither of you moves away.
The movies becomes routine. Every night after dinner, after medication, after she checks your wraps and your oxygen and your pain level with the quiet efficiency of someone who has turned your recovery into a personal religion.
You fall asleep during one. You wake up with your head on her shoulder and her hand in your hair and she's still watching the screen like nothing happened.
You don't mention it.
She doesn't stop.
Every night you sleep in her bed. Every night she lies on her back and stares at the ceiling and your foot finds her leg and she doesn't move it.
The distance between you on the mattress shrinks by inches, until you wake up one morning with your face against her shoulder and her arm around you and neither of you acknowledges it over coffee.
She doesn't call it anything. You don't ask her to.
She just says, once, standing in the kitchen with her tea and her bare feet
"I want to take care of you."
Not I have to. Not is my responsibility. Not until you're healed.
I want to.
You look at her across the island. She looks back. Her green eyes are steady and terrified and certain all at once.
"Okay," you say.
She nods once.
That's it. That's all either of you needs.
Physical therapy is on the fourth floor.
Twice a week, ninety minutes.
The therapist is a woman named Rojas who speaks softly and has hands like iron and doesn't not care that Wanda Maximoff is watching from the observation window.
"She's always there," Rojas says to you one session, adjusting your arm overhead, stretching the issue around your ribs. "Every time."
"I know."
"She takes notes."
"Of course she does."
"She corrected my technique once. Through the glass. With a hand gesture."
"That sounds right."
Rojas smiles. "She loves you."
You don't answer.
Today is Thursday. Session twelve. You're stronger now, the oxygen is gone, the chest tube is healed, the bruising has faded to a faint yellow ghost. Your ribs still protest deep breaths and sudden movements but your body is remembering what it's capable of. Slowly. Stubbornly.
Wanda is at the window. You can see her reflection in the glass, arms crossed, watching, cataloging every movement you make like she's building a file on your recovery.
Rojas takes you through the stretches, the resistance work, the breathing exercises that make your lungs burn in a way that's productive instead of terrifying.
You're halfway through a set when the door to the therapy room opens.
You assume it's a nurse. An assistant. Someone who belongs.
"Hey, you."
You hands still on the resistance band.
Sue Storm stands in the doorway.
"Sue," you say.
She smiles. It's careful. Warm. The kind of smile that holds a lot of weight behind it.
"Ive heard you were doing PT," she says, stepping in. "Thought Id see how youre moving."
In the observation window, Wanda's reflection goes very still.
Sue crosses the room like she belongs in it. She stops near the bench where your towel and water bottle sit and leans against the wall, casual, easy, the posture of someone who's been in enough labs and training rooms to know how to take up space without crowding.
"You look better," she says, eyes moving over you with a clinical warmth that lands somewhere between doctor and something else. "Color's back."
"Apparently I was beige for a while."
Sue's mouth curves. "Who told you that."
"Yelena. She was very specific about the color chart."
Sue laughs, short, real, the kind that reaches her eyes, and your body remembers the sound. Remembers what it felt like to be the person who caused it. A different time. A different you.
Rojas glances between you and Sue.
"Can you lift your arm again for me," Rojas says, redirecting. Professional.
You lift. The stretch burns along your ribs. You breathe through it.
Sue watches. Her smile fades into something more focused, more intent. She steps closer.
"Your lateral movement is restricted," Sue says. "Are they working your intercostals separately or just—"
"I've got it covered," Rojas says politely. Firmly.
Sue raises both hands. "Sorry. Habit."
But she doesn't step back. She stays close, close enough that when you lower your arm, her hand catches your elbow. Steadying. Familiar.
"You scared me," she says quietly. Just to you.
The PT room door opens.
Click. Click. Click.
Every head turns. Rojas straightens. Sue's hand stills on your elbow.
"Dr. Storm."
Wanda stands in the doorway. Heels. Black slacks. A blouse buttoned to the throat. Her auburn hair is down and her green eyes are fixed on Sue with the kind of precision that makes the air in the room feel thinner.
Sue's eyes close. Just for a second. The kind of exhale you take when you've been expecting a bullet and it finally arrives.
She turns her head slowly. Meets Wanda's gaze with equal weight — jaw set, eyes sharp, refusing to shrink under the attention.
"Commander," Sue says.
"Can I speak with you," Wanda says.
It's not a question.
"Now," she adds, in case there was any confusion.
Sue's mouth curves into something that isn't quite a smile. More like a scoff pressed into shape. She looks back at you, and the shift is immediate, the hardness dissolving into something soft and private.
"I'll be back," she says quietly.
Her fingers brush your arm once more as she steps away.
Wanda watches the touch. Catalogs it. Files it somewhere behind her teeth.
Sue walks toward the door. Wanda steps aside just enough to let her pass, not an inch more, and follows her into the corridor.
The door swings shut behind them.
Rojas looks at you.
You look at the door.
"So," Rojas says carefully. "Should we continue or..."
You don't answer.
The hallway is empty.
Sue stops two feet from her. Arms crossed. Weight on one hip. Chin up.
"You need to stop," Wanda says.
"Stop what."
"Showing up. Finding her. Engineering reasons to be in her space."
Sue's eyebrow lifts. "I'm not engineering anything. She's a colleague. I'm checking on her."
"You touched her arm."
"She's my friend."
"She's your ex."
The word lands between them like a dropped blade.
Sue's chin lifts. "Since when does she need your authorization to see people."
"Since she was discharged into my care."
"Your care." Sue repeats it like she's tasting something bitter. "That's what we're calling it."
Wanda's jaw tightens. "Say what you mean, Dr. Storm."
Sue uncrosses her arms. Takes a step closer. Not aggressive but deliberate.
"I mean that you moved her into your penthouse," Sue says. "I mean that you blocked my access to her room. I mean that you've built a wall around her and stamped your name on it and you're calling it medical supervision."
"It is medical supervision."
"It's possession."
The word lands between them like a dropped blade.
Wanda doesn't flinch. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"I don't?" Sue's voice drops. Quieter now. More dangerous. "I know her, Wanda. I knew her before you. I knew her before the training and the field and the vest and the—" She gestures vaguely toward the PT room. "—all of this."
Wanda is very still.
"And that bothers you," Sue continues, tilting her head. Studying Wanda the way Wanda studies everyone else. "That's what this is. Not concern. Not protection. Jealousy."
"Don't flatter yourself."
"I'm not flattering myself. I'm reading you. You're not hard to read right now, Commander. Not about her."
Wanda's chin lifts. Her eyes are glass, hard, bright, giving nothing.
"You want to know why it bothers you?" Sue says, voice lower now. "It's not because I visit. It's not because I touch her arm. It's because you know I was there first."
Wanda's nostrils flare.
"I know her," Sue says. "Not the way you know her — not the training, not the field, not the orders and the protocol. I know her."
She lets that settle.
"I know what she sounds like when she laughs so hard she can't breathe. I know how she takes her coffee and that she lies about liking it black because she thinks it makes her seem tougher. I know what she looks like when she's scared and won't say it."
Wanda's hands curl at her sides.
Sue steps closer.
"I know what she sounds like at two in the morning," Sue says, and her voice drops to something quiet and precise and ruthless. "When it's dark and she's not thinking about rank or training or who's in charge. I know what makes her gasp. I know what makes her go quiet. I know the exact moment she stops being brave and just lets go."
The hallway is silent.
Wanda's face is stone. But her breathing has changed, shorter, tighter, controlled in the way it gets when she's keeping something caged behind her teeth.
"I know her body," Sue says. "I know her sounds. I know the way she arches when she—"
"Enough," Wanda says.
One word. Low. Vibrating.
Sue holds her gaze. Doesn't smile. Doesn't smirk.
I had her first and you can't erase that.
"All of that," Sue says quietly, "was before you. She was mine before she was ever yours. And she isn't yours now."
Wanda's jaw clenches so hard the muscle jumps. She stares at Sue with eyes that could melt steel.
"Are you done."
Sue's chin lifts.
Wanda steps closer and smirks. Deliberate curve of a mouth that knows exactly how much power lives behind it.
"Let me make myself clear," Wanda says.
Her voice is low. Final.
"You can try to visit. You can smile. You can say her name in that voice you use when you want her to remember what you had." Her head tilts. "But when the day ends and the hallway goes dark and she's tired and sore and looking for the one person who makes her feel safe—"
Wanda's green eyes hold Sue's without blinking.
"—she walks to me."
She lets it land.
"Every night. In my room. Without being asked."
Her smirk fades into something quieter. Something absolute.
"So keep your memories, Dr. Storm. They're the only place you still exist."
Wanda steps closer.
There's nothing left between them now. Inches. Breath.
Sue doesn't move. Her eyes are bright and hard and she holds Wanda's gaze.
Wanda's voice drops to something barely audible.
"Stay away from her."
Sue's jaw tightens. She doesn't blink.
Wanda doesn't wait for an answer.
She turns and walks back toward the PT room, heels striking the corridor floor like a closing statement.
The penthouse is quiet.
Dinner is simple, grilled chicken, roasted vegetables, something Wanda found in a recipe on her phone and followed with the same intensity she brings to mission planning.
She sits across from you at the table. Her posture is perfect. Her fork moves with precision. She's eaten half her plate and hasn't tasted any of it.
She sips her wine. Sets it down. Picks it up again. Sips.
She's been like this since PT. Since she walked back into the therapy room with her heels and her composure and looked at you on the bench and said "let's go" without explaining where Sue went or why the air around her smelled like a fight.
You didn't ask. But you're asking now.
You place your water down. Set your fork on your empty plate.
"Are you okay, Wands?"
The nickname lands softly. You've been using it more, in the dark, in the mornings, in the small spaces between formal and whatever this is. She's never told you to stop.
She looks up from her wine.
"I'm fine," she says.
"You've been quiet since we got back."
Her fingers tighten around the stem. "I'm thinking."
"About?"
"Work."
"Liar."
Her green eyes meet yours across the table. Sharp.
Her jaw shifts. Something settles in her expression, not anger, not softness. Decision.
"You know what bothers me, Y/n."
It's not a question. She leans back in her chair. Her head tilts, that tilt, the one that makes people forget how to speak.
The way she says your name, not a softened version, makes you set your glass down.
You look at her.
She leans back in her chair. Crosses one leg over the other.
"She touched you," Wanda says. "In that room. She put her hand on you like she still has the right. Like nothing changed. Like I haven't spent the last two weeks learning how you breathe in your sleep."
You don't speak.
"And I stood behind that glass," she continues, voice low, even, "and I watched. Because that's what I do. I watch."
Her eyes hold yours.
"I am so tired of being your commander."
The room goes still.
"We've been doing this for months," she says. "You and me. The looks. The sparring. The way you say my name like you're testing how far I'll let you go. The way I let you go further every single time."
She unfolds from the chair. Stands.
"You sleep in my bed. You wear my clothes. You make me laugh in my own kitchen and I haven't laughed in this place in years."
She moves around the table. Slow. Deliberate. Each step silent on the hardwood. She stops in front of you.
You look up at her. She looks down at you. The height difference from the chair makes her feel like a storm standing over a city.
She leans down.
Her hands land on either side of your chair, gripping the armrests, bracing, caging you between her arms. Her face is close. Her auburn hair falls forward, framing you both. Her green eyes are inches from yours and there is nothing professional left in them.
Nothing controlled. Nothing safe.
"I am jealous," she says, and the word comes out like she's ripping it from somewhere deep. "I am possessive and irrational and I hated every second of her standing next to you because you are—"
She stops.
Her jaw works.
Her eyes drop to your mouth. Then back up.
"You are the only thing in my life I have ever wanted that I didn't take," she whispers. "Because I wanted you to choose it."
Your heart is doing something your ribs will punish you for later.
Her breath is warm on your lips.
"So choose," she says.
Your eyes drop to her mouth.
Her eyes stay on yours.
The space between you is a held breath. A dare. A line drawn in something thinner than air.
You close it. Your lips press against hers and the world goes quiet.
She inhales. Sharp. Deep. Through her nose. The kind of breath someone takes when they've been drowning and didn't know it until the surface hit.
Her hand flies to the back of your head.
Her fingers thread into your hair and grip, firm, certain, pulling you closer like she's afraid you'll change your mind. Like she's been waiting for this so long her body doesn't trust it yet and needs to hold on until it believes.
You don't pull back. She doesn't let you.
Your hand finds her jaw. Her skin is warm under your fingers. She makes a sound against your mouth, small, quiet, something between a breath and a whimper
Your ribs ache. You don't care.
Her other hand leaves the armrest and finds your face, both hands on you now, holding you, cradling your jaw like she did on that concrete floor except this time you're not dying. This time you're choosing her. This time the only reason you can't breathe is because she's kissing you like she'll never get another chance.
She pulls back just enough to breathe. Her forehead rests against yours.
Her eyes are still closed. Her fingers are still in your hair. Her chest rises and falls too fast.
"Again," she whispers.
You kiss her again.
And she keeps you there.
You stand.
Your ribs scream at you for it. You ignore them. Your hands find her waist and you pull yourself up into her and she lets you, her arm sliding around your back, steadying you, drawing you in until there's no chair between you anymore.
She kisses you harder.
Her mouth opens against yours and the sound she makes is low and desperate and it vibrates through your chest in a way that has nothing to do with your injuries. Her fingers tighten in your hair. She tilts your head back, just slightly, just enough, and kisses the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the spot just below your ear that makes your knees buckle.
Your hands slide up her back. She presses into you.
Then her fingers graze your ribs.
She freezes.
Her hand hovers, right there, right over the place where the bruising lived for weeks, where the fractures are still knitting together under skin that looks healed but isn't. Her touch goes feather light. Afraid.
"I'm okay," you murmur against her mouth.
Her hand doesn't land.
"Wanda. I'm okay."
"I don't want to hurt you," she says, and her voice is wrecked. Low and rough and nothing like the commander. Her forehead presses against yours and her breath shakes.
Your hand finds hers. The one hovering. You take it and press it flat against your ribs, gently, deliberately, holding it there.
"You won't," you say.
She exhales. Her fingers curl against you, careful, so careful, feeling the shape of you under her palm like she's learning you for the first time through touch.
Her other hand is still in your hair. She hasn't let go. She might never let go.
She kisses you again, slower now, deeper, the urgency shifting into something heavier. Her thumb traces the edge of your ribcage through the fabric of her tshirt and every movement is measured. Controlled.
Wanda touching you the way she does everything, with precision, with intention, with the full terrifying weight of her attention focused on making sure she gives you exactly enough without breaking you.
Your back meets the kitchen counter.
You didn't realize you were moving. She walked you there, guiding without pushing, her body steering yours the way it does in training except this is nothing like training.
Her hips press against yours. Her hand slides from your ribs to your waist. She holds you there, pinned between her body and the counter, and pulls back just enough to look at you.
Her lips are swollen. Her eyes are dark. Her hair is a mess from your hands.
She looks like a woman who just set fire to every rule she's ever followed and hasn't decided if she regrets it yet.
Her thumb strokes your waist.
"Tell me to stop," she says quietly.
You look at her.
"Don't stop."
Her mouth crashes back into yours and this time there's no hesitation.
No careful calculation of where your injuries begin and her want ends. She kisses you like she's spent months starving and just realized you're the only thing that feeds her.
Her hand tightens on your waist. The other finally, leaves your hair and slides down your neck, your shoulder, tracing the line of your collarbone through the loose neckline of her t-shirt.
Her fingers skim the edge of the scar at your throat and she pauses there, just a breath, just a beat, her thumb brushing the raised skin like an apology and a claim at once.
Then she keeps going.
Your hands pull at the fabric at her back. She exhales against your mouth, ragged, shaking, and presses you harder into the counter.
Her thigh slots between yours and the sound you make is involuntary and embarrassing and you feel her smile against your lips.
Private. Hungry. The smile of a woman who just discovered something she wants to hear again.
"That sound," she murmurs against your mouth.
You bite her bottom lip.
Her breath catches. Her grip goes tight on your hip — possessive, pulling you flush against her — and the noise she makes is quiet and low and you file it away somewhere you will never forget.
She pulls back. Barely. Her lips brush yours when she talks.
"We should stop," she breathes.
"You don't want to stop."
"Your ribs—"
"Are fine."
"You're recovering—"
"I'm recovered."
"You are medically—"
You kiss her. Hard. Her objection dies against your tongue.
She gives in so fast it's almost funny. Her arms wrap around you, one low at your waist, one high between your shoulders, and she holds you against her like she's trying to memorize the shape of your body through her clothes.
Your fingers find the buttons of her blouse.
She goes still.
Not pulling away. Not stopping you.Just still, breathing hard, eyes closed, her forehead against yours. Like she's standing on the edge of something she can't come back from and needs one second to decide if she's jumping.
Her hand covers yours.
Your fingers freeze on the button. She opens her eyes. Green. Dark. Certain.
She moves your hand away. Your stomach drops for a fraction of a second, rejection, miscalculation, too fast, too much....
She undoes the button herself.
One button.
Then another.
She watches your face while she does it, not performing, not teasing, just watching you watch her. Reading your reaction the way she reads everything about you. Learning what this does to you the same way she learned your stance, your breathing, your tells.
The blouse falls open.
Your eyes drop. You can't help it.
She lets you look.
"Wanda," you say, and her name sounds different now. Heavier. Like it's carrying something it wasn't built for.
"Hm."
"You're—"
"Don't say something stupid."
"—gorgeous."
"That counts."
"It's not stupid if it's true."
Her mouth twitches. She shrugs the blouse off her shoulders and it drops to the kitchen floor and neither of you looks at it.
She steps back to you. Skin against the thin cotton of her tshirt you're wearing.
Her hands find the hem at your hips and her fingers curl under the fabric, slowly, asking without asking, giving you room to stop her.
You lift your arms.
She pulls it over your head, careful, so careful over your ribs, over the scar, and sets it on the counter behind you like it matters. Like everything about your body matters to her in a way that goes past want into something sacred.
She looks at you.
At the scar on your throat. At the fading yellow bruise along your ribs. At the chest tube mark on your side, pink and healing. At all the evidence of the night she almost lost you, mapped across your skin like a story she's been reading from the outside for weeks.
Her fingers trace the scar at your throat.
Down.
Along your collarbone.
Over the bruise.
She bends and presses her lips to it.
Your breath catches.
She kisses the bruise like she's apologizing to your bones. Soft. Slow. Her mouth moves along the discoloration, following the edges, and you feel her exhale warm against your skin. Shaky. Reverent.
"I almost lost you," she whispers into your ribs.
Your hand finds her hair. Threads through it. Auburn silk between your fingers.
"You didn't," you say.
She kisses lower. Your stomach tightens.
Her hands slide to your hips. Her thumbs press into the hollows there, firm, grounding, holding you still while her mouth works its way back up your chest, your collarbone, the line of your throat. She kisses beside the scar. Above it. Below your jaw.
She finds your mouth again and this time it's slow. Devastatingly slow. The kind of kiss that takes its time because it knows it's not going to be interrupted.
Her hand comes up and cups your jaw and she tilts your head exactly where she wants it and you let her because letting Wanda take control is the easiest thing you've ever done.
"Bedroom," she says against your lips.
It's not a question.
You nod.
Her arms come around your waist, one low at your thighs, one around your back, and you barely have time to grab the counter for balance before she lifts you.
Your ribs scream at the sudden movement but you don't care.
You wrap your arms around her shoulders and her mouth finds your neck, just below your jaw where she knows you're sensitive, her teeth scraping over the spot and leaving a line of fire behind.
The hallway blurs as she walks, her mouth never leaving your skin, and when your back hits the mattress, her hands are already moving.
One pins your wrist beside your head, fingers threading through yours. The other traces the dip of your hipbone, then slides down your thigh, slow, possessive, hitching your leg around her waist.
"Tell me," she murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear, "if I ever hurt you."
The intensity in her gaze makes your breath catch. She hovers above you, auburn hair falling like a curtain around your faces, eyes flickering between your lips and your eyes, waiting, always waiting for permission, even now.
"Wanda," you whisper, sliding your free hand up the column of her throat, thumb brushing the sharp line of her jaw. "You can't hurt me."
Her grip tightens, just for a second before she exhales, rough and uneven. "You don't know that."
"I do." You tilt your chin up, brushing your lips against hers in the barest hint of a kiss. "Because I trust you more than anyone in this godforsaken world."
A shudder runs through her.
And then she kisses you like she's proving something, like she's mapping every place you belong to her. Her free hand fists in the sheets beside your head, the restraint in her touch maddening, because you know how easily she could take. How badly she wants to.
But she doesn't.
Instead, her mouth trails lower, your collarbone, the curve of your breast, the space between your ribs where her fingers had hesitated earlier. This time, there's no pause. Just her lips, warm and deliberate, pressing against every bruise, every scar, like she's rewriting the story of them.
You arch into her touch, fingers tightening in her hair.
"Wanda—"
Her answering hum vibrates against your skin. "I know," she murmurs, and then her teeth graze your hipbone, sharp and sudden. You gasp.
Her grip on your wrist tightens.
"I know," she repeats, softer this time, lifting her head to meet your gaze. The look in her eyes is unbearable, hungry and reverent and yours, so completely yours. "Tell me what you want."
You don't hesitate.
"You. All of you."
Her breath catches.
The quiet inhale is subtle, so faint you might have missed it if she wasn't this close. Her eyes shut for a moment and you watch the mask she holds so tightly around her shatter into pieces.
When she looks at you again, it's with that same intensity and a vulnerability you've only seen a handful of times. She looks stripped, open, entirely at your mercy.
Your hand slides from her neck down to her chest, her heart thudding under the palm of your hand, and for a moment she just looks at you. Like she's memorizing some detail only she can see.
Then, with one smooth movement, she releases your hand and leans back on her knees, fingers finding the button of her jeans.
You watch, throat tight, as she undoes them. Her eyes stay on your face, like she's reading every flicker of your expression and cataloguing it.
Then, in one fluid motion, she peels the jeans and her underwear off, tossing them somewhere behind her.
Your breath dies in your chest. Your hand moves from her heart to her thigh, fingers grazing the inside, feeling the flex of muscle as she shifts her weight.
She leans in again, hands on either side of your waist, eyes burning.
"Touch me," she says softly, and it's more pleading than an order. "Please."
The raw, unguarded tone in her voice sets every nerve in your body alight. You prop yourself up on your elbows, fingers finding her hip, her waist, her ribs, wanting to touch every inch of her at once.
Her gaze follows your hand, sharp and intent, her breathing already growing ragged. When your fingers brush the underside of her breast, she shivers, just barely. But you see it.
Your eyes dart up to meet hers, to tell her just how breathtaking she is, but her mouth crashes into yours before you can speak.
Your fingers tangle in her hair as she deepens the kiss, the heat of her skin searing against yours. She pulls back just enough to whisper, voice rough
"I want to hear you."
