The lights are low in the Avenger’ common room, the kind of warm golden glow that makes everything feel a little softer. You're curled into the corner of the long couch, a bowl of popcorn on your lap. Everyone's here tonight. Steve trying to find a movie, Sam arguing about it, Tony making sarcastic comments. 

There a two empty seat. The armchair across the room and the seat beside you. You tell yourself you don’t care where Wanda would sit. That it doesn’t matter. But as the door opens and Wanda walks in, barefoot, hair loose, in an oversized sweatshirt, it was all you could think about. 

 She looks around the room, eyes gliding over Clint sprawled on the floor, Natasha cross-legged on a beanbag, Thor on one of the two armchairs. Then her gaze lands on the two empty spots. 

The one across the room. 

And the one next to you. 

You don’t move. You don’t breathe. But your thoughts... well, they’re screaming. 

If she sits here, I’ll pretend it doesn’t make my night. I'll fail, but I’ll try.  

The thing is, you don’t realize your thoughts are so loud that she can hear you.  

Wanda's lips twitched, almost like she’s fighting back a smile. Her eyes flick toward you, slow, and then, without a word, she settles into the spot beside you. 

Your brain short-circuits.  

Oh my god, she actually did it. She's right here. She smells good. Focus! Oh no, she can probably feel me staring. Don't look at her. 

You shove a handful of popcorn into your mouth as a distraction. Wanda leaned back, tucking one leg under the other, relaxed in a way that you definitely aren’t. You can feel the warmth of her arm near yours, the faint brush of her sleeve when she shifts. 

The movie started. Something action-packed, probably Tony chose instead of Steve. You try to focus, but your brain has other plans. 

Don't think about her. Don't think about how her knee just touched yours. Don't think about her hands. Oh no, now you’re thinking about her hands. 

You risk a glance. She's watching the screen, calm and focused. Except for the tiniest curve at the corner of her mouth. You look away fast. 

Half an hour in, you start to feel thirsty. There's a can of your favourite drink in the kitchen, but that would mean standing up and walking past everyone. Absolutely not.  

A rustle beside you. Then Wanda stands. You glance up in surprise, but she doesn’t say anything. She disappeared in the kitchen. You blink at the screen, trying to act normal. 

A few seconds later, a cold can bumps gently against your hand.  

“Thought you might be thirsty,” she says. 

Your mouth opens, then closes, “Thanks,” you manage, voice a little too quiet. 

She just smiles, that knowing kind of smile that makes you feel like she’s onto something you don’t understand.  

You take a sip and try not to overanalyse. But your mind is racing. 

She remembered my favourite drink. Wait, how did she know I was thirsty? Doesn't matter. She remembered my favourite drink. 

You stare straight ahead, pretending to focus on the movie and hoping your brain will shut up. 

It does not. 

Because then, of course, comes that scene.  

The fight on the screen escalated fast. The two characters traded blows in an abandoned warehouse, all grit and sharp movement. A hit, then a spin, a fall, and suddenly one character has the other pinned to the floor, hands locked around their wrists, breathing hard. It's half fight, half something else entirely. 

And you thought before you could stop yourself. 

I wish Wanda did this to me. 

You squeeze your eyes shut. You can feel heat blooming on your face.  

Wanda shifts beside you, a slow, almost deliberate movement. When you glance at her, her eyes were still on the screen, but there’s a soft pink flush on her cheeks now too. 

By the time the credits roll, your nerves are fried. Most of the team disperses quickly. Steve’s saying goodnight, Natasha’s stretching, Tony muttered something about “young love”. 

Soon it’s just you and Wanda, the screen dimming to black.  

You fidget with the empty can, unsure if you should speak something or call it a night too. The silence stretched just long enough to make your pulse start to race again. 

Then Wanda spoke. 

“You think very loudly,” she says. 

You froze, “...What?” 

She turns her head, eyes glinting in the faint light from the TV, “Your thoughts. They're not as quiet as you think.” 

You groan, burying your face in your hands, “Oh my god.” 

A soft laugh escapes her, the kind that warms the air between you, “Don’t worry. I don’t mind it.” 

You peek at her through your fingers, “Even the embarrassing ones?” 

Her smile curves, slow and knowing, “Especially those.” 

You drop your hands, trying to look anywhere but at her, “So, um... about that movie scene...” 

“Yeah,” Wanda hums thoughtfully, turning her body toward you, one arm resting on the back of the couch, “You want to recreate it?”  

You blink, certain you’ve misheard her. You mouth opens, but no words came out, “I... What?” 

Wanda's expression doesn’t waver. There's a flicker of amusement in her eyes, but behind it something else. Her tone was teasing, but not cruel, “I’m joking,” she said softly. Then, after a beat, “Mostly.” 

Your brain can’t seem to catch up with her, “You... uh... you can’t just say things like that.” 

“Why not?” she asks. She's still angled toward you, her arm draped lazily over the back of the couch, her fingers jest barely brushing your shoulder, “You started it.” 

“I didn’t say anything,” you tried to defend yourself. 

“No,” she murmurs, smiling, “but you thought it.” 

You stared at her, at the faint glint of humour in her eyes and it hit you, she’s enjoying this. Not in a mean way, but in that quiet, confident Wanda way that makes it impossible to tell how serious she’s being.  

“I wasn’t exactly planning to broadcast it,” you manage, “You could’ve just ignored them.” 