Her thumb drags over your bottom lip before she ducks her head, her mouth trailing down your neck, your collarbone, lower
And when her tongue finally flicks over your nipple, the sound you make is exactly what she wanted.
A shudder ripples through her, her grip on your hip tightening as she does it again, slower this time, watching the way your back arches off the bed.
"Again," she murmurs, breath hot against your skin.
And god help you, you obey.
Her mouth moves lower, tongue dragging along the line of your ribs, down the flat curve of your stomach, but she doesn't go where you want her most. Instead, she kisses your hip, your thigh, her hands gripping the edges of your leggings.
She looks up at you like she's searching for something, her eyes glazed with hunger. "Can I—?"
The question hangs between you, heavy and loaded. You nod. "Yes. God, yes—"
Her fingers hook into the waistband of your leggings, peeling them down agonizingly slowly, each inch of newly exposed skin met with the heat of her breath, the occasional press of her lips.
When she finally slides them off completely, tossing them aside, she doesn't move. Just stares at you, her chest rising and falling fast, gaze so dark it's almost black.
"Fuck," she breathes, more to herself than to you, fingers tracing the inside of your thigh.
Your skin prickles under her touch. You watch her throat bob as she swallows, the way her free hand flexes against the mattress like she's stopping herself.
"Wanda—"
She doesn't let you finish.
Her grip tightens on your thigh,, claiming, anchoring, as she leans in and drags her tongue through you in one slow, devastating stroke.
You arch off the bed with a gasp.
She hums against you, the sound vibrating through your core, and when she does it again, harder this time, with the faint scrape of teeth, your hand flies to her hair, gripping tight.
"That," she murmurs against your skin, breath hot. Her free hand slides up your stomach, over your ribs, fingers splaying possessively over your racing heart. "That sound. That's the one I wanted."
Her words, rough and ragged, send sparks shooting straight through you, but she doesn't give you a second to process them.
Her tongue finds that spot again and her hand moves up, finding yours and threading her fingers through, anchoring like she needs to hold on just as much as you do.
You grip her fingers automatically, your breath leaving in a shaky gasp. She looks up at you, her expression wild and possessive, eyes fixed on yours the way only she can be. Like she's daring you to look away.
You don't. Can't. Couldn't if the roof crumbled down around you. She has you pinned with nothing but a look and a single minded focus that sends heat flaring through you, sharp and sudden.
Her grip tightens.
Her mouth lowers again, and this time there's no hesitation, no teasing, she moves like she has a point to prove, like she needs to wreck you so thoroughly you'll never forget what this feels like.
And god, it's working. Every nerve in your body is alight every thought in your mind obliterated. Your free hand fists in the sheets, your head tilting back, body arching with the heat building so quickly it feels like lightning in your veins.
"Wanda—" you gasp, fingers clenching around hers, breath coming hard.
She hums against you, a sound almost like a moan, and this time she does scrape her teeth against you, just enough to make you shiver.
Wanda lifts her head, lips glistening, her free hand moving up to rest just above the sharp jut of your hip, pinning you down exactly where she wants you.
"Say it again," she orders, and it's the same tone she uses in training.
Your brain struggles to make sense of the words, mind too hazy with desire to process anything but the raw need coiling through you. You just look at her, panting, your grip on her fingers still so tight your knuckles are white.
A flicker of impatience crosses her face, and she pushes against you slightly, fingers gripping your hip. Her voice drops, taking on that same dangerous edge she gets in the field.
"Say it again. Say my name."
Her command cuts through the haze, sharp and irresistible. Your back arches slightly, breath hitching as her nails dig into your hip just enough to make you gasp.
"Wanda—"
It comes out broken. Begging.
A satisfied smirk curves her lips, but it's gone in an instant, replaced by something darker as she leans down again.
"That's it," she murmurs against your skin before her tongue drags over you just so, slow and filthy, and your whole body tenses.
Her fingers tighten on yours.
"Again."
Your head falls back, breath catching, each of her words is like a matchstrike through your veins.
It takes every ounce of control to keep your voice steady when you answer.
"Wanda."
She makes a sound against your skin. A soft hum that turns into another one of those damned moans when you say her name in that wrecked, breathless tone. You feel her exhale against you, shaky and uneven.
You're completely unraveling, the world narrowing to nothing but the feeling of her mouth on you, her fingers locked with yours like an anchor. Every nerve is alight, your back arching as she pushes you mercilessly toward the edge
And then she does something, some perfect twist of her tongue, and you break.
Her name leaves your lips like a plea, a curse, a benediction as you shatter beneath her.
Wanda doesn't stop. Not until you're gasping, trembling, your fingers weakly tugging at her hair in protest.
Then, and only then, does she pull back, just enough to press a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh.
Her breath comes as ragged as yours when she finally looks up at you, lips swollen, chin glistening, eyes black with satisfaction.
She exhales sharply through her nose, watching you with predatory satisfaction as you come down from the high.
Then she's moving up your body in one fluid motion, her knee slotting between your thighs as she braces herself over you. Her free hand, still tangled with yours, presses firmly into the mattress beside your head.
"Look at you," she murmurs, voice wrecked and reverent. Her gaze travels over your flushed skin, your heaving chest, the way your body still trembles with aftershocks.
She leans down until her lips brush your ear. "I could do that for hours." A shiver runs down your spine. "I will do that for hours." Her teeth graze your earlobe. "But first..."
Her hips roll against yours in one slow, deliberate motion that has your breath catching all over again.
One hand grips your thigh, dragging it higher around her waist. The other guides your palm down the taut plane of her stomach, lower, until your fingers brush where she's already soaked and trembling.
Her breath hitches.
"Feel that?" Her voice is raw. "That's you."
Your fingers twitch, an involuntary reaction, and you feel her lips brush the sensitive skin at your neck, her breath coming hot and fast.
"Good girl."
Her praise makes your stomach flip flop, but all coherent thoughts fly out of your head when she shifts again, the heat of her so close it feels like a brand.
She hums against your skin.
"Touch me," she whispers, low and throaty, her hand still guiding yours.
There's something like desperation in her voice. In her eyes, when she pulls back to look at you.
"Please."
Your fingers tremble as they slip through the slick heat, finding her clit with a slow, deliberate stroke that makes her gasp against your neck. Her hips buck forward, grinding against your palm, and the hand on your thigh digs in possessively.
"Again," she breathes, her voice already fraying at the edges.
You stroke her again, slower this time, spreading the wetness with two fingers while your thumb circles her swollen clit. Her whole body shudders, and she buries her face in your throat, teeth grazing your pulse point without quite breaking skin.
"Yes—fuck—"
Her thigh pushes between yours in instinctive retaliation, the pressure making your own breath catch.
You slide two fingers inside her, and the ragged moan she releases vibrates against your throat like a spell.
"More—" Her hips roll against your hand, chasing the stretch, the friction.
Her own hand finds your core again, fingers slipping through your arousal.
As your fingers curl inside her, hitting that spot that makes her eyes roll back, she returns the favor. Her fingers part you, sliding easily through your wetness before pressing inside.
Your gasps mix with hers as she starts a slow, torturous rhythm, matching your pace inside her.
"Fuck, just like that," she whispers against your mouth, her thumb finding your clit and circling it in perfect sync with her fingers inside you.
The room fills with the sound of wet, desperate noises, your moans echoing hers, her breath hitching with each thrust.
You curl your fingers deep inside her, and suddenly her walls are squeezing you so tight you can barely move.
"So tight," you breathe, watching her eyes flutter closed.
When she looks at you again, her pupils are blown wide, eyes rolling back.
Her thighs clamp around your wrist, trapping you inside her as she whimpers.
"Don't— don't stop—" Her head falls back, neck exposed, veins pulsing visibly under her skin.
Your fingers keep moving, relentless.
"Wanda," you moan, your head falling back against the pillow, neck bared as the pleasure becomes overwhelming.
She watches you from above, her own rhythm faltering as she stares down, mouth falling open in silent awe. Her eyes are half lidded, dark with desire, tracking every shiver that wracks your body.
Wanda's breath comes in ragged gasps as she watches your face contort with pleasure. Her fingers move faster, deeper, mimicking the rhythm of your own hand inside her.
"You look beautiful." Wanda's voice is barely a whisper, her eyes locked onto your face as you moan her name again.
She's so wet, your fingers slipping easily in and out of her, the sound obscene in the silent room.
The coil in your belly snaps violently, your toes curling as your orgasm crashes over you.
You moan out, your walls clamping tight around her fingers. Wanda isn't far behind, the sight of you unraveling sends her hurtling over the edge.
She grinds down desperately onto your hand, her back arching as she comes with a shattered moan of your name.
You both ride out each other's climaxes, your hands still moving through the aftershocks until the sensitivity becomes almost too much.
Wanda collapses against you, her face buried in your shoulder, both of you trembling and breathless.
Her fingers slip out of you slowly, bringing you down with them.
She kisses your collarbone, your neck, your jaw, soft, reverent presses.
Her weight is warm and solid against you, her skin still humming with lingering tremors. One arm curls tight around your waist as she shifts just enough to press her forehead to yours, breaths mingling, sweaty and spent.
For a long moment, she just looks at you. Like she's trying to memorize the flush on your cheeks, the way your lashes flutter when you catch your breath.
Then, quietly, almost shyly.."Mine," she murmurs.
It's not a question. It's a truth. Spoken like a prayer, like a vow, like the only thing in the world she's ever been sure of.
Her fingers trace the scar on your throat again, softer now, lingering. As if she's rewriting its history with just her touch.
You tilt your head into her palm, exhaling a laugh that's more relief than anything.
"Yours," you agree.
Something unreadable flickers in her eyes. Then she kisses you, slow, deep, ruinous until neither of you can remember a time when you weren't this.
When she finally pulls back, her thumb brushes your bottom lip.
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part 3 out of 4 parts (link for pervious at the end)
The room is still.
You blink up at the ceiling, heavy lidded, drugged, processing the last sixty seconds like someone watching a movie through water. Two women. Your bed. Something happening above you that your body understood before your brain did.
Your eyes drift to Wanda.
Her jaw is still clenched. Her hand is still in your hair. Her green eyes are burning a hole through the closed door.
Yelena lets exactly three seconds of silence pass. Which, for her, is restraint.
"So," she says. "The space woman wants to have sex with Y/n."
Wanda's eyes close.
"I am just observing," Yelena continues, pushing off the wall. "Very obvious. The way she looked at Y/n. Like she was the last sandwich on earth."
Wanda breathes through her nose. Slowly. Deliberately. The way a person breathes when they are calculating the structural integrity of a window.
"And Wanda," Yelena says, gesturing between Wanda and your bed with a finger, "also wants to have sex with you."
"Yelena," Wanda says quietly.
"This is very complicated love triangle. Usually in movies there is more talking and less—" she mimics the scarlet wrist grab with her own hand, making a grabbing motion and a sound effect with her mouth. "—magic assault."
"Get out," Wanda says.
"I am only saying what everyone is thinking—"
"Out."
"—because you are both very beautiful women and she is—" Yelena points at you, "—lying there like a magnet for powerful people with anger issues. It is impressive honestly. I cannot even get text back from barista at coffee shop on fifth floor and she has two—"
"Yelena. I will remove you from this room."
"You will not. I am providing emotional support."
"You are providing a headache."
"Same thing in my family."
Wanda opens her eyes. Looks at Yelena.
Yelena holds up both hands. "Fine. Fine. I am leaving." She takes one step toward the door. Stops. "But I want you to know that if you and space woman fight, I am betting on you. But only because I have seen you throw a bus."
She takes another step. Stops again.
"Also I think she could go invisible during a fight which is cheating. You should establish rules first. I can referee—"
"Yelena."
"Going."
She reaches the door. Opens it. Pauses with one foot in the hallway.
"Should I tell Natasha about the space woman?"
Wanda's jaw tightens.
"Because I already texted Natasha about the space woman."
Wanda stares at her with the expression of a woman who is going to remember this conversation in great detail at a later date.
Yelena smiles, bright, unbothered, fully aware she's pushing a button and delighted by the sound it makes.
"Okay bye. Feel better," she says to you. Then, to Wanda: "Don't do anything I would do."
She leaves. The door shuts.
Silence.
Wanda exhales, long, slow, from somewhere deep, and pinches the bridge of her nose with her free hand.
She looks back down at you.
You're blinking up at her like the ceiling just asked you a math question. Your eyes are glassy, half open, completely gone on whatever's dripping through your IV.
You have no idea what just happened in this room.
Wanda's thumb traces your cheek.
A smile pulls at her mouth, small, private, the kind that belongs to a thought she'll never say out loud.
She shakes her head once, barely.
"You have no idea," she murmurs.
The days blur.
Not in the kind way, not soft edges and gentle fading. They blur the way pain makes things blur, where time becomes a series of sensations strung together by medication schedules and the sound of Wanda's heels on tile.
She never left.
Not once. Not for a meeting, not for a mission, not for the debrief that Fury scheduled and rescheduled and eventually held without her because she looked at the summons like it was written in a language she'd chosen to forget.
She ran your recovery like a campaign.
Your medication was reviewed by three specialists before it touched your IV. Your physical therapy was scheduled by Wanda personally, not the standard rotation, the senior team, the ones who worked on Avengers and didn't flinch when their patient's supervisor stood in the corner watching every movement like she was memorizing it for a court case.
The nurses learned fast. They knocked twice. They explained what they were doing before they did it. They didn't touch you without announcing it first, not because protocol required it, but because the woman in the chair by the window had a way of looking at unexpected hands near your body that made people reconsider their career choices.
The doctors gave you the same care they gave every patient.
Wanda made sure it was better.
Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a quiet word here, a pointed question there, a request framed so politely it took people a moment to realize it wasn't a request at all.
I'd like her chest imaging reviewed again.
I'd like the overnight team to check her drain output every two hours instead of four.
I'd like the best. Only the best. Is that going to be a problem?
It was never a problem.
And every day, every single day, Sue Storm walked down the corridor toward your room.
And every day, the security panel outside your door pulsed red.
The first time, Sue stared at the panel for ten seconds. Then she turned and walked away, jaw tight, steps measured.
The second time, she swiped her clearance badge twice like the system might change its mind. It didn't.
The third time, she stood in front of the panel and exhaled through her nose, slow, dry, the sound of a woman who has navigated asteroid fields and quantum anomalies but cannot get past a door because Wanda Maximoff decided she doesn't get to.
By the fourth day, Sue stopped walking down the corridor.
She sent flowers instead.
They arrived in your room while Wanda was reviewing your discharge paperwork. White lilies. A card that read only: Thinking of you. — S
Wanda looked at them the way you'd look at a grenade someone left on your kitchen counter.
She didn't throw them away.
She moved them to the windowsill behind the curtain where you couldn't see them from the bed.
Natasha noticed. Said nothing. Sipped her coffee.
Discharge day comes not because you're healed but because you're stable enough to heal somewhere else.
Your ribs still ache with every deep breath. The bruising has faded from black to a sick yellow green that looks worse than it feels. The incision at your throat is closed, scarring, tender when you swallow. A portable oxygen line sits under your nose, temporary, they said, just until your lungs finish remembering how to do their full job.
You move slowly. Everything is slow now. Standing takes a negotiation with your body. Walking takes a conversation with your ribs. Getting dressed takes Wanda's hands at your shoulders, easing a hoodie over your head with a patience so deliberate it makes your chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with the fractures.
She walks you to the elevator with her hand on your waist.
Not your elbow. Not your back. Your waist, fingers spread, palm flat, holding you against her side like she's afraid the building will try to take you if she doesn't keep you close.
You lean into her because you have to. You lean into her because you want to.
The elevator doors close. Wanda's free hand reaches for the panel.
You watch her press the button.
It's not your floor.
Your eyes shift to the number. Then to her.
She's looking straight ahead.
Her hand tightens on your waist.
The elevator climbs. Past the residential wing. Past the common floors. Past the level where your small, quiet quarters sit with your unmade bed and your half dead plant and the mug you left on the counter the morning of the mission.
She doesn't look at you when she says it. She guides you forward, gently, carefully, her grip adjusting around your waist as you step out of the elevator into a space you've never seen before.
Her heels click against the hardwood as she guides you through it.
Click. Click. Click.
That sound. Her sound. Measured and certain, the rhythm of a woman who walks like every floor belongs to her.
The black stilettos. The skinny jeans that make her legs look endless. The dark blouse, sleeves rolled once at the forearm now, the first concession to comfort she's made in days.
Her auburn hair catching the warm light of the penthouse, shifting between copper and wine as she moves.
Her green eyes flicking between you and the hallway ahead, scanning for steps, for thresholds, for anything that might catch your feet or jar your ribs.
You don't argue.
You don't have the energy. Your body is a collection of sore parts loosely held together by medication and stubbornness, and every step reminds you of that. The oxygen line tugs gently under your nose. Your ribs protest each inhale. Your throat aches when you swallow.
And Wanda's hand is on your waist, steady and sure, and arguing with her right now would be like arguing with gravity.
She doesn't just want you here. She needs you here.
You can feel it in the way her fingers press into your side, not hard, but possessive, just constant. Like she's checking with every step that you're still solid. Still real. Still hers to keep.
Her bedroom is at the end of the hall. She opens the door with her free hand and the room is dim, curtains half-drawn, the sheets on the king bed already pulled back like she prepared this before she brought you home.
Because of course she did.
"Sit," she says, guiding you to the edge of the mattress. "Slowly."
You lower yourself down and the bed is soft in a way that makes your whole body want to collapse into it. Your ribs disagree. You wince. Wanda's hand is at your shoulder immediately, easing you back against the pillows she's stacked behind you.
She crouches in front of you and unzips the hoodie with careful fingers. Slides it off your shoulders. Folds it and sets it aside like it matters.
"Arms up," she says quietly. "Just a little."
You raise them as far as your ribs allow, which is barely, and she lifts the hem of your shirt, working it over your head with a gentleness that makes your eyes sting.
The wraps around your torso are due for changing. She knows this because she knows your schedule better than the nurses did.
She retrieves the kit from the bag she packed, gauze, tape, antiseptic, the portable supplies the medical team sent home with you. She sets them on the nightstand in a neat row.
Her fingers find the edge of the old wrap at your ribs. She peels it slowly, carefully, watching your face for every flinch.
"Tell me if it's too much," she says.
It's not too much. It's her hands and low light and the quiet of a room that smells like her, and you are so tired.
She cleans the skin around the chest tube site with a focus so precise it belongs in a surgical wing. Her touch is feather light over the bruising, still ugly, still tender, the yellow-green proof of what your body went through. She applies fresh gauze. Tapes it. Moves to your throat.
This part she does slower.
Her fingers hover at the scar before they touch it, the thin line where Natasha's knife opened you up. It's healing. Pink, raised, sealed. But it's there. It will always be there.
Wanda's jaw tightens as she cleans around it.
She doesn't say anything.
She doesn't need to. Her hands say everything, the way they slow over the scar, the way her thumb brushes the skin beside it like an apology for something that wasn't her fault but she carries anyway.
Fresh bandage. Clean tape. She smooths the edges down with her fingertips and leans back to check her work.
"Done," she murmurs.
But you're already gone.
Your eyes closed somewhere between the ribs and the throat, your body surrendering to the softness of her bed and the warmth of her hands and the simple, overwhelming relief of being somewhere that feels safe.
Your breathing is shallow but steady. Your face is slack. Your hand rests on the mattress, fingers still curled loosely where they last touched her wrist.
Wanda watches you sleep for a long moment.
Then she pulls the duvet up to your shoulders, tucks it around you without disturbing the oxygen line, and sits on the edge of the bed until she's sure you're deep enough under that the pain can't follow.
She stands.
Picks up the old wraps, the used gauze, the kit.
Her heels are quiet on the carpet as she leaves the room, pulling the door half closed behind her.
The penthouse is silent for twenty minutes.
Then FRIDAY chimes.
"Commander Maximoff. There is a visitor at the residence entrance."
Wanda is in the kitchen. Coffee in hand.
"Who," she says, though something in her voice suggests she already knows.
"Dr. Susan Storm."
Wanda sets the coffee down.
Her heels click against the hardwood, sharp, deliberate, each step tighter than the last, as she walks to the front entrance.
She opens it. Sue stands in the hallway.
She looks like she hasn't slept well in days but would rather die than admit it.
Her eyes sweep past Wanda into the penthouse, searching.
"She was discharged this morning," Sue says. "She's not in her quarters."
Wanda leans against the doorframe.
One shoulder. Casual. Blocking the view inside with her body like it's an afterthought.
"No," Wanda agrees. "She's not."
Sue's jaw tightens. "Where is she."
Wanda holds her gaze.
The silence is the answer.
Sue's eyes flick from Wanda's face to the penthouse behind her. To the hallway beyond. To the half closed bedroom door barely visible over Wanda's shoulder.
Understanding lands on Sue's face like a slap.
"You brought her here," Sue says quietly.
"She's resting," Wanda replies. "Is there something you need, Dr. Storm?"
Sue's nostrils flare. Her weight shifts. Her hands tighten where they're crossed over her chest, and something hot and sharp moves behind her eyes, not surprise, not confusion, just the specific fury of a woman who already lost and is watching the proof of it unfold in real time.
"I need to see her," Sue says.
"She's asleep."
"I'll wait."
Wanda's head tilts.
That tilt.
"No," Wanda says simply. "You won't."
Sue moves. She steps forward, shoulder angled, ready to slip past Wanda through the gap between her body and the doorframe.
She makes it one step.
Scarlet hits her like a wall.
Wanda's hand doesn't even lift. The magic moves on its own, an extension of something deeper than thought, deeper than reflex. It slams Sue backward and pins her against the hallway wall, shoulders flat, feet barely touching the ground.
Sue's breath punches out of her.
Her eyes go wide, then narrow. Her skin shimmers, the invisibility response kicking in on instinct, her body trying to do what it always does when it's threatened.
"Don't," Wanda says.
One word. Low. Final.
The scarlet tightens. Enough to make it perfectly clear that the shimmering, the powers, the invisibility, none of it matters here. Not against this. Not against her.
Sue's shimmer dies. Her jaw clenches. She stares at Wanda with eyes that are bright and furious and searching for a crack she won't find.
"I said no," Wanda says. She hasn't moved from the doorframe. Hasn't raised her voice. Hasn't shifted her weight or broken a sweat. "You won't."
Sue's chest rises and falls against the scarlet holding her.
"You can't keep her from me," Sue says through her teeth.
Wanda's green eyes are steady. Patient. Lethal in their calm.
"I'm not keeping her from anyone," Wanda says. "She's sleeping in my bed. She's healing under my care. And you are standing in my hallway."
She lets each sentence land on its own.
"So I will say it one more time, Dr. Storm."
The scarlet pulses once, a slow, deliberate squeeze, like a fist reminding you it's there.
"Not tonight."
Sue's hands come up.
A force field ripples outward from her palms, invisible, dense, the kind of energy that holds back cosmic fire and collapsing starships. It pushes against the scarlet like two tectonic plates meeting, and for a single, breathless second the hallway hums with the sound of two impossible forces disagreeing.
The scarlet fractures.
Not much. Not dramatically. But enough. Sue peels herself off the wall, the force field shrugging Wanda's magic aside like shedding a coat, and she steps forward.
One step. Shoulders square. Eyes locked on Wanda's.
She doesn't run. Doesn't charge. Just stands there, close enough that the air between them is a razor's edge, and refuses to move.
Wanda's jaw tightens. Sue's jaw tightens.
"Get out," Wanda says. Low. A warning wrapped in silk.
Sue doesn't budge. Wanda steps closer.
She's taller. Not by much, an inch, maybe two with the heels, but she uses every fraction of it.
She leans closer. Close enough that Sue can see the green of her eyes darken.
"Leave. While I'm still asking."
The standoff holds for three more seconds.
Then FRIDAY chimes.
"Commander Maximoff. Two additional visitors at the residence entrance."
From down the hallway, already audible through the walls:
"—I am just saying, if you fold the pizza, it is a sandwich. This is not controversial—"
"It is literally controversial. That's why we're arguing about it."
"We are not arguing. I am correct and you are experiencing denial—"
Wanda's eyes close.
Sue hears it too. Her jaw shifts. The fire in her expression cools, not gone, just banked, shelved for a fight that won't happen with an audience.
She clicks her tongue once. Sharp. Quiet. The sound of a woman filing this moment under unfinished.
She turns.
Her steps are measured down the hallway, controlled, unhurried, refusing to look like a retreat even though they both know what it is.
She passes Yelena and Natasha coming the other way.
Natasha clocks Sue immediately. Her eyes narrow a fraction, tracking her as she passes, reading the tension on her face like a headline.
Yelena doesn't read the room. Yelena walks straight through it.
"Oh," Yelena says, watching Sue's back disappear around the corner. "Space woman was here?" She turns to Wanda, still standing in the doorway. "Did you fight? You fought. I can tell. Your jaw is doing the thing—"
"Yelena," Natasha says.
"—it does the thing when you are angry, it goes—" Yelena clenches her own jaw in exaggerated demonstration. "—like this. Very scary. I am practicing it in the mirror but I do not have the cheekbones—"
Wanda opens her eyes.
She looks at them, Yelena mid performance, Natasha pinching the bridge of her nose behind her, and for one long, exhausted moment she weighs the merits of closing the door in both their faces.
She doesn't.
She turns and walks toward the kitchen without a word.
Her heels click against the hardwood. Sharp. Tired. Done.
Behind her, Yelena takes this as an invitation.
"She didn't say no," Yelena whispers to Natasha.
They walk in anyway.
The kitchen is warm. Late afternoon light stretches across the countertop in long amber strips.
Wanda pulls two mugs from the cabinet without asking what they want. She pours coffee, black for Natasha, because she knows, and black for Yelena, because Yelena gets what she's given.
She slides them across the counter.
Yelena looks into the mug. "Do you have—"
"No," Wanda says.
Yelena drinks it black.
Natasha wraps both hands around her mug and leans against the counter. She lets the silence sit for exactly as long as Wanda needs to pick up her own coffee, the one she set down when FRIDAY announced Sue, still lukewarm, still waiting where she left it.
Then Natasha says it.
"What are you doing, Wanda."
It's not accusatory. It's not gentle either. It's Natasha, direct, measured, asking because she needs to know and respects Wanda enough not to soften it.
Wanda picks up her mug. Takes a sip. Holds it with both hands and looks at Natasha and Yelena over the rim.
She doesn't answer immediately.
The coffee lowers.
"She's not going back to her quarters," Wanda says.
Natasha's brow lifts. "Okay."
"She can barely walk to the bathroom without her ribs locking up. She's on oxygen. She can't change her own wraps. She can't—" Wanda stops. Resets. "She needs someone."
"She needs someone," Natasha repeats carefully. "Or she needs you."
Wanda's green eyes hold Natasha's over the rim of the mug.
She doesn't answer.
Which is the answer.
Natasha exhales. Sets her coffee down. Crosses her arms.
"You've blocked Sue Storm's access to her room. You moved her into your penthouse without telling anyone. You've been running her medical care like a personal operation for a week." Natasha's voice is calm but her eyes are sharp. "Wanda. You know what this looks like."
"I know what it is," Wanda says.
"And what is it."
Wanda takes another sip. Slow. Unbothered.
"Necessary," she says.
Yelena raises a finger. "It looks like—"
"Don't," both women say simultaneously.
Yelena lowers the finger. Drinks her coffee.
Natasha pushes off the counter and takes a step closer. Her voice drops, not for secrecy, but for weight.
"You're her supervisor, Wanda. You trained her. You evaluate her. You decide if she goes back in the field. And now she's sleeping in your bed."
Wanda's jaw tightens. Not in anger. In the particular discomfort of hearing something true that she's already thought about a hundred times in the dark.
"I know," she says quietly.
"So what happens when she's healed. When Fury asks why she's been living with her commanding officer. When Hill opens a review."
"Then I'll handle it."
"That's not a plan."
"It's not a plan," Wanda agrees. She sets the mug down. Looks at Natasha, really looks, the way she does when she's not performing, not commanding, just being honest with the one person who's earned it. "It's the only thing I can do right now. I almost lost her, Nat. I heard her choking on her own blood. I held her face while you cut her throat open."
The kitchen is very quiet.
"So no. I don't have a plan. I have her in my bed and I have coffee in my hand and I have a door I can lock between her and anyone who wants to take her from me." She pauses. "That's enough for today."
Natasha stares at her for a long moment.
Then something in her expression shifts. Not softening exactly, Natasha doesn't soften. More like... standing down. Recognizing the shape of something she can't argue with because she's felt it herself.
"Okay," Natasha says.
Wanda blinks. "Okay?"
"Okay. For today."
Yelena looks between them. "That's it? No more arguing? This is very anticlimactic. I brought energy for at least—"
Natasha picks up her coffee. "Drink your coffee, Yelena."
"I am drinking. I am also commenting. I can do both."
Natasha and Yelena leave before dark.
Natasha squeezes Wanda's shoulder at the door, brief, firm, the Romanoff version of a hug. Yelena waves at the closed bedroom door and whispers "bye tiny injured person" loud enough that Wanda pushes her into the hallway.
The penthouse settles into quiet.
Wanda checks on you once. Twice. Three times. Standing in the bedroom doorway, listening to your breathing, watching the gentle rise and fall of the duvet. Each time she stays a little longer than she means to.
Then she forces herself down the hall to the office.
A desk. A lamp. A screen mounted on the wall showing mission feeds she hasn't turned off. Paperwork stacked in the kind of organized piles that only make sense to the person who built them.
She sits. Puts on her reading glasses, thin frames, dark, the kind she'd never wear in front of the team because they make her look human. She pulls up the trainee's file on her tablet. Scrolls. Reads. Makes notes in the margins with a stylus, her handwriting sharp and slanted
She drafts an email to Hill.
Director Hill,
I'm aware that Calloway's team has submitted an appeal on their behalf regarding the field suspension. I'm also aware that two training supervisors have co-signed a request to reclassify the incident as a judgment error under duress.
Both are denied.
Calloway was briefed. Calloway confirmed. Calloway broke formation in a live-fire corridor with civilians present and forced a fellow agent into a bullet's path. That is insubordination. I will not call it something softer because it makes the paperwork easier.
Additionally:
Their psych evaluation moves to Monday. Their simulation access is restricted to supervised sessions only — no solo runs, no team exercises. Their clearance is downgraded to Level 1 effective immediately. No mission briefs, no tactical databases, no operational floor access until I say otherwise.
I want weekly status reports sent directly to my office. Full breakdowns. Scores, response times, decision-making evaluations, instructor notes. Not summaries.
And I want the name of whoever approved the reclassification request before it reached your desk. That recommendation didn't come from anyone who was in that corridor.
I will not be flexible on any of this.
Commander W. Maximoff
She reads it back. Sends it without changing a word.
She opens the next file. Your field report.
The cursor blinks on an empty form. She stares at it for longer than she'd admit.
Then she starts typing.
INCIDENT REPORT — CLASSIFIED Operation: RELAY POINT Date: [REDACTED] Reporting Officer: Commander W. Maximoff (filing on behalf of Agent Y/n Y/ln, currently incapacitated)
At approximately 2247 hours, a six person tactical team executed a breach on a fortified humanitarian front operating as cover for an illegal weapons cache and hostage holding site.
Agent Y/l/n was assigned to hostage extraction via the west corridor. Her directive was explicit: prioritize civilian safety, do not pursue targets, maintain formation.
Agent Y/l/n followed her orders.
During the approach, Trainee Operative Calloway deviated from assigned position and advanced into an unsecured doorway, exposing a civilian hostage to direct fire from an armed combatant inside the room.
Agent Y/l/n intervened.
She placed herself between the shooter and the civilian. The round struck her ballistic vest at center mass. The vest performed as designed. The blunt force trauma did not.
Agent Y/l/n sustained multiple rib fractures, severe pulmonary contusion, and progressive airway compromise. An emergency cricothyrotomy was performed in the field by Agent N. Romanoff. Agent Y/l/n was evacuated to Avengers Tower medical wing and underwent emergency surgery including chest tube placement and internal hemorrhage repair.
Agent Y/l/n is currently recovering. Prognosis: stable.
She stops typing. The cursor blinks.
Prognosis: stable.
Two words that sound like nothing and mean everything.
Her fingers hover over the keyboard. There's a notes section at the bottom of the form. Optional. Most officers leave it blank.
Wanda types:
Agent Y/l/n acted in full compliance with her training and her orders. She made a decision under fire that saved a civilian's life at significant personal cost. Her conduct was exemplary.
She stares at the screen.
Her fingers move again. Then stop. Then move.
I want it on record that she should not have been in a position to make that decision. The failure was not hers.
She reads it back.
It says everything it's allowed to say. It says nothing about holding your face on a concrete floor. Nothing about the sound you made when your lungs stopped working. Nothing about the way your blood looked on her hands in the rain.
She signs it. Files it. Moves on to the next.
The lamp hums. The screen glows. Her pen moves.
Then she hears it. Soft. Uneven. Slow. Footsteps in the hallway.
Wanda looks up from the tablet.
You're standing in the doorway.
The oxygen line loops under your nose and over your ears. One of her t-shirts hangs off your frame, too big, slipping at the shoulder, something she changed you into before bed because your own clothes were at your quarters and she wasn't about to go get them.
Your hair is messy from the pillow.
Your eyes are heavy lidded and bruised with sleep. One hand braces against the doorframe. The other presses lightly against your ribs.
You look exhausted and sore and half-awake.
Wanda's face changes.
Everything she was, the commander drafting emails, the supervisor reviewing files, the woman with the reading glasses and the sharp handwriting, falls away in the space of a single breath.
Her eyes go soft.
Her lips part. Her hand lowers the stylus to the desk without looking at it, because she is looking at you, and when she looks at you the rest of the room stops being real.
She's on her feet before you take another breath.
The glasses come off, dropped on the desk without ceremony, and she crosses the room in three steps, her hand finding your cheek like it's muscle memory.
"What are you doing up," she says, and it's not a question. It's a soft accusation.
Her thumb brushes under your eye, checking, reading you the way she always does, pain level, alertness, whether you're about to do something stupid.
"I woke up," you say. Your voice is rough. Scratchy. It sounds like someone dragged it across gravel and left it in the sun. "And you weren't there."
Something flickers across her face. Fast. Gone before she can catch it.
"I was twenty feet away," she says.
"Felt further."
Her jaw works. Her thumb keeps moving against your cheek, slow and absent, like she doesn't know she's doing it.
"You should be in bed," she says.
"Your bed."
"Yes."
"Want to talk about that?"
"No."
"Cool."
Her lips press together. Not quite a smile. The ghost of one held hostage behind her teeth.
You lean heavier into the doorframe. Your ribs remind you they exist and you wince, small, involuntary, and Wanda's hand drops from your cheek to your waist immediately, steadying you.
"Okay," she says, shifting closer, her body angling into yours like a wall you're allowed to lean on. "Okay. Back to bed."
"I don't want to go back to bed."
"I don't recall asking what you want."
"You never do."
"And yet you keep talking."
You look up at her. She's close, close enough that you can see the tired around her eyes, the faint shadows she's been hiding behind authority and caffeine. Close enough that you can smell her, something clean, something warm, something that has no business making your chest ache when your chest is already a disaster.
"Nice glasses, by the way," you say.
Wanda blinks.
"On the desk," you say. "I saw them. Very sexy librarian."
Wanda goes still.
Her brain short circuits for a half second because you said something she wasn't braced for and her face hasn't decided what to do about it yet.
If anyone else had said it, Yelena, a trainee, some agent trying their luck she wouldn't even register it. It would bounce off her like rain off glass. She'd tilt her head, deliver something lethal, and move on without a pulse change.
But it's you.
And you're looking up at her with messy hair and bruised eyes and her tshirt falling off your shoulder, and you're flirting with her in a hallway outside her office while you can barely stand.
The flush creeps up the back of her neck. Slow. Warm. Traitorous.
Her chin lifts a fraction, the tell she doesn't know she has.
"You're on pain medication," she says flatly.
"I am."
"Which means you don't know what you're saying."
"I know exactly what I'm saying. You wear reading glasses. That's new information. I'm processing it."
"Process it in bed."
"You keep saying bed."
Her jaw tightens but her eyes, her eyes betray her completely. There's a brightness in them that has nothing to do with tears or exhaustion. Something alive. Something that only surfaces when you push her like this, when you find the seam in her armor and slip a finger through it just to see what happens.
She hates it. She loves it.
"You're staring," you say.
"I'm assessing."
"You're staring. You do it in training too. When you think I'm not looking."
Her thumb presses into your waist. Not hard. A warning. "I observe all my trainees."
"Sure. But you don't observe them like that."
"Like what."
"Like you're trying to memorize them."
Wanda's breath shifts. Barely. If you weren't standing this close you'd miss it.
"You're delusional," she says. "It's the medication."
"It was happening way before the medication."
She doesn't deny it.
That's the thing about you and Wanda, the thing that's been there since training, since the first time she corrected your stance and her hand stayed on your elbow two seconds longer than instruction required.
You push. She deflects. You push again.
She lets you get one inch closer than she lets anyone else and pretends she didn't notice.
In briefings, you'd catch her eye across the table and hold it a beat too long. She'd look away first, always her, because she's the one with rank, with discipline, with the reputation, but she'd look away smiling. Just barely. Just enough.
In the gym, you'd say something under your breath while she was demonstrating a hold and she'd lose her composure for exactly one second. One. And the other trainees would glance around confused because they'd never seen Commander Maximoff's mouth twitch like that and didn't understand what they were witnessing.
You did.
You were witnessing the only crack in the wall she'd built, and you were the only one she'd given a hammer to.
"You know what my favorite part of training was," you say, leaning into her as she guides you down the hall.
"Your form improved significantly in month three."
"No."
"Your tactical scores were—"
"Wanda."
She looks at you.
"The sparring," you say. "When you'd pin me and then just... stay there. Giving me notes. Very thorough notes. Very close. Very intense eye contact."
Her footsteps don't falter but her grip changes on your waist, tighter, a fraction, the kind of adjustment that says you've hit something.
"I give all trainees notes after sparring," she says.
"On top of them?"
"That is how pinning works."
"For thirty seconds after the pin was over?"
Silence.
You grin. It hurts your ribs. You don't care.
"I was being thorough," she says.
"You were being something."
"Careful," she murmurs, and there it is, the drop in her voice, the register that lives below commander and above whisper, the one she only uses with you. The one that makes the air between you feel like a held breath. "You're injured. Don't start something you can't finish."
"Who says I can't finish it."
"Your ribs. Your oxygen levels. Basic medical reality."
"Minor obstacles."
She stops walking.
You stop because she stops and because her arm is around you and where she goes your body follows. It's been that way for longer than you'd admit.
She looks at you in the dim hallway. Her green eyes are tired and bright and impossible. Her auburn hair falls across her shoulder and catches the light from the bedroom doorway behind you. She's close enough that you can feel her breathing and you're close enough that she can probably hear your heart rate doing something the oxygen monitor would disapprove of.
"You need to rest," she says, and her voice is softer now. The banter is still there underneath but something else has surfaced, the thing she keeps under lock and key, the thing that slips out when you're alone and she forgets to be careful.
"Okay," you say.
She waits. Like she expects a fight.
"Okay?" she repeats.
"Yeah. Okay. Take me to bed."
You watch her face process that sentence in real time.
"To sleep," you add. "Obviously."
"Obviously," she says.
"Unless—"
"Do not finish that sentence."
"You're smiling."
"I am not."
She is.
It's small and private and she kills it the second you name it, but it was there, a real smile, the kind that reaches her eyes, the kind you've been collecting since training like evidence of something she's not ready to confess.
She guides you the last few steps into the bedroom. Eases you down onto the mattress. Pulls the duvet up. Adjusts the oxygen line with fingers that know where it sits by now.
You catch her hand before she pulls away.
She looks down at your fingers around her wrist.
"Stay," you say. Not flirting. Not pushing. Just asking.
Her jaw works.
"I have reports," she says.
"They'll be there in the morning."
"I have—"
"Wanda."
She looks at you.
"Stay."
The room is quiet. The city hums below the windows. The lamp in the office down the hall is still on and the tablet is still open and the work is still waiting and none of it matters because you're looking at her and asking her to stay and she has never once in her life been able to say no to you when you look at her like that.
part 2 out of 4 parts (link for pervious at the end)
She blinks it away. Refocuses.
"Detka, no," Wanda says softly, leaning closer, her hand guiding your arm back down to the mattress. "Leave it. It's helping you. Leave it."
Your fingers curl around hers instead, and the grip is weak, barely anything, but it's you.
Wanda's breath shakes.
She presses her lips together so hard they go white.
"That's it," she manages. "That's it. Hold onto me."
Eighty nine on the monitor. Climbing.
Your eyelids flutter. Not open. Just movement beneath them, rapid, confused, your mind starting to fire in patterns that have somewhere to go but no way to get there yet.
A sound tears out of you, louder this time, a rough, scraped noise that sits somewhere between a whimper and a gasp. Your back arches slightly off the mattress. Your face twists.
Pain. It's arriving before you are.
"She's entering the window," Dr. Amari says, voice tighter now. He nods at the nurse with the tray. "Push the first dose. Let's stay ahead of it."
A syringe clicks into the IV port. Medication slides into the line.
But it takes time. Minutes. And your body isn't waiting.
Your chest heaves. Your hand clenches around Wanda's, hard, sudden, a grip that doesn't know its own desperation.
Your head rolls on the pillow and another sound comes, worse than the first, a broken, guttural cry that doesn't have a word in it because you don't have words yet.
You just have nerve endings and damage and the raw animal understanding that something is very, very wrong.
Yelena steps back from the bed. Not out of fear. Out of respect.
Natasha doesn't move. But her arms uncross and her hands go still at her sides, ready for whatever comes next.
Wanda leans down until her mouth is near your ear.
Her voice cracks open.
"I know it hurts," she whispers, and there are tears in it now, not falling, not yet, but saturating every syllable. "I know. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, baby. I'm right here. You're not alone. You're not—"
Your eyes open.
Not all the way. Not with recognition.
You see light. Shape. Blur. You see green.
Wanda's breath stops.
Your mouth moves. Nothing comes out. Your throat works around silence and pain, and your eyes, they're wide and lost and terrified in a way that has nothing to do with bravery or training or anything she ever taught you.
"I'm here," Wanda says, and her voice breaks clean in half. She cups your face with her free hand, thumb on your cheek, steady despite the tremor in her wrist. "Look at me. You're in the Tower. You're safe. You had surgery. You're okay."
Your gaze drifts. Catches hers. Loses it. Catches it again.
Your fingers tighten around her hand. Your lips part.
"...Wan..."
Half a name. Not even that. A syllable and a breath.
But Wanda hears it like a gunshot. Her face crumples.
A tear slips down her cheek. Then another.
She doesn't wipe them.
She leans her forehead against yours, carefully, so carefully, avoiding the tubes and tape, and breathes with you.
"I'm here," she says again, wet and shaking. "I'm here. I have you. I'm not going anywhere."
Your eyes close again. Not unconscious, just exhausted. Your grip stays.
The monitor steadies. Ninety two. Holding.
Dr. Amari watches the numbers for a long moment. Then exhales.
"She's through the worst of it," he says quietly. "She'll drift in and out for the next hour or so, but she's emerging."
The room releases something it didn't know it was holding.
Natasha lets out a slow breath through her nose.
Yelena is very still by the wall. Her eyes are bright in a way she would deny if anyone mentioned it. Her arms are crossed so tightly her knuckles are pale.
The room quiets. Wanda doesn't speak.
Her fingers return to your hair, slow, steady, tracing the same path they've worn over the last hours.
Her green eyes are fixed on your face with a stillness that borders on devotion, watching your lashes, your lids, the faint movement beneath them.
Waiting. Not for the monitors. Not for the doctor's permission.
For you to look at her again.
Natasha moves first. She touches Yelena's elbow, a single tap, the Romanoff shorthand for we're leaving and Yelena, for once, doesn't argue. She pushes off the wall, takes one last look at you, then at Wanda, and follows Natasha toward the door without a word.
Dr. Amari lingers long enough to check the monitors one final time. He says something to the nurse about the next dose window. She nods. They gather the tray, the tablet, the portable unit, and file out in quiet succession.
The resident is the last to leave. He glances back at Wanda from the doorway like he wants to say something, reassurance, maybe, or a reminder about visiting protocols,but the look on her face changes his mind.
The door clicks shut. The room exhales.
And it's just her. Just you.
The monitors hum. The oxygen sighs. The afternoon presses against the window like it's trying to watch.
Wanda sinks into the chair.
She sits like the strings have been cut. Her shoulders drop. Her spine curves forward. Her heels press flat against the tile for the first time in hours, and the silence of them feels like surrender.
She lifts your hand to her mouth.
Presses her lips against your knuckles, slow, deliberate, like she's sealing something into your skin.
"I promise you," she whispers, and the words disappear into the space between her lips and your fingers. "Every consequence. All of it."
Your chest hurts.
That's the first thing. Before sight, before sound, before any understanding of where you are or why, your chest hurts and your throat hurts and your side hurts and you don't know which one to deal with first.
Your hand goes to your throat.
Fingers hit tape and bandage and you flinch, hard, because something is wrong there and your body knows it before your brain does.
Panic comes fast.
Your eyes fly open and nothing makes sense. White ceiling. Dim light. A sound beeping somewhere.
Your breath catches and it burns and your fingers claw at the bandage because you need it off, you need to understand
A hand catches your wrist.
"No. Leave it. Look at me."
Green eyes.
Your wrist fights her grip, not because you want to, but because your body is running on something older than reason. Your breathing is ragged and shallow and every inhale feels like swallowing glass.
"Hey. Hey. Look at me."
Her fingers find your chin. Gentle. Firm. She tilts your face toward hers and holds it there.
Wanda.
Not the calm, commanding green from briefing rooms and training floors. These are red rimmed, bright, exhausted, terrified. But steady.
Her auburn hair falls forward over her shoulders, loose, catching the low hospital light in shades of copper and dark wine. There's a strand near her jaw that moves when she breathes.
She's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen and you can't tell her because your throat won't make words.
"There you are," she says softly. "Stay with me. Don't touch it. It's helping you."
Your fingers are still reaching. She takes your hand and folds it against her chest. Pins it there, over her heartbeat, like she's giving you something else to hold onto.
"Breathe for me," she says. "Slow."
You can't. Your chest is too tight and your side pulls with every inhale and your eyes are burning and you don't understand what happened to you.
"I know," Wanda whispers, reading your face like she always does. Her thumb strokes your jaw. "I know it hurts. You're okay. You had surgery. You're safe."
Your eyes search hers, frantic, glassy, looking for something to believe.
She gives it to you.
She doesn't flinch. Doesn't look away. Just holds your gaze with those green eyes like she can anchor you to the world through sheer will.
"I'm here," she says. "I haven't left. I'm not going to."
Your breathing stutters. Catches. Slows, just a fraction.
Your fingers curl against her chest.
She takes your hand from her chest and lifts it to her lips.
Her eyes close.
She kisses your knuckles and a tear slides down her cheek, quiet, unhurried, like it's been waiting twenty six hours for permission.
"Detka," she whispers against your skin.
Another tear follows the first.
"I'm here, baby. I'm right here."
Her eyes open. Wet. Green. Devastatingly soft.
She looks down at you and her thumb finds your cheek, brushing beneath your eye where your own tears have started without your permission.
"You don't have to talk," she says. "Don't try. Just breathe. Nice and slow. I'm not going anywhere."
Your chest shudders. Your lips tremble around nothing.
She nods like you said something anyway.
"I know," she murmurs. "I know."
She kisses your knuckles again. And again. Small, pressed things, one after another, like she's counting them.
She doesn't look at the door. Doesn't check if anyone's watching through the glass. Doesn't care.
She is so tired of caring.
"Detka," she whispers, lips still against your hand. "You are so goddamn selfless, you know that?"
Her voice cracks on the last word.
"You threw yourself in front of a bullet for a woman you've never met. You didn't even hesitate. You just—"
She stops. Breathes.
Her jaw works. Her eyes are wet and fierce and looking at you like you are the bravest and most infuriating thing she has ever loved.
"You just went."
She shakes her head slowly.
"And I watched."
Her forehead drops against your hand. She stays there, breathing into your fingers, and when she speaks again her voice is muffled and raw.
"Don't ever do that to me again."
She lifts her head. Wipes her cheek with the back of her hand, quick, impatient, like the tears are an inconvenience she doesn't have time for.
Her green eyes find yours again.
"When you're healed," she says, and her voice is steady now in a way that tells you she's already decided this, probably decided it twenty-six hours ago in a hallway covered in your blood, "you're off the front line."
Your brow creases.
She sees it.
"Don't," she says softly. "Don't argue with me. Not right now."
Her thumb traces your cheekbone.
"You go where I go. You stay where I can see you. Every mission, every op, every room — you are behind me. Do you understand?"
It's not a punishment. You can hear that. There's no anger in it, no discipline, no Commander Maximoff pulling rank.
It's just Wanda. Looking at you in a hospital bed with tape on your throat and a tube in your side and bruises blooming across your chest like a map of everything she failed to prevent.
"I can't do this again," she says, and her voice drops to almost nothing. "I won't."
Her fingers lace through yours. Carefully. Around the IV.
"You are too important." She swallows. "To the team."
A pause.
Her eyes hold yours.
"To me."
The door opens.
Yelena is already halfway across the room before the door finishes swinging. This time she is carrying two pudding cups like they're medical supplies.
Wanda's eyes close. Her jaw tightens.
She doesn't turn around.
Her hand stays on yours, her thumb stays on your cheek, and her entire body radiates the specific energy of a woman who is three seconds from committing a crime but is choosing not to because you're watching.
Your eyes drift past Wanda's shoulder.
Yelena stops at the foot of the bed. Looks at you. The tubes, the tape, the bruising, your red rimmed eyes barely open.
"Oh good," she says. "You look terrible."
Your mouth twitches.
"No, this is good," Yelena continues, peeling the lid off a pudding cup with her thumb. "You were more of a blue gray color. Now you are a yellow gray. This is upgrade."
Wanda's voice is flat. "Yelena."
"What? I am being supportive. This is my supportive face." She gestures at her own expression, which is mostly just Yelena's regular face but slightly wider eyed.
She pulls a spoon from her hoodie pocket, not a new one, the same tiny plastic one from before, and points it at you.
"I brought you pudding. Butterscotch. Confirmed. I ate three already to make sure they were not poisoned." She pauses. "They were not. You are welcome."
Your chest hurts when you try to laugh. It comes out as a rough, broken exhale that makes you wince.
Wanda's attention snaps back to you immediately, her hand pressing gently against your shoulder, easing you still.
Yelena watches this, chewing her pudding slowly.
"Also," Yelena says, pointing the spoon between you and Wanda like she's connecting dots, "you should know that while you were sleeping, Wanda threatened the entire building. Very romantic."
Wanda's fingers tighten on your shoulder.
"Yelena," she repeats, quieter this time, which is worse.
"I am just saying," Yelena shrugs, scraping the bottom of the cup. "If someone threatened an entire government agency for me, I would want to know."
Your eyes find Wanda's.
She doesn't look away. But the faintest flush creeps up the back of her neck, just above the turtleneck, and she absolutely refuses to acknowledge it.
Yelena sees it. Yelena sees everything.
She takes another bite of pudding and says nothing, which is the loudest thing she's done all day.
Wanda's fingers are in your hair again.
Her thumb traces the curve of your ear, slow, absent, like she's forgotten how to stop touching you. Her green eyes are soft and she's leaning close, murmuring something about your oxygen levels being better when the door opens for the third time.
Wanda doesn't look up. She assumes it's a nurse.
"She's resting," Wanda says. "Come back in—"
"Y/n."
The voice is not a nurse.
Wanda's hand stills in your hair.
Your eyes, half lidded and heavy, shift toward the door.
Sue Storm stands in the doorway in a flight suit still creased from reentry, hair pulled back, face tight with the specific kind of worry that doesn't belong to a colleague. She looks like she came straight from debrief. She looks like she ran.
She looks at you the way someone looks at a mistake they never stopped regretting.
Wanda straightens slowly.
Her hand doesn't leave your hair. Her fingers just... stop moving. Like they've turned to stone.
"Commander Maximoff," Sue says.
Wanda's chin lifts. Her eyes find Sue's and hold them with the precision of a scope finding a target.
"Dr. Storm."
Two words. Polite. Professional. Absolutely lethal.
The room changes temperature. Not literally, Wanda's magic stays coiled, dormant. But something shifts in the air between the two women that makes the monitors feel louder.
From the corner, Yelena glances up from her pudding cup. Her eyes flick between Wanda and Sue. Then to you. Then back to Wanda.
A grin spreads across her face like Christmas came early.
Sue steps into the room. Her eyes haven't left you, the bruising, the tape at your throat, the chest tube, the way you look small in a bed that's too white for someone this alive.
"I just landed," Sue says. "I heard on the comm channel during descent. They said it was a field injury. They said—" Her jaw tightens. "They said airway compromise."
Sue moves closer to the bed. Confident. Measured. Not asking permission, because Sue Storm doesn't ask permission, she's used to walking into rooms and belonging there, used to the kind of quiet authority that comes from bending light itself to her will.
Wanda's eyes track every step.
Your gaze drifts between them. Your brain is foggy and slow but something old fires in the back of your skull, a recognition, a tension, a history your body remembers even when your mind is swimming in painkillers.
Sue reaches the bedside. Opposite Wanda.
She looks down at you and her face does something she probably doesn't mean to show, a softness, a crack, the particular ache of someone looking at a person they lost and suddenly remembering exactly why losing them was the worst thing they ever did.
"Hey, you," Sue says quietly.
Your lips part. Nothing comes out.
Sue's hand reaches for your face.
Scarlet wraps around her wrist.
Wanda's magic locks around Sue's wrist like a hand, firm, deliberate, unmistakable. Red light pulses against Sue's skin, and Sue's fingers stop three inches from your cheek.
Sue doesn't flinch.
She looks down at the scarlet coiled around her wrist. Looks at it the way you'd look at someone's hand on your shoulder when you didn't invite it.
Then her skin ripples.
A shimmer runs from her wrist to her fingertips, not invisible, not yet, but the threat of it. The light bending around her, just enough to say I can slip out of this whenever I want.
Her eyes lift to Wanda.
Wanda's eyes are already there.
Green and unblinking, her fingers still resting in your hair, her body angled over yours like a sentence that ends with a period. The scarlet doesn't tighten. It doesn't need to. It just stays, wrapped around Sue's wrist like a collar, patient, certain.
Sue's shimmer holds.
Wanda's magic holds.
Two women. Two powers. Neither yielding.
Yelena leans back against the wall and crosses her arms with the expression of someone who desperately wishes she had popcorn instead of pudding.
Sue smirks. Slow. Dangerous.
Wanda doesn't smirk. She just looks at Sue the way you look at someone who's reaching for something that already has your name on it.
Sue's shimmer fades first. Deliberate, not surrender, but calculation. She lowers her hand.
Wanda's scarlet unravels a half second later. Just as deliberate.
Neither of them blinks.
"She needs rest," Wanda says evenly.
"She needs a lot of things," Sue says, and her eyes don't leave Wanda's.
The space between them isn't wide. Your bed fills most of it, you, lying in the middle of whatever this is, too drugged to translate but too awake to miss the charge in the air.
Sue's gaze drops to Wanda's hand in your hair. Studies it. The way Wanda's fingers rest against your scalp, possessive and easy, like they've been there a thousand times.
They haven't. But Sue doesn't know that.
And that's what makes her jaw tighten.
"I heard your team had a training failure," Sue says. "On your watch."
Wanda's fingers don't stop moving through your hair.
"The situation has been handled," she says.
"Has it." Sue's weight shifts. One hip. Arms crossing. The posture of a woman who has commanded a team through deep space and doesn't soften for anyone. "Because from where I'm standing, handled looks a lot like a chest tube and a tracheotomy scar."
Wanda's hand stills.
Not a flinch. A choice.
She looks at Sue the way a blade looks at skin, already touching, just deciding how deep.
"You've been in space, Dr. Storm," Wanda says quietly. "Six weeks. You missed quite a lot."
Sue's chin lifts. "I would have been here."
"And yet."
Wanda doesn't even finish the sentence because she doesn't need to. The absence does the work, you weren't, I was, and we both know which one of us she reached for when she couldn't breathe.
Sue takes it. Absorbs it.
"You think you're what she needs," Sue says, and it's not a question.
Wanda's head tilts.
"I know I am," Wanda says.
Sue's eyes flash.
"Being here isn't the same as being enough," Sue says.
Yelena inhales sharply through her teeth. The sound you make when someone walks into traffic.
Wanda doesn't react.
Wanda holds Sue's gaze. Sue looks back. One brow lifted. Waiting.
Neither of them moves.
In the corner, Yelena has her fists up.
She's bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet, throwing slow, silent jabs at the air like she's commentating a boxing match only she can see.
Neither woman notices.
Which is probably for the best.
The door opens.
A SHIELD agent stands in the frame, tablet in hand, looking like he'd rather be literally anywhere else.
"Dr. Storm. Director Hill is requesting your presence in debrief room seven."
Sue doesn't look at him. Wanda doesn't look at him.
Neither of them has blinked in what feels like a geological age.
"Be there in a minute," Sue says, eyes locked on Wanda's.
The agent opens his mouth.
"A minute," Sue repeats, and the temperature of the word sends him back through the door without another sound.
It clicks shut.
Sue uncrosses her arms slowly. She steps around the foot of the bed, unhurried, deliberate, heels measured on the tile, and comes around to Wanda's side.
Wanda's chin follows her the entire way. Green eyes tracking her like a scope. Not turning her body. Just her jaw, her gaze, her stillness, rotating with Sue's movement like a gun turret.
Sue stops beside her. Close. She leans down. Her mouth is at Wanda's ear and she speaks so quietly the monitors almost cover it.
"If she ends up in this bed again because of you," Sue whispers, "I won't hesitate."
Wanda's jaw clenches so hard you can see the muscle jump from across the room.
Sue straightens. Smooths her flight suit. Doesn't look at you, because if she looks at you she won't leave, and she knows it.
In the corner, Yelena mouths something at you. You're too drugged to read lips but it looks a lot like I need to know the exact prayer you said.
Part 1 out of 4 (full story is too long for a single post. Words 22052. Link for the next part at the end)
Wanda Maximoff x Fem Reader
by summer2224
18+ smut
Written December 23th, 2025 — May 30th, 2026
-------------------------------------------
The room breathes for you.
That's the first truth of this place, the low mechanical inhale, the soft pressurized exhale, the rhythm that belongs to a machine because your lungs haven't earned back the right to do it alone yet.
It's been twenty six hours.
The ICU suite is dim, curtains half drawn against a gray afternoon that doesn't care about you or your chest cavity or the woman standing at the window like she's daring the sky to darken further.
The monitors beside your bed tick out your existence in green and white, heart rate, oxygen saturation, blood pressure, a life reduced to numbers that Wanda has memorized without being taught what any of them mean.
She knows your resting heart rate is sixty-two. She knows that because she's watched the screen for twenty six hours and counted.
Your body lies still beneath white sheets pulled to your collarbone. The bruising has deepened overnight, a dark, ugly bloom spreading beneath your skin like something rotting under glass.
There's tape at your throat where Natasha's knife gave you back the sky. A chest tube curves from your left side into a container on the floor, doing its quiet, gruesome work. Your hands rest at your sides, fingers slightly curled, like you fell asleep reaching for something you never caught.
You look small.
Wanda hates that. She hates it with a violence that would scare her if she had room for anything other than the single, relentless task of keeping watch.
She stands at the window in heels.
Black. Sharp. The kind that sound like a verdict on tile floors, click, click, click, the kind she wears when she wants a room to feel her before she speaks.
She changed hours ago in the Tower's residential wing, standing in a bathroom she doesn't remember walking to, stripping off tactical gear that was stiff with your blood. She showered until the water ran clear and then stood under it for four more minutes because her hands wouldn't stop shaking and she refused to carry that into your room.
She came back in jeans, a black turtleneck , hair down but precise. Like she dressed for a funeral and then decided to attend a war instead.
She hasn't left since.
Her phone is pressed to her ear, and her voice is a scalpel.
"No."
A pause. Someone on the other end talks too long.
Wanda's jaw tightens. Her reflection in the window glass is a ghost version of herself, pale, sharp, eyes like something that burns cold.
"I said no. The disciplinary review stays on my timeline, not yours. If Director Hill has concerns about the process, she can bring them to me directly instead of routing them through you like I won't notice."
Another pause. Shorter this time. The person on the other end is learning.
"The trainee remains suspended from all field operations. That is not a recommendation. It is not a discussion point. It is a consequence, and consequences do not have a comment period."
Her free hand rests on the windowsill. Her nails are clean now, no blood, no grit, but she keeps looking at them like she can still see it.
"Their psychological evaluation is scheduled for Thursday. If they're cleared for simulation based retraining, I will design the program personally. If they are not cleared—"
She stops.
Not because the person interrupted.
Because she caught your reflection in the glass.
Behind her, in the bed, your chest rises on the machine's rhythm. Your face is turned slightly toward the window, though you don't know it. The bruise under your collarbone is visible above the sheet, purple and black, shaped like a fist, like the bullet's ghost left a handprint on you.
Wanda's throat works.
Her voice doesn't waver, but it takes a fraction longer to return.
"—if they are not cleared, we revisit in six weeks. Not before."
She ends the call without saying goodbye. It's not rudeness. It's just that the person on the other end stopped being real the moment she saw the bruise again.
The phone lowers.
Her hand stays in the air for a moment, suspended, like she forgot what hands do when they're not holding you together.
Then she turns from the window.
The heels are quiet now. She crosses the room slowly, and the sound she makes is careful, controlled steps on cold tile, the kind of walking that belongs to someone approaching something they're afraid to break.
She stops at the side of your bed.
Looks down at you.
And the Commander is gone.
What's left is just Wanda. Tired. Terrified. So in love it's eating her from the inside like a second heartbeat she never asked for.
Her fingers reach out and brush a strand of hair from your forehead. The touch is barely there, a ghost of contact, like she's afraid too much pressure will remind the universe you're fragile.
"Detka," she whispers.
You don't answer. You haven't answered in twenty six hours.
She knows that.
She talks to you anyway.
"They're trying to fast track the review," she says quietly, sinking into the chair beside your bed that has a permanent indent in the shape of her. "Hill wants to close the file before the press cycle catches it. Fury is pretending he's neutral, which means he's already decided something and he's waiting to see if I'll agree with it."
Her hand finds yours on the mattress. She doesn't lace your fingers, the IV makes it complicated, so she just rests her fingertips against your knuckles, light enough that a nurse wouldn't notice.
Heavy enough that she can feel your warmth.
"I won't," she adds, softer. "Agree with it. Whatever it is. Not until you wake up and tell me what you remember."
Her thumb traces a slow line across the back of your hand.
The monitor beeps.
Steady. Reliable. The only thing in this room keeping her sane.
"Your oxygen is better today," she says, like she's reporting to you. Like you asked. "Ninety four percent. Yesterday it was ninety one. The doctor said that's good. He said it like he expected me to smile."
A pause.
"I did not smile."
She sits the way she stands, like the chair is a throne she's tolerating.
Her legs cross at the knee, one heel dangling slightly off the floor, the sharp black stiletto catching the dim light like a weapon someone forgot to confiscate. Skinny jeans, dark as ink, fitted like they were cut specifically for the architecture of her, all clean lines and quiet authority, the kind of silhouette that makes people step aside in hallways without understanding why.
The black turtleneck sits high against her throat, tight, elegant, covering every inch of skin like armor made of cashmere. It makes her jaw look sharper. It makes her collarbone disappear.
Her auburn hair falls past her shoulders in loose waves that look effortless and aren't. She washed it twice last night, because she could still smell the smoke, and let it air dry while she sat in this exact chair reading your charts like they were mission briefs. In the low hospital light, the color shifts between dark copper and something deeper, almost red, like the magic she keeps coiled beneath her skin.
And her eyes. God, her eyes.
Green the way the word doesn't prepare you for, not soft, not gentle, not the green of gardens or springtime or any of the things poets reach for when they're being lazy. Wanda's eyes are the green of deep water with something living at the bottom.
Bright and sharp and devastating, framed by lashes that darken without mascara, set beneath brows that express more in a single shift than most people manage with their entire face.
Right now, those eyes are on you.
And they are so tired.
Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes. The kind that lives behind the sternum, the kind that comes from holding yourself rigid for twenty six hours because if you soften for even a second you might not stop.
Her skin is pale in the way it always is, porcelain and precise, but there's a drawn quality to it now, a tightness across her cheekbones that wasn't there two days ago.
Her jaw tightens as she watches you breathe.
She is gorgeous the way a storm is gorgeous.
The kind of beautiful that doesn't comfort. The kind that warns.
And she is sitting in a hospital chair with her fingertips on your knuckles, watching your chest rise and fall on a machine's schedule, and she has never in her life felt less powerful.
Her phone buzzes on the side table.
She glances at it. Her jaw does that thing again, the tightening, the micro flex that means someone is about to have a very bad conversation.
She picks it up, reads the screen, and her eyes narrow.
The text is from Yelena.
is she awake yet
Followed immediately by
can I bring pudding. the cafeteria has pudding. I think it is butterscotch but it could be old vanilla
Her thumb hovers. Then moves.
Bring the pudding and I'll make you eat the cup.
She sets the phone down with a deliberate softness that is somehow worse than slamming it.
Her gaze returns to you.
The door opens behind her.
She doesn't turn. She's cataloged every sound this wing makes in the last twenty six hours, the shift change footsteps, the cart wheels, the particular rhythm of each nurse's entrance.
This one belongs to Dr. Amari, the lead trauma surgeon, because he always hesitates for half a second before crossing the threshold.
Like he's checking the weather in the room before he commits.
Smart man.
"Commander Maximoff."
"Doctor."
He moves to the monitors first. Checks the numbers Wanda already knows. His pen scratches against his clipboard, and the sound is small and ordinary and Wanda hates it, hates how routine your broken body has become to the people whose job it is to fix it.
"Her oxygen has been stable since early this morning," he says. "Lung function is improving. The chest tube output is decreasing, which is what we want."
Wanda's eyes stay on your face. "And."
It's not a question. It's a door held open.
Dr. Amari sets his clipboard down.
"We'd like to start reducing sedation," he says. "Gradually.."
Wanda's hand stills on yours.
"She won't wake up all at once," he continues. "It's a process. She may be in and out for a while — confused, nonverbal, agitated. That's normal."
Wanda nods once. Controlled.
"When she does come around fully, she's going to be in significant pain. The rib fractures, the contusion, the chest tube, the throat—" He pauses, choosing his words. "She's going to feel all of it. We'll manage it, but there's no way to take it to zero."
Wanda's jaw flexes.
"She may also panic," he adds carefully, like he knows this is the part that matters. "Patients with airway trauma sometimes wake up disoriented. They feel the restriction, the soreness at the throat, and their body tells them they're still in danger. It can be... distressing to witness."
The room is quiet except for the monitor.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Wanda's voice is even. "What do you need from me."
"Stay calm. Talk to her. Keep her grounded. She'll recognize your voice before she recognizes where she is."
Something shifts behind Wanda's eyes, a flicker, fast, barely there.
She nods.
"I'll be back to begin the taper in about an hour," he says.
Then he leaves. The door clicks shut.
Wanda sits perfectly still for a long moment.
Then her grip tightens on your hand, not much, just enough, and she exhales through her nose, slow, measured, the way she breathes before a fight she knows is going to cost her.
"Okay," she whispers. Not to you. Not to anyone.
Just to the room. Just to herself.
Natasha enters next.
Wanda doesn't look up. "You could knock."
"I could," Natasha agrees, and doesn't elaborate.
She doesn't go to Wanda. She goes to you. She looks down at you for a long moment.
Natasha reaches out and brushes her thumb across your cheek.
Wanda watches.
She knows Natasha loves you. Not the way Wanda does, not the way that keeps her awake and makes her dangerous, but in the way Natasha loves the handful of people she's decided are hers. Fiercely. Silently. With a loyalty that would make her kill without hesitation and grieve without sound.
Wanda respects it.
She still watches until Natasha's hand pulls away.
Natasha turns, leans against the window ledge, and crosses her arms. Her eyes move to Wanda for the first time and stay there, scanning her with the same clinical efficiency she'd use on a surveillance target.
"You look like shit," Natasha says.
Wanda blinks. "Thank you."
"I'm serious. When's the last time you ate."
"I'm not hungry."
"That's not what I asked."
Wanda's jaw tightens. She doesn't answer, which is an answer.
Natasha lets it sit for exactly two seconds, long enough to make her point, short enough not to push Wanda into a wall.
"So what's the plan," Natasha says, nodding toward you.
Wanda's gaze drops back to your hand under hers. Her thumb starts its slow trace across your knuckles again, automatic, like a rosary.
"They're reducing sedation," she says. "Over the next few hours. She'll come out gradually."
Wanda shakes her head once, not disagreeing, just... rejecting the comfort of it. "He said she might panic. When she wakes up. The throat, the—" Her hand lifts slightly, gestures at you, at the tape, the tube, the evidence. "Her body won't understand. She'll think she's still—"
She stops.
Her jaw works.
Her eyes are bright and she is looking at the ceiling like she can keep the tears in by sheer geometry.
"She'll think she's still suffocating," Wanda finishes, and her voice is barely there.
Natasha is quiet for a moment.
The door opens again. Yelena is there, filling the doorway like she was shot out of a cannon, holding a small plastic pudding cup in one hand and a spoon in the other.
She is already eating it.
"Before you say anything," Yelena says, mouth half full, pointing the spoon at Wanda, "it is butterscotch. Not old vanilla. I investigated."
Wanda tilts her head.
It's slow. Deliberate. The kind of head tilt a predator does before deciding whether something is food or annoyance.
Yelena does not register this. Or she does and simply does not care, which is somehow worse.
She leans against the doorframe, licks the spoon, and gestures at you with it.
"She looks better."
"She's in a coma," Wanda says flatly.
"Yes, but a better coma. More color. Before she looked like—" Yelena waves the spoon in a vague circle. "—like milk that has been left out."
Wanda stares at her.
Yelena takes another bite.
Natasha crosses the room in two steps, reaches over, and yanks the pudding cup out of Yelena's hand with the precision of a woman disarming a weapon.
"Hey—"
"Read the room," Natasha says.
"I did read room. Room is sad. Pudding helps sad."
Natasha closes her eyes briefly. The exhale through her nose says everything.
"Sheesh." Yelena stares at her hand like she's been pickpocketed.
Then she shrugs, produces another pudding cup from her other pocket, and peels the lid off without breaking stride.
Yelena wanders closer to your bed, chewing thoughtfully.
She looks down at you the way she looked at you in the hallway, not soft, not sentimental, but present.
"You know," Yelena says, pointing a new spoon at your unconscious face, "when you wake up you should ask Wanda about the trainee meeting. Very entertaining. I think one of them peed a little."
Natasha's head turns so fast it's almost audible.
The look she gives Yelena could strip paint off a wall. It's not anger, it's the very specific expression of an older sibling watching the younger one sprint toward a line they absolutely should not cross.
Yelena catches the look.
Shrugs.
"What? It was impressive. Very scary. I was taking notes." She scrapes the bottom of the pudding cup. "I think Fury was also a little scared. He will never admit this. But I saw his eye do the thing."
"Yelena," Natasha says, low.
"His eye does a thing," Yelena insists to no one in particular. "When he is nervous. It goes—"
She squints one eye in a deeply unflattering impression.
Wanda is watching this like she's observing an alien species.
"She will be fine," Yelena says, and for once her voice isn't performing. It's just quiet. Just true. "She is too stubborn to die. This I know because she works under Wanda, and no one survives Wanda unless they are stubborn."
Natasha's expression softens a fraction.
Wanda's gaze drops to your hand.
She doesn't say anything.
But her fingers tighten around yours, just barely.
The hour doesn't pass. It drags itself across the floor of the room like something wounded.
Natasha stays. She doesn't explain why and Wanda doesn't ask. She settles into the chair by the window with her coffee and her silence and her particular way of being present without taking up space.
Yelena stays too, though she migrates between leaning against the wall, checking her phone, and examining the medical equipment with the unsettling curiosity of someone who's definitely thinking about how to weaponize a heart monitor.
Wanda doesn't move from your side.
Then the door opens wider than before.
Dr. Amari enters first, but this time he isn't alone. Two nurses follow, one adjusting a tray of syringes and vials, the other carrying a portable monitoring unit that she hooks into the existing setup with practiced hands. A third person, younger, a resident maybe, stands near the door with a tablet and the expression of someone trying very hard to look like they belong in a room with the Scarlet Witch.
The air changes.
Wanda feels it immediately, the shift from waiting to happening. The room tightens around the new bodies, the new purpose, the new equipment. Everything that was still is suddenly in motion.
She stands.
Not because anyone asked her to. Because her body won't let her sit while people move toward you with needles.
Dr. Amari glances at Natasha and Yelena, then at Wanda. He doesn't ask them to leave. He's learned that much.
"We're going to begin the taper now," he says, voice calm, instructional, the tone of a man who has done this enough times to know that the explanation is as much for the people in the room as it is for the patient. "We'll reduce the sedation in stages. It's not a switch, it's a dial. Her body will come up slowly."
One of the nurses adjusts your IV line, fingers quick and sure. The other checks your vitals on the new monitor, murmuring numbers to the resident who logs them on the tablet.
"First stage, she'll show autonomic changes," Dr. Amari continues. "Heart rate may increase. Breathing pattern may shift. She won't be conscious yet, but her body will start responding to stimuli."
Wanda listens without blinking.
"Second stage, she may show movement. Fingers, eyelids. Restlessness. She might react to sound or touch but won't be oriented. This is where it can be difficult to watch."
His gaze meets Wanda's.
"She'll look distressed. She may try to reach for the tube sites. We need her to not do that."
Wanda nods once.
"Third stage is full emergence. That's when she'll recognize voices, faces, surroundings. That's also when the pain hits." He pauses. "But there will be a window where she feels it before the medication catches up. That window is... uncomfortable."
"How long," Wanda says.
"Minutes. Could be five. Could be twenty. Every patient is different."
Wanda's jaw does the thing. The flex.
"I'll be here for the full process," Dr. Amari says. "If anything concerns me, we can pause the taper and resedate. She's safe."
The nurse at your IV looks to Dr. Amari. He nods.
"Reducing now."
The nurse's fingers adjust something on the line. A quiet click. A dial turned. Nothing dramatic, no alarms, no visible change. Just a small mechanical adjustment that means the chemicals keeping you under are loosening their grip, and the world is about to come rushing back to you whether you're ready for it or not.
Wanda moves closer to the bed.
She hovers over you now, one hand finding the railing, the other reaching for your hair. Her fingers slide through it slowly, carefully, smoothing it back from your forehead in a rhythm that's more instinct than thought.
"You're okay, detka," she murmurs, thumb brushing your temple. "I'm right here. You're okay."
Behind her, Yelena's eyebrow lifts.
One. Slow. Deliberate.
Her mouth opens.
Natasha's elbow connects with her ribs so fast it's almost invisible.
Yelena's mouth closes.
She rubs her side, shoots Natasha a look of profound betrayal, and receives in return the most imperceptible head shake in human history.
Yelena exhales through her nose. Folds her arms tighter. Says nothing.
But her eyes stay on Wanda's hand in your hair, and the corner of her mouth twitches with the unmistakable expression of someone filing something away for later.
The monitor beeps. Steady. Unchanged. Not yet.
Wanda's fingers keep moving through your hair. Slow strokes. Over and over. Just a woman touching someone she loves because she's about to watch them suffer and this is the only thing she can do.
"You're okay," she murmurs, barely above a breath. "I'm right here."
A minute passes. Two.
The first nurse checks the monitor. Writes something down.
"Heart rate's coming up slightly," she says. "Seventy. Seventy two."
Dr. Amari nods. "That's expected. Let it climb."
Wanda's hand stills in your hair for half a second. Then resumes.
Three minutes.
Your fingers twitch.
It's small, a curl and release, involuntary, like your body is testing its own edges. Like something deep inside you just remembered it has hands.
Wanda's breath catches.
Her fingers tighten in your hair, just barely, and then she forces them to soften again.
"That's stage one," Dr. Amari says quietly. "She's coming up."
Your head shifts on the pillow.
A tiny movement. Barely an inch.
But your brow creases, the first expression your face has made in twenty six hours, and it's pain.
Not awake. Not aware. But your body knows.
Wanda's hand slides from your hair to your cheek. She cups it, thumb resting just below the bruise near your jaw, and she leans closer until her face is all that would fill your vision if you opened your eyes.
"I'm here," she whispers. "You're safe. I'm not going anywhere."
The monitor reads seventy eight.
Climbing.
Your fingers twitch again, both hands this time, a small restless curl like you're searching for something to hold onto in whatever dark you're swimming through.
Wanda's free hand drops to yours immediately. She catches your fingers before they reach for the IV line, folds them gently into her palm, and holds.
"I know," she whispers. "I know. I'm here."
Your brow creases deeper. Your head shifts on the pillow again, turning toward her voice like a plant bending toward light it can't see yet.
"Heart rate eighty four," the nurse says.
"Breathing is getting more irregular," the resident adds, eyes on the tablet. "She's fighting the vent."
Dr. Amari moves to the opposite side of the bed. "Let's pull the ventilator support down another notch. She wants to breathe — let her try."
Another click.
Your chest stutters. One breath comes too shallow, the next too deep, your lungs relearning a rhythm they forgot while the drugs held them still. A small sound escapes your throat, not a word, not a groan, just air forced through damaged tissue, and it's awful.
Wanda's hand tightens in yours.
Her jaw flexes so hard the muscle jumps.
"That's normal," Dr. Amari says, and he's watching Wanda as much as he's watching you. "Her body's catching up. It's messy but it's good."
It doesn't look good.
It looks like someone dragging themselves up from the bottom of a well one handful of dirt at a time.
Your arm moves, jerky, uncoordinated, and your fingers reach toward your throat. Toward the tape.
The nurse catches your wrist gently. "Easy. Easy, sweetheart."
Wanda's eyes snap to the nurse's hand on you.
It's fast. Involuntary. The look of someone who has been the only one touching you for twenty six hours and has forgotten how to share. Truth is... she doesn't share when it comes to you.
The earpiece clicks once, soft, clean, and final, and your world narrows into a neat channel of sound.
Static. Breath. The faintest digital whine.
Then Wanda’s voice slides into your ear like a blade being drawn slowly from velvet.
“Positions.”
It isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to be. Wanda Maximoff doesn’t raise her voice in the field unless she wants the whole world to remember she can.
You press two fingers to the comms on instinct. “Copy.”
Around you, the city is a gray mouth held open by smoke. Night rain slicks the cracked asphalt and turns the gutters into thin rivers of ash. A siren wails somewhere in the distance, then abruptly cuts off like something reached up and pinched it shut.
The building ahead is a squat concrete block dressed up as a humanitarian front. The name on the sign is cheerful, rounded letters meant to reassure, RELIEF SERVICES, while the windows are blacked out and the corners are too sharp to belong to anything honest.
Inside, there are hostages.
Inside, there are armed men with cheap rifles and expensive confidence.
And inside, somewhere in the middle of all that human fear, is the reason SHIELD called in the Avengers in the first place an experimental power core stolen out of a secure lab, humming with the kind of energy that makes the hair on your arms lift and your teeth ache.
You crouch behind the destroyed shell of a car, rain ticking softly on the roof above you. Your vest sits heavy over your chest, the ceramic plate reassuring in a way that feels almost superstitious. Your fingers are steady on your weapon. Your breathing is controlled.
You’ve been trained by the best.
And by her.
Wanda’s team doesn’t move like chaos; they move like a sentence written in sharp ink. Everyone has a place. Everyone has a job. Everyone knows the cost of getting sloppy.
There’s a shift to your right. A trainee, newer, younger, adjusts their grip too fast. Their shoulder jerks. Their eyes flick up and down the building like they’re trying to count threats by staring harder at them.
You catch it, because you always catch it. You do what you’ve been taught to do: you assess, you predict, you correct.
“Breathe,” you murmur, not into comms, just into the rain. “Slow.”
The trainee swallows and nods too hard.
Wanda’s voice returns, crisp and clean. “Natasha. East entry. Clint, overwatch. Steve, you’re with me on the front breach. Y/n--”
Your throat tightens a fraction. That pause before she says your name always does something to you, even when it shouldn’t.
“--you’re with the hostages,” Wanda finishes. “You prioritize them. You do not chase targets. You do not improvise.”
It’s direct. Commanding. Exact.
And underneath it, if you know her the way you do, there’s a second layer of meaning.
You come back.
You come back.
You come back.
Your lips part around a breath you don’t realize you’ve been holding. “Copy. Hostages first.”
“Good girl,” Wanda says, so quietly you almost miss it under the rain and the comms hiss. The words hit the inside of your ribs like a thumb pressed to a bruise--firm, intimate, grounding.
Across the street, Steve gives a hand signal and the front line shifts. Natasha slides like a shadow along the east wall, so smooth she might as well be the night itself. Clint is already a silhouette somewhere high above, bow drawn, watching.
Yelena’s voice crackles into comms like she’s leaning too close to the mic. “I am in position. And if any of you die, I will be very annoyed.”
“Comforting,” Natasha replies without missing a beat.
“It is my love language,” Yelena says, and you hear the grin in her voice.
You almost smile. Almost. You don’t let yourself.
Wanda doesn’t banter. Not before a breach. Not when civilians are involved. Not when there’s too much that can go wrong.
She is, always, control.
That’s what SHIELD saw in her when they asked her to supervise training rotations. That’s why they paired her with you when you arrived, half-broken and too useful to ignore.
You weren’t born into this world.
You were dropped into it.
One day you were somewhere else, somewhere that didn’t have streetlights, didn’t have coffee, didn’t have the mundane, stupid comforts of Earth. Somewhere the sky was too close and the air tasted metallic and your power felt like a sickness trying to crawl out of your bones.
You survived.
You adapted.
SHIELD found you because something bright and wrong lit up their satellites. They brought you in with a soft voice and a hard hand. They called you an asset and smiled like it was kindness.
Wanda was the first person who didn’t talk to you like you were a weapon.
She talked to you like you were a person holding a weapon, and there is a difference so sharp it still cuts when you think about it.
She corrected your stance with two fingers at your elbow, not a shove.
She watched your breathing when your power spiked, not your hands.
She kept you in training longer than anyone thought necessary, because she refused to throw you into the field until you trusted your own body again.
And when you’d flinched once, once, at a sudden sound and everyone else had looked at you like you’d proven them right about you being unstable, Wanda had stepped closer, gaze steady, and said:
“Again.”
No pity. No fear. Just expectation.
You learned to meet it.
You learned to become someone she could trust.
And somewhere in the middle of all that, somewhere between her hands on your wrists adjusting a grip and her eyes on you during a sparring match like you were the only thing worth watching, something in her shifted.
It wasn’t obvious. Wanda is not obvious.
But you noticed.
Because you notice everything about her.
The way her gaze lingers a fraction too long on your mouth when you talk.
The way she says your name when she’s angry, like it’s a restraint.
The way she is harsher with everyone else, and softer with you in the small places she thinks no one can see.
In the field, she never touches the other trainees unless she has to.
With you, she’s always one step closer than necessary.
Always within reach.
Like she’s afraid the world will steal you if she doesn’t keep a hand on the thread.
“Breach in three,” Steve says on comms.
Wanda inhales.
You hear it.
Even over the line, even through the static, you hear the control in it.
Then: “Two.”
You shift your weight, muscles coiling. Your path is mapped, west hallway, down to the holding room. Wanda’s intel says the hostages are in the back, behind a metal door. Your job is to get to them, shield them, get them out.
“One.”
The front wall explodes inward with controlled force. Not Wanda’s magic, Steve’s charge, clean and brutal. Dust blooms into the rain like a gray flower.
The world lurches.
You move.
Everything becomes sound and motion and training.
You sprint, low, weapon up, eyes scanning. The air inside the building is warmer, stale, smelling of sweat and fear and old concrete. A man shouts in a language you don’t understand. Another one screams.
Gunfire erupts, sharp, fast, echoing off the narrow hallways.
Your heart doesn’t race it works. Steady. Efficient.
You take the west corridor, boots splashing through rainwater tracked in, and you are halfway down when the trainee behind you does exactly what Wanda told them not to do.
They improvise.
They break formation.
They push ahead, eager, trying to be heroic, trying to prove something.
You see it like a slow motion nightmare: their shoulder breaks into the open doorway on the left, their body exposed, their weapon angle wrong.
And from inside the room, a muzzle flashes.
Hostages.
The shooter isn’t aiming at the trainee.
He’s aiming past them.
At a woman crouched behind a table, hands over her head, eyes wide and wet in the dim.
You don’t think.
You don’t hesitate.
You throw yourself into the line.
The impact is a sledgehammer to your chest.
Your vest catches the bullet, your plate does its job, so there’s no clean hole, no neat wound, no immediate red blooming through fabric.
Instead, the force drives into you like a car crash compressed into a single point.
Your ribs feel like they fold.
Your lungs forget how to be lungs.
You hit the floor hard enough that your vision whites out at the edges.
Sound becomes underwater.
You try to inhale and nothing happens.
Your body sucks at air like it’s never done it before, like the motion is unfamiliar, like you’re drowning in dry space.
A wet sound tears from your throat.
Blood spills into your mouth, hot and metallic, and you cough--instinctively, violently
and it sprays out in a dark arc across the concrete.
The smell is immediate.
Iron.
Panic.
You claw at your chest, fingers scrabbling over the vest like you can rip your way back to breathing if you just try hard enough.
The trainee screams your name.
You can’t answer.
Your world tunnels into the savage need for air.
Somewhere above you, Wanda’s voice slices through comms.
“Y/n?”
It’s not command.
It’s fear, sharpened into a single syllable.
You try to speak. You can’t. Blood bubbles at your lips instead.
Your hand lifts, weak, reaching for nothing.
“Y/n,” Wanda says again, and you hear her moving, fast, too fast. The air hums. The building itself seems to vibrate with the sudden flare of red.
Steve says something, your name, an order, but it’s swallowed by the roar in your ears.
Footsteps thunder.
And then Wanda is there.
She drops to her knees so hard the concrete should bruise her. Her hands are on you immediately, everywhere, too many points of contact, like she’s trying to anchor you to the world by force.
Her fingers find your jaw, tilt your face up. Her other hand grabs the front of your vest, yanks at the straps with violent precision.
“Look at me,” she says, breath trembling on the words. Wanda Maximoff’s breath does not tremble. She is the calm in the storm.
Except right now.
Right now her hands shake so slightly you feel it in the way her fingers press into your skin.
You try to open your eyes. Your lashes are wet, rain, tears, blood spray, you don’t know. Everything is blurry. Wanda’s face is a dark shape edged in red light.
You cough again.
Blood pours out, thick and relentless, and you make a horrible, choking sound because it’s blocking everything.
Wanda’s eyes widen, pupils blown.
“No,” she whispers, like she can refuse reality into changing.
Her magic flares, scarlet threads curling around your torso, probing, searching, trying to assess damage the way a medic would, except it’s Wanda so it’s like being touched from the inside.
You feel it catch on something, your ribs, your lungs, and her breath breaks.
“moye serdtse” she murmurs, voice cracking. Something soft and Sokovian, something that sounds like a prayer and a promise at once. “moya lyubov'… stay with me.”
You don’t understand the words, but you understand the tone.
You understand the way her thumbs stroke your cheeks like she’s trying to soothe you while you’re actively dying.
Your chest heaves. Your lungs flutter uselessly, bruised and flooding. The world tilts.
You can’t get enough air.
You can’t.
Your fingers curl into her sleeve like a child’s grip, desperate, begging.
Wanda makes a sound, small, broken, furious. Her gaze flicks once, sharp as a whip, toward the room where the shooter was.
There’s a man with a rifle staring in shock. There are hostages pressed into corners, crying.
And there--standing frozen in the doorway, pale as ash--there’s the trainee.
The one who moved wrong.
The one who made you throw your body into a bullet’s path.
Wanda’s face goes blank.
Not calm.
Blank.
It’s the expression she wears when she’s about to do something that can’t be undone.
Red light crawls up her fingers.
The air thickens.
The trainee whimpers.
“Wanda,” Steve says on comms, firm. “Stay with her. We’ve got--”
Wanda doesn’t answer.
Her gaze locks onto the trainee like a target.
And then Natasha is there too, because Natasha Romanoff misses nothing. She drops beside Wanda, one knee hitting the floor, and her hand clamps around Wanda’s wrist.
Hard.
“Maximoff,” Natasha says, low. “Eyes here.”
Wanda’s jaw flexes. Her nostrils flare. Her magic surges against Natasha’s grip like a living thing trying to lunge.
“You--” Wanda starts, and it’s not even aimed at Natasha. It’s aimed at the universe.
Natasha doesn’t let her finish.
“Later,” she says, like it’s a promise and a warning. “Right now, you keep her alive.”
Wanda’s eyes flick back to you.
The sight of your blood at your mouth, the way your chest won’t rise properly, the panic in your gaze, something in her fractures.
She leans closer, forehead nearly touching yours. Her breath is ragged in your face.
“Breathe,” she says, voice shaking now. “Breathe for me, detka. Please.”
You try.
You cannot.
Your throat makes a horrible wet rasp.
You see it in Wanda’s eyes the moment she realizes the truth:
You aren’t just hurt.
You are going to suffocate.
Your airway is failing.
Your lungs are failing.
You are drowning in yourself.
“Nat,” Wanda whispers, and there is naked terror in it. “She--”
“I know,” Natasha says.
Yelena’s voice crackles through comms, suddenly sharp. “Why is everyone quiet? Who is bleeding? Is it you? If it is you, I will--”
“Shut up,” Natasha snaps, then immediately softens her tone like she remembers you can hear her. “Yelena. Med kit. Now. West corridor. Run.”
“I am running,” Yelena says indignantly, and you hear pounding footsteps in the background and the clink of something metal. “I am always running in this family.”
Wanda’s hands are still on you. She’s already ripping open the front of your vest. The straps tear. The plate shifts. Cold air hits your skin.
Your chest is already blooming with bruising, a dark, ugly spread under your collarbone. Wanda’s fingers trace it as if touching it gently might undo it.
She presses two fingers to your throat, checking.
Her magic pulses, probing deeper.
And then she goes still.
Her eyes flick up, meet Natasha’s.
A silent exchange passes between them, the kind only people who have seen too much can have.
Natasha’s voice is grim. “Airway’s going.”
You want to say something. Anything. You want to tell them you’re here, you’re trying, you’re not ready, your mind throws a thousand words at your tongue and none of them get past the blood.
Wanda cups your face with both hands now like she’s afraid your head will roll away if she lets go.
“Stay with me,” she repeats, and this time it’s not a command. It’s a plea. “Stay, stay, stay…”
Your vision swims.
The edges darken.
You hear comms like a distant radio in another room.
Steve barking orders. Gunfire. Hostages crying. The mission still happening around you while your whole world becomes the brutal, humiliating fact that you can’t breathe.
Wanda’s thumb presses at the corner of your mouth, wiping blood away with a tenderness that feels obscene in a battlefield.
“Please,” she whispers again, and you realize she’s crying, not openly, not dramatically, but there’s a wet shine gathering in her eyes that makes your chest ache even more than the injury.
Yelena skids into the hallway, breathless, and drops to her knees across from you.
She takes one look at your face, at the blood, the panic, the way your lips are starting to tinge wrong, and she loses her usual sharpness for a beat.
“Oh,” she says, very quietly. “Okay. This is bad.”
“Stop narrating,” Natasha mutters.
“I am not narrating. I am observing. There is difference.”
Yelena fumbles the med kit open, hands moving fast but not smooth. She’s excellent at violence. Comfort is… not her natural habitat.
“Hi,” Yelena says to you, and her voice does something awkward, tries to be warm, lands somewhere near blunt. “Do not die. It will upset Wanda and she will then kill everyone and I will have to clean up mess.”
You might laugh if you weren’t drowning.
Wanda glares at her without looking away from you. “Yelena.”
“What? I am soothing,” Yelena insists, offended. “This is soothing where I am from.”
“Not helping,” Natasha says.
Wanda’s magic pulses again, and you feel it coil around your throat. Not choking. Supporting. Trying to keep tissue open, trying to hold a pathway where your body is collapsing.
But magic can’t change blood flooding your airway fast enough.
Natasha’s eyes track your breathing, or lack of it, and her decision is immediate.
“There’s no time,” she says.
You hear the knife before you see it, the soft metallic whisper as she draws it from its sheath.
Your eyes widen.
Wanda’s head snaps up. “Natasha--”
Natasha doesn’t flinch. “Cric,” she says, like a code. “She’s obstructing. She’s going to suffocate.”
“No,” Wanda says, and you don’t know if she’s denying the plan or denying the reality.
Natasha’s gaze is steady. “Wanda. Hold her.”
Wanda’s face twists. Her hands tighten on your jaw like she’s holding you together by force of will. Her magic flares around you, red threads whipping, frantic.
“You are not cutting her,” Wanda hisses, voice low and feral.
Natasha leans closer, voice even lower. “Then watch her die.”
The words hit like a slap.
Wanda’s breath stutters.
Your chest convulses with another useless attempt at air. A wet gurgle tears out of you. Your vision spots.
Wanda makes a sound, raw, torn, and then she nods once, jerky, like it costs her everything.
“Do it,” she whispers.
And then, because Wanda Maximoff cannot help but be Wanda, she leans down and presses her forehead to yours, hands cradling your face so gently it hurts.
“Look at me,” she says, voice trembling like the edge of a breakdown. “Stay with me. I am here. I have you. I have you…”
Her words wrap around you like a blanket and a chain at once.
Natasha positions herself at your throat. Her movements are precise, practiced. She’s done this before. The fact makes something cold slide down your spine.
Your mind screams.
Your body tries to pull away.
But you can’t move. You’re too weak, too panicked, too trapped in the simple animal need for oxygen.
Wanda’s magic presses you down, not cruel, not painful, just… holding. Immobilizing. Protecting you from yourself.
“Detka,” Wanda whispers, and the pet name lands like a kiss on your forehead. “I am so sorry. I am so--”
The knife touches your skin.
Cold.
You choke on a sound that isn’t a word.
Pain flashes, white, brutal, immediate, as Natasha makes the incision. It’s sharp and clean and it tears a cry out of you so raw it doesn’t sound like you.
Wanda’s hands shake around your face. Her eyes are wide, wet, furious at the universe.
“Breathe,” she says, over and over, like a spell. “Breathe, breathe, breathe…”
Natasha works fast. The world is reduced to sensation: the sting at your throat, the pressure, the awful awareness of something opening where nothing should open.
And then air. Not perfect. Not gentle.
But air hits you like a miracle.
You suck it in through the new passage with a harsh, ugly gasp that makes your whole body spasm.
Your eyes roll back for a second.
You come back with a strangled sob.
Wanda’s face crumples.
She lets out a broken breath like she’s been holding her own lungs shut this entire time. Her forehead stays pressed to yours as if she’s terrified you’ll disappear if she lifts it.
Yelena swears softly in Russian--something that sounds like both relief and rage.
Wanda laughs once, a wet sound that isn’t humor. It’s hysteria brushing the edge of her control.
She kisses your temple--quick, fierce--before she seems to realize what she’s done.
Her eyes flick around.
The trainees nearby stare like they’ve just witnessed something sacred and terrifying.
Because they have.
Wanda Maximoff does not do tenderness in front of them.
She does not show weakness.
She does not kneel.
Except she is kneeling now, covered in your blood, hands cradling your face like you are the only living thing in the world.
Her voice drops, so low it’s almost not comms anymore--it’s just for you.
“My love,” she whispers in Sokovian, words trembling on her tongue. “My heart. Don’t you dare leave me.”
You can’t answer. You can’t speak around the tube and the pain and the shock.
But your hand moves, weak, trembling, and finds her wrist.
Your fingers close around her like a promise.
Wanda’s eyes snap to your hand.
She inhales sharply.
Her magic surges in response, filling the hallway with a low red glow that makes the concrete look like it’s bleeding too.
“Command,” Steve’s voice barks on comms. “We need evac on west--now. Hostages moving. Clint, cover. Natasha--”
“I’m here,” Natasha answers. “We’re stabilizing. She needs a bird.”
“On it,” Clint says. “Clear the roof.”
The mission continues, because it has to.
But Wanda doesn’t move.
Wanda’s world has narrowed to the pulse under your skin and the fact that you are still looking at her.
Still here.
Still breathing.
Even if it’s through a wound.
Yelena leans closer, awkwardly patting your shoulder like she’s trying to remember how humans work.
“You did very good,” she tells you, voice strained. “Very… heroic. Next time, do not be so heroic. It is very inconvenient.”
You manage a small, painful exhale that might be a laugh.
Wanda shoots Yelena a look that could kill.
Then Wanda’s gaze slides past you, past the blood, the shattered hallway, the hostages being guided out by Steve
to the trainee still standing frozen, shaking.
The one who caused this.
Wanda’s face changes again.
Her grief doesn’t vanish.
It weaponizes.
She lifts her head slowly, eyes locking on the trainee like a predator sighting prey.
The trainee flinches backward. “I--I didn’t-- I thought--”
Wanda rises in one smooth motion, still keeping one hand on you as if she refuses to break contact. Her magic coils around her arms in lazy, deadly ribbons.
Everyone in the hallway feels it.
The temperature dips.
Even Natasha’s posture shifts, ready, cautious.
Wanda speaks, and her voice is Supervisor Maximoff again--except now it’s laced with something ancient and cruel.
“You thought,” she repeats softly.
The trainee swallows. “I-- I was trying to help--”
Wanda steps closer.
Red light spills over the trainee’s face, painting them in the color of consequence.
“You disobeyed a direct order,” Wanda says, tone calm in a way that makes your stomach turn. “You broke formation. You exposed civilians. You exposed her.”
The trainee’s eyes flick to you, wide, guilty, horrified.
Wanda follows the glance.
Her hand tightens on your shoulder, possessive even in your half-conscious state, like she’s claiming you with touch.
“She is not your lesson,” Wanda says.
The trainee’s lip trembles. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry--”
Wanda’s gaze sharpens. “Sorry does not reverse bruised lungs. Sorry does not refill blood. Sorry does not stop her from drowning.”
The trainee starts to cry.
Wanda doesn’t soften.
Natasha steps between them, voice low. “Wanda. Not now.”
Wanda’s eyes flash. “Move.”
Natasha doesn’t move.
Wanda’s magic flares.
Natasha’s hand goes toward her own weapon, not because she expects to use it on Wanda, because she expects to need it to stop Wanda from doing something irreversible.
And then you make a sound.
A wet, rasping inhale through the tube.
A small, broken noise of pain.
Wanda freezes like the sound has struck her physically.
Her head whips back to you.
Your eyes are open, barely, glassy, unfocused, but they’re on her.
There is fear in them.
Not of the injury.
Of her.
The realization hits Wanda like a punch.
Her jaw clenches. Her breath shudders.
She turns away from the trainee like ripping herself free of a temptation.
“Get them out,” she snaps at Natasha, at Steve, at everyone. “Now.”
Steve doesn’t argue. “Moving.”
The hallway becomes motion again, boots, voices, the shuffle of terrified civilians being guided toward the exit. The sound of rain grows louder as doors open.
Wanda drops back down beside you like gravity pulls her there.
She presses her palm to your sternum, gentle, careful, feeling the horrible instability under your skin. Her magic threads into your chest again, soothing bruised tissue as best as it can, trying to reduce swelling, trying to keep your lungs functioning.
Her eyes never leave your face.
“Stay with me,” she says again, quieter now, stripped down to truth. “Please. Please.”
You want to tell her you’re trying.
You want to tell her she’s scaring you and saving you at the same time.
You want to tell her you’ve never felt so held.
Your hand moves again, trembling, and you touch her cheek.
Your fingers smear blood on her skin.
Wanda closes her eyes for half a second like your touch is the only prayer she believes in.
She leans into your palm, breathing hard.
Then she kisses your fingers.
Right there, in the hallway, surrounded by team and trauma and rain.
A small, instinctive act.
Claiming.
Comforting.
Love slipping out despite her iron discipline.
Natasha watches it, expression unreadable.
Yelena’s brows rise in silent, startled recognition, like she’s seeing the shape of something she suspected but never had confirmed.
And the trainees, your team, stare like they’ve just learned what it means to be hers.
Because Wanda has favorites.
Everyone knows she’s harder on some trainees than others. That she demands more, pushes more, expects more.
But with you it has always been… different.
With the others, she says Again.
With you, she says Breathe.
With the others, she corrects mistakes like they’re technical.
With you, she watches your face like she’s reading your soul.
And now, with you bleeding and broken on the floor, Wanda isn’t a supervisor.
She’s a woman on her knees in the rain, desperate enough to bare her heart in front of everyone.
The evacuation bird whirs overhead before you see it, the deep thump-thump-thump of rotors slicing through wet air.
A rope ladder drops down through an opening in the roof.
Clint’s voice crackles through comms. “Roof is clear. Bring her up.”
Natasha moves first, helping position you carefully. Yelena secures the tube and stabilizes it with rough competence, grumbling under her breath.
Wanda’s hands are everywhere again, supporting your head, your shoulders, your ribs, touching you like she can’t bear not to.
Every movement makes pain flare in your chest. Your body shakes with it, weak, helpless.
Wanda’s face tightens.
“I’ve got you,” she says, and this time the words sound like a vow. “I have you.”
You cling to her sleeve again as they lift you, because you don’t know what else to do.
Because your body knows her.
The ladder is a blur of motion and rain and dizziness. Your vision smears. Your stomach lurches. The night air is cold, sharp, and it burns your new airway with each harsh inhale.
Wanda climbs beside you, one hand on you the whole way, magic subtly supporting your weight like invisible hands holding you up.
On the roof, the world opens into rain and rotor wind.
The quinjet door yawns like a mouth.
Inside, medics rush forward.
Wanda doesn’t let them take you immediately.
She stiffens the moment a gloved hand reaches for you.
“Wanda,” Natasha says sharply, right in her ear.
Wanda’s head snaps to her.
Natasha’s gaze is fierce. “Let them work.”
Wanda’s throat bobs.
She looks down at you, your blood on her hands, your eyes half-open, your breathing harsh and mechanical.
She looks like she might refuse.
Then you blink, slow, exhausted.
And your fingers twitch, still holding her.
Wanda exhales shakily.
“Okay,” she whispers, voice breaking. “Okay.”
She lets the medics move in, but she follows like a shadow, hovering so close she might as well be part of you.
They lay you on a stretcher. Straps tighten. A monitor beeps, fast and angry.
Your body shakes with cold and shock.
Wanda’s magic wraps around you like warmth, subtle enough that no one calls it out, but strong enough that you stop shivering quite so violently.
A medic peers at your throat, grim. “We need to get her to the Tower. Now.”
Clint’s voice crackles. “We’re wheels up.”
You feel the quinjet lift. Your stomach drops.
Wanda’s hand finds yours again and this time she laces your fingers together like she’s claiming you, holding you, keeping you tethered.
Her glove is wet with rain and blood.
Her grip is firm enough to hurt.
She doesn’t seem to notice.
She leans down close to your ear, voice low, trembling.
“You did not have permission,” she whispers, and there’s something sharp and possessive in it that makes your exhausted mind snag. “Do you understand me? You do not get to throw yourself in front of bullets. You do not get to leave me.”
Your eyes flutter.
You try to swallow. It hurts. Everything hurts.
Wanda’s thumb strokes your knuckles like she’s soothing a wild animal.
“I know,” she says, as if answering something you didn’t say. “I know you did it for them. I know you would do it again.”
Her breath catches.
“But you come back to me.”
The words are softer now.
Not command.
Need.
Her forehead lowers until it rests against your temple, careful of the tube.
For a moment, the quinjet noise fades behind the sheer intensity of her presence.
The smell of her, rain, smoke, something faintly sweet and human cuts through the blood taste.
You feel tears burn in your eyes, sudden and useless.
Wanda presses a kiss to your hairline.
Then another.
Then she whispers something in Sokovian, rapid and intimate--words you don’t understand but feel in your bones anyway.
A promise.
A prayer.
A threat to the universe itself.
Natasha watches from across the bay, arms crossed, expression hard.
But her eyes flick to Wanda’s face, just once, and there’s something like sympathy there.
Because Natasha knows what it looks like when love becomes a liability in the field.
And she knows Wanda is losing the war against it.
Yelena hovers awkwardly near your stretcher, then leans in as if she’s about to say something kind and immediately regrets it.
“I will… kill the trainee,” she offers instead, quietly.
Wanda’s head lifts.
Her eyes are bright with tears that never fell, full of a rage that is still there, still simmering, waiting.
“Touch them,” Wanda says, voice low as thunder, “and I will stop you.”
Yelena blinks, offended. “I am being helpful.”
“No,” Wanda says, and it’s terrifying because it’s calm. “You are being reckless.”
Yelena’s mouth twists. “Says you.”
Wanda’s gaze doesn’t leave Yelena. “I have reasons.”
Yelena glances at you, then back at Wanda, and her expression shifts into something quieter, something like understanding.
“Ah,” she says softly. “Yes. Reasons.”
Wanda turns back to you, and the whole world narrows again.
Her hand squeezes yours.
Her voice drops into that intimate frequency again, meant only for you.
“I am here,” she says. “You are not alone. You are not allowed to be alone.”
Your vision blurs.
The monitor beeps.
The quinjet hums.
And you float somewhere between pain and relief and the strange, aching fact that Wanda Maximoff is holding your hand like she might never let go again.
You want to tell her you can’t handle how much she cares.
You want to tell her you can.
You want to tell her you’re scared.
All that comes out is a wet, rasping exhale through the tube.
Wanda smiles, small, shaky, broken with relief.
“That’s it,” she whispers. “That’s my girl.”
The words wrap around you like warmth and possession.
Your eyes close.
Not because you’re giving up.
Because for the first time since the bullet hit, your body believes, truly believes, that someone else will fight for your breath when you can’t.
The quinjet lands like a verdict.
The floor shudders under the skids, rotors still hammering the air, and the moment the rear hatch starts to drop, the med bay team is already moving, gloved hands, bright lights, a stretcher rolling forward like it has its own gravity.
You feel it before you see it: the Tower’s sterile cold reaching for you.
Your eyes flutter open at the first blast of white light. The quinjet’s dim interior gives way to the hangar’s harsh fluorescents, and everything becomes too sharp, every sound too close, every vibration too loud.
The stretcher jolts.
Pain spears through your chest, then blooms outward, a deep bruised agony that makes your vision pinch at the edges.
Your hand tightens, instinctively, desperately, around Wanda’s.
She’s there. Still there.
Still refusing to be anything but there.
“I’ve got her,” Wanda says immediately when a medic tries to step in between. Her voice is calm, controlled--so controlled it’s terrifying. “Move.”
“Ma’am,” a doctor says, already walking beside you, fingers checking the tube at your throat, reading your vitals off the portable monitor. “We need clearance. We need space.”
Wanda doesn’t give any.
She walks with the gurney as if she is part of it--one hand anchored to your wrist, the other hovering over your sternum like she can physically hold your lungs together if she tries hard enough.
The hangar doors slide open. Cold air knifes in. The corridor ahead is a tunnel of bright light and polished floors, and the sound of boots on metal becomes the sound of wheels on tile.
They rush you through the Tower like a storm with a purpose.
Your world is fragments.....
ceiling lights streaking overhead
voices calling numbers you don’t understand
gloved hands pulling at straps and fabric
the smell of antiseptic replacing smoke
your own breathing, ugly and mechanical through the new airway
“No,” the lead trauma surgeon snaps, scanning you once and deciding fast. “No time. Straight to OR.”
Wanda’s head whips toward him.
“We stabilize her first,” she says, like she’s used to the world obeying her. Like she’s used to being the final word.
The surgeon doesn’t even look impressed. He looks busy.
“We stabilize her in surgery,” he says. “That tube bought us minutes, not comfort. She needs a chest drain, possible thoracotomy, and we don’t do that in the hallway.”
Wanda’s grip tightens around your hand so hard your fingers ache.
Your gaze drifts to her face--blurred, trembling at the edges--but you see her eyes.
Green, bright, wet. Furious with fear.
The doors ahead are marked SURGICAL WING in big, block letters that look too clean for what they mean.
A nurse steps into Wanda’s path, palms out. “Only surgical staff beyond this point.”
Wanda doesn’t slow.
The nurse’s voice sharpens. “Ma’am.”
Wanda stops so abruptly the gurney nearly bumps her hip.
For half a second the air thickens, and you feel it--Wanda’s power rising like a wave beneath her skin. Scarlet threads gather at her fingertips, the room responding to her emotions the way it always does.
The nurse stiffens.
The surgeon finally looks up, eyes flicking to Wanda’s hands. “Maximoff--”
Wanda’s voice is quiet. “I’m going with her.”
“No,” the surgeon says. “You’re not.”
Wanda’s nostrils flare. Her jaw flexes. The red glow intensifies until the white walls around you seem faintly pink, like the Tower itself is blushing under pressure.
Your breathing rasps. Your vision dims.
Your fingers twitch in Wanda’s grip, weak, pleading.
Not for her to fight.
For her to stay.
Wanda looks down at you.
Your eyes are half-lidded, glassy. Your lips are wrong-colored. Your chest rises unevenly under the torn vest and torn fabric, every breath a battle your body is losing more than winning.
And Wanda...Wanda can tear reality open, can bend minds and space, can rewrite the world into what she needs
but she cannot brute-force a surgical wing into letting her love you back to health.
Not without consequences.
Her expression fractures.
“Detka,” she whispers, the word spilling out like she didn’t mean to say it where anyone could hear. Her thumb strokes your knuckles, frantic-soft. “Look at me. Look at me.”
You try.
You barely manage it.
Wanda leans closer, mouth near your ear, voice trembling so quietly the doctors don’t hear the words, only the shape of them.
“Do not leave,” she says, and the plea is stripped bare. “Please.”
A tear finally escapes her lash line. It trails down her cheek, hot against the cold air.
Then her gaze flicks up, hardening, locking back into something like command.
She squeezes your hand once. Firm. Grounding.
“Stay,” she repeats, softer now. “I will be right here when you wake.”
It’s a promise, and something in her eyes dares the universe to break it.
The nurse steps forward again, gentler this time, like she recognizes the edge Wanda is standing on. “Ma’am. You can’t--”
Wanda’s fingers loosen around yours.
Not because she wants to.
Because she has to.
The separation is immediate and brutal.
Your hand falls back against the stretcher. The air where Wanda’s warmth was feels suddenly empty, too cold, too wide.
Your eyes flutter.
Panic spikes, sharp and animal.
Wanda reaches for you again on instinct
Natasha’s hand appears on Wanda’s forearm.
Not grabbing. Not restraining.
Anchoring.
“Wanda,” Natasha says, low. “Let them work.”
Wanda doesn’t look at Natasha.
Her eyes stay on you as the gurney rolls forward, wheels squeaking softly. The surgical doors swing open like a mouth.
You disappear through them.
And for a heartbeat--just one--Wanda looks like someone has ripped out her lungs and left her standing upright anyway.
The doors close.
The corridor falls into a sterile, horrible quiet.
Wanda stands there, hands still half-raised like she expects you to reappear any second.
Her palms are smeared with your blood.
Her clothes are damp with rain and battle.
Her breathing is ragged.
And then, with a slow turn of her head, she looks down the hall.
The trainee is there.
Hovering at the edge of the corridor like a child waiting outside a principal’s office. Eyes red. Face pale. Hands shaking.
The sight of them is a match struck in a room full of gas.
Wanda turns fully, cloak of control snapping back over her like armor.
“Emergency leadership meeting,” she says, and the Tower seems to listen. “Now.”
A nearby agent hesitates. “Commander Maximoff, we--”
Wanda’s gaze flicks to him.
The agent’s mouth shuts.
Her voice remains quiet. “Notify Fury. Hill. Medical chief. Training oversight. Bring the trainee.”
The trainee flinches like they’ve been slapped. “Wanda, I--”
Wanda takes one step toward them.
One.
They stumble backward.
Natasha moves with her, matching her pace, voice low. “Wanda. She’s in surgery. This can wait.”
Wanda’s eyes flash--bright, feverish with fear and rage. “No.”
Natasha’s jaw tightens. “This is you trying to control something you can’t.”
Wanda’s lips peel back in something that isn’t a smile. “Yes.”
Then she turns and starts walking, fast and purposeful, boots striking tile like a countdown.
Natasha follows. Yelena appears around the corner, still in tactical gear, brows lifted.
“What is happening?” Yelena asks.
Wanda doesn’t slow. “Meeting.”
Yelena’s eyes widen a fraction. “Ah. Someone is in trouble.”
Natasha shoots her a look. “Not the time.”
“It is always time,” Yelena murmurs, then falls into step anyway, because whatever this is--whatever Wanda is about to do--you don’t leave a hurricane unattended.
They move through the Tower’s arteries--security doors opening at the sight of Wanda’s face, agents stepping aside with rigid respect, conversations dying mid-sentence as she passes.
The whole building feels it.
The Scarlet Witch walking with purpose.
Not floating. Not dramatic.
Just… inevitable.
They reach a conference room on an upper level--one of the ugly, functional ones with reinforced walls and a table too large for comfort. A screen on one end displays mission telemetry still live. A thin smell of coffee lingers from whoever was here before they got summoned.
Director Hill is already inside when Wanda arrives, tablet in hand, expression tight. Fury appears a moment later, coat open, eye sharp.
Two training supervisors, a medical chief, and a security lead file in behind them.
Everyone takes in Wanda at once.
The blood on her hands.
The rain in her hair.
The look in her eyes.
Hill’s voice is careful. “Maximoff--what happened.”
Wanda doesn’t sit.
She stands at the head of the table like it’s her throne and the world has forgotten that fact.
“She is in surgery,” Wanda says, and the words are flat, like she’s saying the sky is blue, except everyone in the room feels the weight of it.
Fury’s jaw tightens. “Status.”
Wanda’s fingers curl against the tabletop.
Her nails are short. Controlled.
But the wood beneath her palm creaks faintly.
“Blunt-force thoracic trauma,” Wanda says, voice precise. Clinical. Like she’s reciting a report. “Pulmonary contusion. Internal bleeding. Airway compromise.”
The medical chief nods grimly. “We’re doing everything we can. She’s in the best hands.”
Wanda’s eyes snap to him. “She should not be in surgery.”
No one speaks.
Hill’s gaze flicks toward the trainee--who was brought in by an agent and is now standing near the door like they wish they could dissolve into the wall.
Hill’s voice is sharp now. “Was this a training failure.”
Wanda turns her head slowly.
Looks at the trainee.
The room goes colder.
“It was disobedience,” Wanda says. “It was ego. It was stupidity wearing a uniform.”
The trainee’s voice breaks. “I didn’t mean--”
Wanda’s hand lifts.
Not pointing. Not waving.
Just lifting.
The trainee’s mouth clamps shut like an invisible fist closed around their throat.
Yelena makes a small interested sound. Natasha’s posture tightens.
Fury’s voice cuts in, calm but edged. “Maximoff.”
Wanda’s gaze doesn’t move. “Do you know what I told them before the breach?”
The trainee’s eyes glisten with tears. Their hands shake harder.
Wanda answers her own question. “I told them not to improvise. I told them to maintain formation. I told them their job was support, not heroics.”
Her voice rises--not louder, but sharper. Each word a blade placed carefully on the table.
“They disobeyed. They stepped into an open doorway, exposed civilians, and forced her-” Wanda’s breath catches on the pronoun like it cuts her throat. “--forced Y/n to take the line.”
Hill’s expression hardens. “Is that accurate.”
The trainee nods frantically, tears slipping down their face. “Yes--yes, ma’am. I-- I panicked. I thought I could--”
Wanda’s hand tightens on the table.
The lights flicker.
A pen on the far end rolls, then lifts an inch off the surface like the room itself is recoiling.
“You thought you could,” Wanda repeats, and her voice---God, her voice is so calm it becomes the most frightening thing in the room.
Natasha steps closer, low in Wanda’s ear. “Wanda. Don’t.”
Wanda turns, just enough that Natasha can see her face.
And it’s not rage alone.
It’s terror. It’s grief. It’s love with nowhere safe to go.
Wanda looks back at Hill and Fury.
“You put her on my team,” Wanda says. “You assigned her to my supervision because you knew she was different. You knew she was… vulnerable.”
Fury’s eye narrows. “Don’t do this, Maximoff.”
Wanda’s lips part in a humorless exhale. “Do what. Tell you the truth?”
Hill’s expression is brittle. “Wanda--”
Wanda cuts her off.
“No,” Wanda says, voice finally cracking with heat. “No. You will listen.”
The room stills.
Even Fury doesn’t interrupt.
Wanda steps away from the table and paces once--one tight loop like a caged animal trying to find the seam in the walls.
“She came to us from somewhere none of you can pronounce,” Wanda says, voice low and venomous. “She learned our language. Our procedures. Our rules. She put her fear in a box and labeled it ‘handle later’ because that is what you asked of her.”
Her throat works.
Her hands tremble for half a second.
She curls them into fists to hide it.
“And today,” Wanda continues, eyes bright, “she bled out on a concrete floor because someone decided protocol was optional.”
The trainee makes a small broken sound.
Wanda whips around. “Do you know what it sounded like.”
Silence.
Wanda takes a step toward the trainee.
The air vibrates.
Natasha moves with her, ready to intervene if Wanda goes too far.
Wanda’s voice drops to a whisper that carries anyway.
“Do you know what it sounded like when she couldn’t breathe.”
The trainee sobs. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I swear--”
Wanda’s magic pulses out involuntarily, scarlet pressure that makes the trainee’s knees buckle.
They drop to the floor with a choked gasp, palms braced on the tile.
“Wanda,” Hill says sharply, taking a step forward.
Fury’s voice is iron. “Enough.”
Wanda’s head snaps toward them.
Her eyes are wild now.
“Enough?” she repeats, incredulous. “Enough is what you say when someone breaks a vase.”
She points at the trainee--one sharp motion.
“This,” Wanda says, voice shaking now with restrained fury, “is what you say when someone breaks a person.”
The lights flicker again. The screen behind Hill glitches for a second.
Yelena mutters, almost reverent, “Oh, this is good.”
Natasha shoots her a look that could cauterize steel.
Wanda inhales.
Her chest rises, falls.
She forces herself back into control like it’s a physical act.
Then she speaks again, colder.
“This trainee is removed from field operations effective immediately,” Wanda says. “They will not touch a weapon on a mission for the next six months. They will be reassigned to support and simulation only. They will retrain from day one under direct observation.”
Hill opens her mouth
Wanda cuts her off again, eyes flashing. “And they will apologize. To her. When she wakes up.”
Fury’s tone is clipped. “You don’t get to dictate punishment.”
Wanda’s smile is sharp. “Then you do it. Right now. Tell me what consequence exists in this building that equals the sound of her choking on blood.”
No one answers.
Because there isn’t one.
The medical chief clears his throat carefully. “Commander… the surgical team will update us soon. This--this meeting--”
Wanda’s head snaps toward him. “I called you because I want you to understand something.”
She steps closer to the table again, palms flattening against it, leaning forward like she’s about to bite the world.
“If she dies,” Wanda says, and her voice goes so quiet it chills the room, “you will not have a Scarlet Witch problem.”
Everyone stills.
Fury’s eye narrows to a lethal slit. “Maximoff.”
Wanda’s gaze doesn’t waver.
“You will have a Wanda Maximoff problem,” she corrects softly. “And I will not be reasonable.”
Natasha’s hand clamps onto Wanda’s shoulder--hard. Grounding. A warning only Wanda can feel.
“Wanda,” Natasha says, low. “Don’t say things you can’t take back.”
Wanda blinks once.
A tear slips down her cheek.
She doesn’t wipe it away.
“I don’t care,” Wanda whispers, voice breaking at the edges. “I don’t care about reasonable.”
Her eyes flick toward the closed door behind which your body is currently being cut open to keep you alive.
Her breath trembles again, and this time she doesn’t hide it.
“I told her to come back,” Wanda says, and the words are almost childlike in their rawness. “I promised her.”
The room shifts. Even Hill’s face softens for a fraction.
Fury’s expression stays hard, but his voice lowers. “Maximoff. Go to the waiting area. Let the doctors work.”
Wanda’s gaze snaps back, sharp. “No. I’m not leaving this floor.”
Hill exhales. “Wanda--”
Wanda turns, eyes cutting to the trainee one last time.
The trainee is still on the floor, shaking, tears dripping onto tile. Terrified. Guilty. Ruined.
Wanda’s voice is lethal calm.
“You will remember this for the rest of your life,” she says. “Because if she wakes up and asks me why she got hurt, I will tell her the truth.”
The trainee sobs harder.
Wanda looks back at leadership, and all softness drains from her face again.
“I am going to the surgical wing doors,” Wanda says. “I will wait where I can see her come back out.”
Fury’s jaw tightens. “That’s not how this works.”
Wanda’s eyes flash. “Watch me.”
And she turns on her heel.
Natasha follows immediately--because Natasha knows you don’t let Wanda Maximoff walk through a hallway like that alone. Yelena trails behind, strangely quiet now.
As Wanda strides out, the meeting room remains frozen for a beat.
Hill looks at Fury. “She’s in love with her.”
Fury’s expression doesn’t change. “I know.”
Hill’s voice is tight. “That’s a problem.”
Fury’s eye flicks toward the door Wanda left through, then toward the surgical wing down the hall as if he can see it through walls.
His voice is low.
“So is losing the girl.”
Wanda reaches the surgical doors and stops so abruptly it’s like she hits an invisible wall.
The corridor here is quieter. Cleaner. The air smells like antiseptic and cold metal.
A sign reads AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
Wanda stands under it like a threat.
Her hands are still stained red.
Her breathing is too shallow.
Natasha stops beside her. Doesn’t speak. Just stands.
Yelena leans against the wall and folds her arms, eyes on Wanda like she’s watching a bomb and trying to guess when it will go off.
Minutes pass like hours.
Then the surgical doors swing open
and Wanda’s entire body snaps tight like a bowstring pulled to breaking.
A doctor steps out, mask lowered, eyes tired.
Wanda’s voice is barely a whisper.
“How is she.”
The doctor looks at her hands, at her face, at the blood, and seems to decide honesty is safer than soothing.
“She’s alive,” he says. “But it’s critical. We’re still working.”
Wanda’s knees almost buckle.
Natasha’s hand catches her elbow, subtle, quick, before she can fall.
Wanda doesn’t thank her.
She just stares at the doors like she could will them open.
Like she could climb inside and hold your lungs in place with her bare hands.
Her voice breaks, raw and quiet.
“Tell her,” Wanda whispers, eyes shining. “Tell her I’m here.”
The doctor nods once--because even if he doesn’t know how to handle gods and witches, he knows love when it’s bleeding in front of him.
“I will,” he says, and disappears back inside.
The doors swing shut again.
Wanda stands there, unmoving.
Waiting.
Breathing only because you are.
The minutes don’t pass like minutes.
They pass like punishment, each one stretched thin, each one sharp at the edges.
Wanda doesn’t sit.
Natasha tries once, quietly, to guide her toward the chairs in the corner of the corridor. Wanda doesn’t even look at them. It’s like the concept of resting has been deleted from her body.
She stands in front of the surgical doors the way she stood in front of you on the battlefield--like if she holds her ground hard enough, nothing gets through.
Not death.
Not bad news.
Not the universe.
The fluorescent lights hum overhead. Somewhere down the hall, a cart rattles and then fades away. An intercom chirps and a voice calls a code you don’t understand.
Wanda understands nothing but the absence of you.
Her hands are still stained. Someone tried to offer wipes. She ignored them.
She keeps flexing her fingers like she can still feel your pulse in her palm.
Natasha leans on the wall beside her, arms crossed, eyes forward. The picture of calm--except every few minutes her gaze flicks to Wanda like she’s taking silent measurements: how close to the edge, how close to breaking, how close to burning the world down.
Yelena paces once, then stops, then paces again. Finally she mutters, “This is stupid. Humans are too fragile.”
Natasha doesn’t answer.
Wanda doesn’t move.
A nurse appears once, glances at Wanda’s face, and decides to walk the other way.
Time keeps dragging its nails down the corridor.
Wanda’s throat works around air that feels too thin. She stares at the surgical doors so hard it starts to feel like she’s trying to peel them open with her mind--not to invade, not to interfere, but to see you.
To confirm you’re real.
To confirm you didn’t evaporate into a nightmare the moment they took you away.
Her lips part on a whisper that is barely sound.
“Please.”
Natasha hears it anyway. Natasha always does.
“You did what you could,” Natasha says quietly.
Wanda’s eyes flick to her--bright, feverish. “I did not.”
Natasha’s jaw tightens. “Wanda--”
“I should have been faster.” Wanda’s voice is flat, merciless. “I should have seen it before it happened.”
“You can’t predict every idiot move a trainee makes,” Natasha says, controlled.
Wanda’s expression twists--pain, rage, grief, all braided together. “I can. I should. That is my job.”
Natasha exhales through her nose. “Your job is not to carry every loss like it’s your fault.”
Wanda’s gaze cuts back to the doors. “It’s not a loss,” she says, like the word itself is poison. “Not yet.”
Another stretch of silence.
Then, soft footsteps.
A shift of air.
The surgical doors swing open.
Wanda’s body reacts before her mind does. Her shoulders lift like she’s bracing for impact. Her hands curl into fists. The red in her veins rises, instinctive--protective, vicious, ready.
A surgeon steps out.
Mask lowered. Face drawn with fatigue. A smear of something dark on his sleeve.
Wanda’s voice comes out wrong--too quiet, too raw.
“Tell me.”
The surgeon looks at her like he understands he’s holding a match over gasoline. He chooses his words carefully.
“She’s alive,” he says.
Wanda’s breath leaves her in a sound that is almost a sob, almost a laugh, almost a collapse.
Natasha’s hand clamps on Wanda’s arm, steadying her without comment.
The surgeon continues, tone clinical, because that’s what he has to do to stay upright in a world where people break.
“Vest did its job. But the blunt force--she took significant thoracic trauma. Multiple rib fractures, severe pulmonary contusion. We placed a chest tube and stabilized internal bleeding. The airway incision bought us the time we needed.”
Wanda listens like a statue.
Like if she moves, the words will change.
“She’s sedated,” the surgeon says. “She’ll be in the ICU. We’re keeping her on oxygen support. She’s going to be in pain when she wakes up.”
Wanda swallows. Her eyes are wet, but her expression is fierce. “Can I see her.”
The surgeon hesitates--because they always hesitate with Wanda. Because she’s power wrapped in human skin, and people are never sure where the line is.
“Briefly,” he says. “One at a time. No touching the airway site. Keep it calm.”
Wanda nods once. Sharp. Immediate. Like she’ll obey any rule on earth if it gets her to you.
The surgeon steps aside.
The doors open wider.
And Wanda moves.
Not fast.
Not like the battlefield.
She walks like someone approaching a chapel, like the air itself might shatter if she breathes too hard.
Natasha follows a step behind, then stops at the threshold when a nurse lifts a hand.
“Only one,” the nurse says gently, and her eyes flick to Wanda with something like reverence and caution.
Natasha pauses, then nods once. “I’ll be right here.”
Wanda doesn’t look back.
She steps through.
The ICU is dimmer than the hallway, blessedly so. The lights are low, the air cool, the sound softened, machines humming and beeping in steady patterns, like the room itself is designed to keep panic from taking root.
You’re there.
In the bed.
Too still.
Your skin looks too pale against the sheets. Your hair is damp and tangled, a trace of dried blood near your mouth that someone tried to clean. Your chest rises and falls, shallow, assisted, stubborn.
There’s tape at your throat where the incision was. Tubing, oxygen, monitors.
A chest drain line curves from your side under the blanket.
Your hands are resting near your hips, palms slightly curled like you fell asleep mid-reach.
Wanda stops at the foot of the bed.
For a second she doesn’t move.
Like she can’t trust her legs to carry her closer.
Then she takes one slow step.
Another.
Her breathing catches on the sound of the monitor.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Life, reduced to electricity and rhythm.
She comes to your bedside and just… stands there, staring, eyes dragging over every bandage and tube like she’s memorizing them, like she’s counting proof that you made it through something that should’ve taken you.
Her hands hover in the air, unsure where to go. Wanda Maximoff--who can grab the fabric of reality and pull--looks helpless for the first time in a way that is almost unbearable to witness.
Her lower lip trembles.
She clamps her jaw to stop it.
A soft sound escapes her anyway, a broken little exhale.
“Oh, detka…”
She reaches out--slow, careful, obeying the rules like they’re sacred--and cups your cheek with the backs of her fingers, barely there.
Not touching the tape. Not tugging anything. Just… reminding herself you’re warm.
Your skin is warm.
You’re warm.
Wanda’s eyes close for half a second, and when they open there’s a shine in them that isn’t just tears.
It’s relief so violent it looks like pain.
She leans down until her forehead rests against the edge of the mattress near your shoulder, careful, controlled.
Her voice drops to a whisper meant only for you.
“You scared me,” she says, and it’s not an accusation. It’s a confession. “You scared me so badly I couldn’t think.”
Her fingers tremble against your cheek. She presses a kiss there, gentle, almost nothing. A brush of lips like a vow sealed in secret.
Then another, to your temple.
She swallows hard.
“You did everything right,” she whispers, like she needs you to hear it even through sedation. “You did what I trained you to do. You protected them.”
Her breath hitches.
“And I am so…” Her voice cracks. She inhales, tries again. “I am so proud of you.”
A tear slips down and drops silently onto the blanket.
Wanda doesn’t wipe it away.
She straightens slowly, gaze sweeping your face again, and her expression shifts, softness giving way to something possessive and resolute, the same steel that kept her on her knees beside you in the hallway.
She leans closer, mouth near your ear.
“Listen to me,” she whispers, voice trembling with the weight of command and love tangled together. “You come back. You heal. You wake up and you look at me, and you let me--”
Her throat works.
She exhales shakily.
“--you let me take care of you.”
Wanda’s hand slides down to your fingers. She doesn’t lace them. She doesn’t squeeze too hard.
She just places her fingertips against yours, like she’s afraid too much pressure will shatter the moment.
“You are not leaving,” she says, voice low and certain like she’s speaking it into existence. “Not on my watch.”
The monitor keeps its steady rhythm.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
And Wanda stands there, breathing with you, eyes locked on your face as if she can will you awake through sheer devotion.
Outside the glass, you can faintly make out a dark shape, Natasha, waiting exactly where she promised, arms crossed, silent guard at the door.
Wanda doesn’t look away from you.
Not even once.
Because you’re here.
Because you made it.
Because for the first time since the bullet hit, the world feels like it’s stopped trying to steal you, and Wanda Maximoff, your supervisor, your shield, your secret, finally allows herself one fragile, trembling moment of peace.
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You and Natalia were chilling in your room, watching a movie.
Natalia licked her dry lips, asking if you have any lip-ice. You pointed to a drawer in her direction, directing her for where to look. You went back to focusing on the television as your favourite movie was being played.
After a few moments of rummaging, you heard her stop, and you turned to look at her to ask if she'd found it. Only she beat you to speaking.
"Well, well, well, what do we have here?" Natalia rhetorically asks, holding up a red object. "I- uhm-" you stammer, shocked with flushed cheeks.
"Well, detka?" Natalia boldly asks you, knowing fully well how it works. "I- uhm.. I am sorry you found that. It was meant to be hidden... somewhere else."
"Sorry," you say, shocked as you see Natalia holding the red object with a cocky grin on her face.
Natalia smirks, holding up the rose toy, her green eyes glinting with mischief and lust. "Don't be shy, malyshka. We all have to have our own... fun. Now be a good girl and show me exactly how you use this when you think of me, da?" Natalia steps closer, towering over you, her tall, muscular frame invading your personal space, "I want to see you make yourself come on it like you do when I'm not here."
How did she know?
You thought it was your dirty secret between you and yourself.
So, how did she know?
She hands you the toy, her fingers brushing against yours, sending electric sparks through your skin, and travelling down your spine.
"Go on, detka. Don't keep me waiting, sweetheart." Natalia crosses her arms, leaning against the wall, watching you intently with a cocky smirk.
"What's makes you say I think of you when I use.. that," You tried defending yourself as you 'fought back' to her, very much true, statement. Which only then proved her statement further as you tried to justify yourself.
Natalia gave a chuckle, taking another step closer to you.
Her voice is low and demanding, "Oh, don't play dumb with me, detka. You think I don't know that you get yourself all hot and bothered thinking about me when I'm not around?" Natalia reaches out, grabbing your chin, making you look into her intense, lust filled green eyes, "I've seen the way you look at me when you think I don't notice. The way you clench your thighs together after every little touch, the way you blush at the names I call you."
Natalia leans in closer, her soft lips brushing against your ear as she whispers, "You can't hide from me, malyshka. Now, be a good girl and show me what you do when you're all alone and missing me. Fucking yourself to me." She demanded, releasing your chin, pushing you back slightly as she crosses her arms again, waiting for you to obey her every command.
She stands over you, her body posture radiating dominance as you feel her eyes trail all over your body with need and a strong desire.
"It'll be... embarrassing, Natalia," your cheeks flush with a deep red colour, "there's a difference between me imagining it and.. and you here with me. Watching me."
"Nothing embarrassing about it, malysh," Natalia leaned down, her lips ghosting over yours, "all you have to do is show me how you use it. Pretend it's me using it on you," Natalia kissed the side of your lips.
You let out a defeated sigh, taking the red toy from her hands and pulling your underwear down, giving her the perfect view of your spread out legs before her.
Natalia licked her lips as she trailed her eyes over you, and your now revealed wet sex, "That's a good girl, now, why don't you put on a show for me, detka?" Natalia said, more like a command than it is a question.
You put the toy on, and a low buzzing sound echoes throughout the room as Natalia focuses on the way your hand slowly travels down your body towards where she's been focusing on this whole time.
With a deep breath, you place the toy on your, already sensitive, nub. You release a whimper as you feel the vibrations running through your body, already feeling a heated pit in the deep of your stomach. You were so close already. And you didn't know why.
Maybe it was the feeling of Natalias eyes of you, maybe it was the way she was looking at you as if she were studying every reaction you'd make, every sound you'd let out.
"Nat-" you could only pant out as you found yourself nearing the edge.
"That's it, baby, keep going. Show me how you'll cum for me, detka. That's it." Natalia cut you off as she heard you coming close, she leaned down, her hands on your hips as she rubbed soothing circles on your shaking thighs, "That's it, detka, there we go," Talking you through it and she tentatively watched your wet region, the way it was pulsing, as if pulsing her name in horse code, needing her, calling out to her.
"You're doing so well, baby. You gonna cum?" You could only muster a nod being unable to speak from the pleasure. "Yeah? Wanna cum for me, detka?" Fake pitty in her voice. "Yes.. please," You whimpered out. "Cum for me, darling," Natalia watched as your eyes rolled back, head leaning back as your back arched.
Spasming and shaking after the strong orgasm, you struggled catching your breath as you looked down between your legs, Natalias eyes solely trained on you. Watching your cum dripping out of you, her eyes travel up, watching your chest heave with heavy breaths.
You could see how dark her eyes got, the lust and desire that filled them.
"Blyad." You heard her let out a low curse.
She suddenly stood as she got rid of her own clothing. Natalia wasted no time in climbing over you, trapping you between her arms as she made her way between your legs. Her lips were on yours in seconds, feeling how she desperately grinds on you, how your slick and her pre-crum mixed together to create a lubricant for you two.
"I'm gonna use my fingers to fuck and stretch you out, detka," Natalia mumbled against your lips as she got rid of your shirt. Her hands immediately went to your breasts as she gave them both a deliciously rough squeeze and a kiss to each nipple.
You felt her hand travel down your body, her fingertips leaving goosebumps along your abdomen. "Fuck, I can feel how fucking wet you are," you felt her lips grin against yours.
Natalia slowly pushes her fingers into, slowly but surely, as she litters your chest with kisses.
Her fingers feel your velvety walls clench and flutter around her. Fucking her fingers into you as you screamed her name, the sound music to Natalia's ears.
"That's it, malysh. Cum on my fingers like the good little slut you are," she husked, pumping harder and faster, her fingers curling to stroke your g-spot ruthlessly, "my good little slut, da?" Her voice raspy and she let out a chuckle.
Natalia's thumb grinds against your clit in tight, rough circles as she leans down to capture your lips in a bruising, dominating kiss, swallowing every cry and moan that left your mouth.
She can feel your body shaking and tensing, teetering on the edge of climax. With a final, deep thrust, Natalia pushes you over, feeling you come undone around her fingers.
"Fuck yes! Cum on my fingers!" Natalia demands into the kiss, prolonging your orgasm as she grinds the heel of her hand against your throbbing sensitive clit.
As the waves of your climax start to subside, Natalia gentles her touch, fingers slowing to lazy strokes as she breaks the kiss to admire your blissed out expression.
"Beautiful," she murmurs, voice rough with desire and satisfaction, "so fucking beautiful. You did so well, sweetheart. Came so hard for me," Natalia praises, slowly withdrawing her slick fingers from your fluttering heat.
Natalia smirks as she brings her, now cum coated, fingers to her lips, making a show of licking them clean.
"Mmm, you taste divine, malysh," She husked, savouring the flavour of your arousal.
Natalia, slowly grinding lightly against your sensitive sex, leans down to capture your lips in a deep, sensual kiss, sharing the taste of your climax.
Natalias hands roam over your curves, caressing and squeezing, as she explores every inch of your body.
Natalia takes her time, enjoying the way you shiver and whimper beneath her touch.
Eventually, she pulls back slightly, green eyes darkened by lust and affection gazing down at your face.
"You did so good, detka. I'm so fucking proud of you," Natalia murmurs, thumb brushing your cheek tenderly.
"I think you've more than earned your reward, sweetheart," She gave you a promising smile before sitting up fully. "M- my reward?" You pant, still dazed and confused by the leg shaking orgasm she had already given you.
She quickly stripped off her sweatpants. Her massive, veiny cock springs free, hard and leaking, the thick shaft curving up towards her stomach. Natalia wraps a hand around her hard cock, giving a few slow pumps as she smirks down at you.
"Get on your hands and knees, sweetheart," she commands, voice low and rough with desire as she husked into your ear. "I'm going to fuck you now. Really fuck you," Natalia promises, as her voice is raspy with desire. That's when you remember.
"I don't have condoms-" You stutter out in a panic. Natalia's eyes flash with a possessive manner as she loomed over your smaller form, "Shh, don't worry about that, malysh."
Natalia softly spoke, one large hand gripping your hip tightly.
"I'll pull out. I promise," Natalia reassures you, voice low and rough with desire.
Natalia leans down to nip at your earlobe before murmuring, "I want to feel your pussy around me. Want to pump you full of my fucking cum until it's dripping out of you." Her words are filthy, dripping with lust and promise.
With a low, dominative groan, Natalia flips you onto your hands and knees, gripping your hips hard enough to leave bruises. Natalia positions the swollen head of her cock, pushing against your dripping entrance, feeling it throb and leak at the tip.
Her eyes burn into you as she starts to push forward, the thick crown spreading you open slowly.
"Breathe for me, detka," Natalia instructs, voice strained as she fights the urge to thrust forward and bury herself in you.
She puts a hand in the middle of your shoulder blades, pushing you down even further.
Inch by inch, she sinks into you, not stopping until she's fully inside you.
"Fuck..." You hear her groan behind you, her fingers digging into your hips hard enough to leave indents.
"You feel incredible, moya lyubov. Like this perfect pussy was made just for my cock," She praises breathlessly. Her chest presses against your back as she husks into your ear.
You feel her hips pressing against yours, slowly pulling back only to slowly thrust back into you. Her low moans and groan echo into your ear, making you wetter than before. Natalia started picking up her pace, one hand placed on your hip, and the other comes to wrap around your throat.
"You're taking me so well, detka," Natalia rasped into your ear, nibbling your earlobe and then placing a kiss on your neck.
"Oh! Natalia!" You could only moan, gripping the sheets as you could only focus on the feeling of her pumping in and out of you at such a fast pace, with the kisses she is placing all over your neck and shoulders.
"You feel so good-" You loudly moan out, which only fulled her confidence further, her hips somehow moving at a much faster pace, "Natty!" You moaned as if calling out for her.
Her hand placed on your waist made its way down between your thighs, her fingers found your sensitive and swollen clit. She started rubbing circles on you, and you bucked into her hand out of reflex.
You can feel yourself getting close, the tight knot in your stomach forming along with a heated feeling in the pit of your stomach, your thighs start shaking, and she can feel it.
"You wanna cum, pretty girl?" Natalia rhetorically asked as she husked into your ear, "you wanna cum for me, malysh."
"Yes! Yes, please, Natalia- wanna cum f'you." You muster out as you moan loudly beneath her, the feeling of her thrusts sending you into an outer body feeling.
"Cum for me, baby. Cum for me," Natalias fingers worked on your clit, her thrusting into you continuously along with her dirty words she spoke into your ear brought you to edge.
Coming undone all over her cock and her fingers with a loud finishing moan of her name. Your thighs shook, your fingers loosened on the sheets you were gripping.
"Holy fuck..." You breathe out.
"Yeah? You were amazing, lyubov." Natalia pushed you to lay down with her body.
Her body lay on top of yours as she stills in you, "Are you good, baby?" She checked in with you. "I'm more than good," you mumble, still trying to bring yourself down from that Earth-shattering orgasm she brought you.
There was a silent mutual agreement that you two will rest for a bit before getting up to go and shower the sweat and cum off of your bodies.
Laying still with each other, her body still laying on yours as she moved her face to be in between your neck and shoulders. Her breath tingling your neck causes you to let out a small laugh, "Natalia! That tickles!" You fake defend yourself, her laughs following along with yours, causing you to become more ticklish.
You share a laughing moment with one another before it dies down to a soft, comfortable silence between you two.
"Round two in the shower?" Natalia teases, deciding to speak up. You felt her smirk against your neck as she spoke.
Who were you to deny another body-shaking orgasm?
You answered her with a teasing tone, your answer bringing a smirk to her face as she placed kisses on your neck and shoulder.
You were watching her ride her horse when her hat fell off of her head during a specific jump. You, not knowing the rules of the Cowboy hat, picked her hat up for her. Natasha eyed you as she saw you pick up her hat and place it on your head.
You know what they say...
Wear the cowboys hat, you ride the Cowboy.
Warnings: I know nothing about horse riding... smut, and uh, spicy (I think), Nat is GP
(Literally wrote this in the car on a long drive... came home to find it gone 😝)
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Kate, your best friend, had dragged you to a horse riding show. You contemplated on going with as those kind of shows aren't your type, but Kate insisted you came, saying, "It's literally the best riders in the whole world!" Her words. So, you, being the best friend that you are, joined her.
You and Kate are settled by the sidelines to get a good view of the horse riders when it's their time to shine.
The equestrian show was going well so far, seeing impressive jumps from the riders and horses themselves. Until you saw her...
A redhead with green eyes. She sat confidentially on a black Mustang horse, her outfit matching with her horse. She wore black breeches, a black vest, along with a black urban Cowboy hat. She seemed to have caught your eye as she strode through on her horse with ease.
Your ears seemed to block out the surrounding sound around you of the loud applause and cheering by the people on the stands. Children sitting on their parents' shoulders as they clap and bounce up and down excitedly.
And you.
You were lost in a trance as you made eye contact with her green eyes. She seemed to stare back. The redhead tipped her Cowboy hat towards you with a subtle sly smirk on her face as she saw the slight blush she's caused your cheeks to turn. You give the redhead a shy smile and wave back before diverting your eyes to Kate beside you.
"I just made eye contact with her," you said panicked with a blush on your cheeks. Kate beams, "You made eye contact with her!?" She said, shocked as she gave a playful tap to your shoulder, "she's the best rider here! And you looked away from here?" You flush, "Uh... well, I.. I panicked. I didn't know what to do!" You try to defend yourself. "You should've winked at her, maybe a little flirtatious smile," Kate teases. "Kate!-" You were about to 'lecture' your friend before you got interrupted by a speaker phone.
"Ladies and germs, I welcome you..." the voice is loud as a drum roll begins, "Widow Rider!" The crowd booms once again, erupting into applause and whistles along with 'I love yous' being thrown around. You can't help but join in on the applause, clapping for the redhead.
"She's staring at you," Kate whispers into your ear. "What..." Your gaze follows hers. She was right. The redhead was staring at you.
And only you.
Your breath caught in your throat, your claps coming to a slow as her eyes seem to keep you entranced. Your eyes travel over her figure. Broad shoulders, biceps that seek tight against her black vest, a Dutch braid. She looks good. So, so good it gets your knees weak.
There was a sight glimmer in her green eyes. You couldn't pick up what it was, though. You kept eye contact as you gave another shy wave at her. Just to see if she's really looking at you.
Needless to say, she gives a small charming smile on her plump, red lips. She was looking at you. Your heart seemed to speed up, your cheeks picking up an even redder colour.
"Get ready in 3... in 2..." the judge spoke, the redhead fixed her attention to the obstacle course in front of her and her companion horse. "Innn 1!" A bell sound rang through the stadium.
The redhead and her horse practically flew through the obstacles with grace and practice. She made it seem easy, as if this was another day to day thing... I mean, it probably is for her.
On the triple bar obstacle, sticks stacked on a bar in a stair like manner, the sticks on increase in height as they go up.
The redhead and her horse stood in front of the triple bar, ready to jump. It felt like it had been minutes with them in the air, with how they floated through the air gracefully with ease.
As the horses hooves touched the ground, the redheads Cowboy hat had flown off her head.
Landing right in front of you.
You picked it up, "Kate, look... I got her hat." Your thumbs graze over the engraved initials 'N.R' on the metal piece of the hat. ''N.R' must be her name,' you thought.
Kate gives you a look, "Oo, put it on." Your eyes widen in surprise, "What, Kate, no. No. I can't do that." You shake your head from the thoughts. "Why not? Keep it warm for her," Kate teases as she smirks. "Kate..." You say. "She's watching you, put it on." Kate gives you a wink. With a faked, annoyed sigh, you put the Cowboy hat on with a gleeful smile.
You make eye contact with the redhead. Your heart suddenly pounding again, blooding rushing to your ears and face. The redhead didn't say anything, no. She just looked. She looked at you with a knowing smirk, a gleam in her eye as she trod away on her horse through the exit after successfully completing her course.
A few minutes later, the riders and their horses come out. The rider themselves stand proudly next to their horse, especially her. The redhead stood proudly next to her majestic black horse, patting her horses chest in a praise like manner.
"And the winner for the year's competition isss..." The drums roll, "Widow Rider! Round of applause, everybody!" Although, the judge didn't need to say the last part as people were already cheering out loud the second they heard the redheads name.
A judge came down to hang a gold medal around the redheads neck, shaking hands with the judge and exchanging 'thank yous' and 'congratulations'.
Her green eyes found yours again, a smirk playing across her beautiful face. Her eyes looked at her Cowboy hat on your head, then focusing her eyes onto yours. Just as she was about to leave, her eyes lingered on your face one last time.
"Your face is red, just by the way," Kate teases beside you, breaking you out of your spell. "Oh, hush up, it's hot out," you lie through your teeth. "Wanna get something to eat? We'll get some ice cream to calm those flaming cheeks of yours," Kate slings an arm around your shoulders as she guides you outside to the food stands outside. Your back and body immediately feel the heat of the sun.
"Oo, pizza!" Kate guides you to the pizza truck. Her brown eyes glimmer with happiness as she scans the pizza menu. "You wanna share a bbq chicken pizza?" Kate suggests. "Sure, sounds good," you easily agree. Your back suddenly felt cooler as if something was blocking the sun from you. You turn around to see what it is.
Your breath caught in your throat as you made eye contact with those green eyes again. "Hey there," the redhead spoke up first, her voice raspy with an accent to it. She easily towered over you with her height and lean, athletic body. She stuck a hand out towards you. "Uh, h-hi. Hi. Hey," you panic as you reach your hand out to hers.
Your hand easily slips into her larger, firm yet soft hands. A shock that felt like electricity travelled up your palm throughout your whole body. Your body heats up, and you can feel yourself blushing again. Her eyes flicked to her hat on your head before your eyes again.
"Hey, I'm Kate," Kate introduces herself too, a sly smile playing on her face as she looks at the redheads hat on your head.
"Hey, Antonio," she calls the pizza guy, "this ones on me," she passes her card to him, and he smiles back. "Uh, you didn't have to do that," You say panicked. "No, no," Kate stops you as she says your name, "if Ms. Widow Rider here wants to, she will." You give a gentle nudge to Kates abdomen with your elbow.
You give a shy smile back to the redhead.
"Kate, was it?" She rasped, "Are you and your pretty friend busy later?" She called you pretty. You failed, hiding your blush, followed by a smile. You look at Kate expectantly, thinking she'd say yes. "No," Kate says smoothly, your eyes widen, "no, actually, we're not." Kate smiles at you as if she's playing this off. "Great, you don't mind if I steal your pretty friend away for a while, do you?" She asked Kate as if she needed permission. She didn't.
"I don't! I do not, please... take her away," Kate says dramatically. "Kate." You whispered to your friend. She only gave a smirk and smile, trying to play it off cool. "Great then, I'll see you..." The redhead trails off, realising she wants your name. You give it to her with a slight stutter. You pursed your lips in a smile of embarrassment.
"Pretty name for a pretty girl. I'm Natasha," she gave a small smirk.
That's what the 'N' stands for. Now you're left wondering about the 'R'.
"How about I pick you up for dinner? My treat," the redhead suggests. "Uh, like... like a date?" You stammer, shocked. "Exactly, a date," her green eyes never left yours as she confirmed the date. You two exchange phone numbers, and just as she was about to leave, you called out to her. "Wait, Natasha, your hat!" You rush over to her, hat in hand as you stretch it out towards her. "Keep it. Wear it for tonight," she left with a wink.
You place the hat on your head with a smile.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
The dinner date between you and Natasha was amazing. She had taken you out to a well-known restaurant, best known for their steak and burgers, along with a walk in the fields under the starry night.
Natasha offered to drive you home with a smile on her face, you accepted, not knowing what she had in plan. As you sat in her sleek black car, her hand hovered over your thigh before gently placing her hand there. You felt her give your thigh a slight squeeze.
"Why don't I take you back to mine?" Natasha suggests, "The night's still young. It doesn't have to end here." You squeezed her hand placed on her thigh, "Sure, sounds good. I'll just let Kate know." You said happily as you sent Kate a quick text.
She immediately responds back, "Don't forget to use protection! Stay safe, kids." You let put a scoff like laugh with the shake of your head at her antics.
Natasha pulled up to a modern looking two story house. It was beautiful, and the design was definitely made to fit the redhead taste and style. "Wow, you have a beautiful house," You looked at her house in awe as she let you enter first. "Thanks, sweetheart. Built it myself," Natasha gave a mini shrug as if it were nothing. "You built this?" You say shocked. "I had a couple helping hands, of course, but yeah, built it from the ground up," she peeled off her black leather jacket and hung it up on a coat hanger.
The redhead had guided you to her living room, telling you to have a seat as she would get you guys something to drink. When she comes back, she places two glasses of water in front of you, taking a seat next to you herself. An arm on the couch behind you.
"Did you like the show earlier today?" Natasha suddenly asked. "Uh, yeah, it was good, great actually for a first-time viewer," you say, trying to sound as casual as possible. "It was your first time watching an equestrian show," Natasha repeats as if it were shocking news. "Yeah, Kate said you were the best rider there, so I just decided, why not and came to watch," you say with a decided shrug, reaching for a glass of water.
You felt Natasha's eyes never leave your face as you took a sip of water to help calm your burning cheeks and racing heart down.
"And you? What do you say?" Natasha asks. "Well... I believe you were the best rider there. You are the best rider," you conclude with a smile. You receive a smile from the redhead in return. "I'd love to see you ride," the redheads voice raspy as she spoke, sending shivers down your spine. You blush, taking another sip of water before placing the glass down. "Uh, I'll need to learn how to first," you stutter out. "I'll teach you, sweetheart, don't worry about that," Natashas hand found your thigh again as she rubbed it soothingly with her ringed thumb.
"First show, huh," she clicked her tongue, "I guess you don't know the rules then, huh." You felt her squeeze your thigh once again. "Rules? What rules?" You asked, confused. You didn't know there were rules to watching an equestrian show. "Darling... you remember how you wore my hat? And how you're still wearing it right now?" Natashas hand goes up to 'adjust' her hay on your head playfully. "Yeah..? Is there something wrong?" You asked warily. "No, no, not at all, detka," her accent slips through, "It's just that..." She trails off. "That?" You questioned further.
"There's a rule. You wear the cowboys hat, you ride the Cowboy," her green eyes never left yours as she licked her lips, her hand moves higher up your thigh. "I- I didn't know about that," you heavily blush. "That's okay, sweetheart, I mean, we don't have to do anything, I'm just stating the rules," the redhead shrugs. "I mean, if they're rules, they have to be obeyed, right?" You tease, her green eyes seem to turn dark as she leans in to place a soft peck on your lips. "Yeah, rules are to be obeyed," green eyes searching yours, her hands grasp your hips as she pulls you on top of her. You let out a surprised gasp at her strength, how easily she moved you to straddle her.
"You gonna ride me, detka?" Natasha's voice turned husky, her accent prompt as she called you a pet name. You nod your head without knowing, "Please." You beg. "Begging already, krasivyy?" She teases, "Don't worry, sweetheart, I'll give you what you want."
With that, Natasha passionately kissed your lips, hungrily attacking your lips as you release whimpers mixed with her groans. Your hands found place on her shoulders for stability as her hands gripped as your waist, pulling your hips to grind against hers.
You could feel the bulge growing in her pants as she realised another moan of satisfaction. "Fuck... wanna go to my room, detka?" She rasped out against your lips. "Y-yeah, please," you eagerly nod your head in excitement. "C'mon, baby," she picks you up, your legs around her waist as she walks upstairs to her room, you feel her lips on your neck every now and then whenever she would pin your back against the wall to her room.
Naked, straddling her lap with her hard on pressing against your abdomen, the precum dripping onto your skin with each grind you make. "Keep the hat on, detka," Natasha reaches for the hat beside her, which flown off your head during the rush of removing each other's clothes. The redhead places the black Cowboy hat on top of your head, tightening the lace to keep it in place, "There we go, pretty girl. All pretty 'n ready to ride me, da?"
Natasha leaned back against the headboard, her hands on your hips as she admired your naked form. Her gaze travelled over your face. From your eyes to your lips, to your hardened nipples due to the cold air of the night and arousal you feel down to between your legs, where your dripping sex hovered over her hard on that layed on her abdomen, the precum leaking onto her skin.
"You gon' be a good girl for me, baby?" The Russian rasped out as she squeezed your hips. "Yes, I'll be your good girl," you nod eagerly as you bit your bottom lip, staring up at her.
"Fuck yeah, dorogaya," the redhead scatters kisses across your neck, leaving marks of her lips behind. Her hips retract again only to slam up into your repeatedly, a wet slapping sound was heard throughout the room filled with moans of sweet bliss and pleasure. "Oh, fuck!" Your hands move to rest on her abdomen for support, your hips meeting her thrusts as you go down on her as she thrusts up into you.
Her heaving chest, her red lips parted as she let out a huff, her tattooed and toned abdomen that seemed to flex every time she'd let out a breath. "Hang on, baby, I'll guide you," her one hand slowly guides you to shift your hips up as her other hand took hold of her cock. The tip was red, veins running along her thick length as she slowly jerked herself.
"You ready, my love?" She asks as she looks up at you with gentle eyes. Your hands grasp her shoulder tighter as she slowly pushes the tip in, allowing you to gently lower onto her length. "So fucking ready," you breath out, already feeling the burn of the sting.
A painful yet overwhelming sensation of pleasure took over your body. Automatically, as if your hips had a mind of its own, your hips ground down against hers. Her length fully disappearing into, "Fuck, krasivyy, look that," her veiny hands squeezed at your hip, "fucking swallowed me whole." Her dirty words made you clench around her with a whimper. "Yeah, you like that, baby, like me talkin' about how good you take me," she rasps into your ear, slowly moving her hips down and then back up into yours. "Oh!" You couldn't help but release an unexpected moan, "L- love it when you talk to me like that, please," You beg her once again.
The redheads one hand moved to where your bodies connected, her thumb found your clit and started rubbing small delicate circle on your sensitive bud. Your thighs shook around her, "Holy shit- Imma-," your own words got cut off by your loud moans, your nails rake down her toned body. "Just like that, baby, just like that," Natasha said as she kept slamming your hips down onto hers.
"Round two?" The redhead laughs as she sees the fake annoyed expression on your blissed out face. "Think we need a few more rounds of riding," You kiss her hard and deep. "Yeah, I think so too, dorogaya," she smirked as she began to slowly start thrusting up into you again.
Natasha kisses you like a lifeline, her thumb rubbing hard continous circles on your clit as she thrust in and out of you, your thighs begun to shake. Your body overcoming with thrills, a heated pit in the pit of your stomach as you couldn't contain your moans. You pant as you let out loud moans, grinding into her thumb and onto her cock. "You gonna cum, baby?" She kissed your chest, taking a nipples into her mouth. "Yes! Oh, fuck, yes! Please!" You beg, grinding further on her, pushing your chest further to her. Her groans vibrated around your nipple, she nibbled around your areola, then kissed across your chest to your other nipple. Her teeth grazed your sensitive areola, just in the right time of her thumb rubbing just the right spot. Her tip hitting your spots repeatedly. "Cum f'me, detka, C'mon, be a good girl 'n cum for me," The Russian smirks as she felt your body shake against hers, your pussy clenching and spasming around her dick as you come undone.
You release a whine of pleasure as she releases your nipple, kissing up to your lips. She Frenched kissed you with passion, and you pulled away out of breath. You place your forehead against hers as you let out a soft giggle. "Good?" The green-eyed woman asks. "So fucking good," you giggle softly, "best ever." You kiss her lips once more. You feel the redhead thrust up into you, you relesse a gasp of shock, taking hold of her bicep from sensitivity. You pulled away from the redhead only to see a small smirk on her face. She did it on purpose.
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