“I could have,” she agrees easily, her voice dipping into something teasing, “but then I wouldn’t have known how you feel.” 

Your head snaps up, eyes wide. “Oh my god, stop talking.” 

Wanda laughs again, low, quiet and warm. Somehow that’s worse than if she’d teased you outright. It curls through you, soft and electric. 

“I’m serious,” you mumble, pressing your palms to your face again, “I think I’m going to move to another country.” 

Her voice lowers, a whisper just for you, “You’d miss me too much.” 

You peek at her from between your fingers, ready with a retort, but the words vanish when you meet her gaze. The teasing is still there, but it’s softened, tempered by something gentler.  

Wanda leans in just a little, her knee brushing yours, “I don’t think your thoughts are a problem,” she murmurs, “They’re kind of… sweet.” 

Sweet. The word lands somewhere deep. You force yourself to breathe normally, to say something.  

“You’re not supposed to like that I think about you pinning me down during an action movie.” 

“Maybe I like knowing you see me as strong.” 

You blink, flustered, “That’s not what I...” 

“Mhmm,” she interrupts, eyes glinting. 

“Wanda.” 

“Yes?” she says, all innocence, but her grin gives her away. 

“You’re enjoying this way too much.” 

“Maybe,” she admits softly. 

The quiet between you stretches, steady and humming. 

You swallow, “So what now?” 

Wanda’s smile tilts into something softer, “Now,” she says, “you stop worrying about how loud you think.” 

“And if I can’t?” you ask before you can stop yourself. 

Her eyes sparkle as she leans back, close enough that her voice brushes your thoughts as much as your ears. 

Then I’ll keep listening. 

She stands after a beat, slow and graceful, stretching just enough for the hem of her sweatshirt to lift. She told you “Goodnight”, smiling down at you. 

You manage a weak “Goodnight” back, still frozen in place as she walks away. 

And you swear you can still hear her in your mind as she leaves: 

You’re cute when you panic. 

Wanda pushed you onto the bed, a heated smirk on her face. You were flushed, lips swollen and spitty from a heated make-out session.

“Are you ready?” Wanda asked, tugging her shirt off.

You arched a brow, scooting back enough to lay comfortably on the bed. “Ready for what?” you asked. Heat pooled in the pit of your belly, paying close attention to the mischievous, deep gleam in Wanda’s eyes.

With a wave of her hand and a shimmer of red energy, the drawer opened at the bedside table. “I’ve done some practicing with my magic,” she stated. Reaching in, Wanda pulled out one of her toys, a strap on, red and thick and curved slightly. You flushed even further. “Wanna try it out?” Wanda asked, her tone low and sultry.

A slow smile crept across your face. Without a word, you tugged down your pants and panties, tossing them off somewhere across the room. Wanda put on the toy, climbing over your body with an almost predatory look in her eyes.

Her hand slid down your side and gently gripped your thigh, her lips ghosting yours. Wanda spread your legs. You feel the tip of the toy teasing your entrance, a soft gasp escaping you. Wanda moaned, pressing a kiss to your lips.

“You’re so wet,” Wanda hummed.

You rolled your hips upward, the tip slipping past your folds. “You feel that?” you asked, a moan slipping past your lips.

“Yeah…” Wanda slowly pushed further into you, stretching you in the most delicious way possible. “So warm,” she whispered, “so wet. Is all that for me?”

You nodded, your hands gripping Wanda’s shoulders, nails digging into her skin.

Once she was fully sheathed, you were practically hyperventilating. The pleasure was sending shockwaves up your body. The tip of her toy resting just below that one spot that made your head spin.

Wanda nudged your nose with hers, planting another kiss on your lips, down your jaw and your neck. Burying her face in your neck, Wanda pulled out and thrust back in, your body jolting with pleasure. You cried out, whining Wanda’s name as she set a steady pace.

“You’re so tight,” she cried. “So wet for me. Are you gonna come for me?”

“Y-Yeah,” you whimpered. “You’re splitting me open! You—ah! Right there—you feel so good…”

Wanda used her magic to lift your legs up higher. The angle changed, she thrusted deeper within you in a way that had you sobbing.

“I feel it,” Wanda whined. “I’m so deep…so deep in you. You’re so close…”

“Please,” you begged.

“Please what?” Wanda gave a particularly hard thrust. You cried out.

“Please make me come!”

Wanda’s pace quickened, her moans becoming higher and higher. You chanted Wanda’s name, the feeling of her so deep had you seeing stars. The sound of skin slapping skin echoed off the walls of Wanda’s room. It was loud, lewd—it made your cunt clench around her.

Wanda panted. “You’re close, aren’t you?”

You felt her smirk against your neck. With a final thrust, pleasure exploded throughout your body. Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes, nails scratched down your girlfriend’s back as she rode out your release. She didn’t stop until you tapped her back, a sob escaping you from the overstimulation.

Wanda rolled off you with a satisfied gleam in her eyes.

“What the hell,” you panted. “You enchanted your strap on?”

“I wanted to be able to feel you.” She explained.

“Would it work if I tried it?”

What you were doing right now was a risk and you knew that, but desperate times called for desperate measures. You couldn’t handle seeing the suffering that was sweeping through your village. It started with a few people, the elderly mostly, coming down with a strange illness that turned them into husks of themselves, giving them a slow and painful end. Then it spread further, to the children, until finally anybody was susceptible to this blight that cursed your people. With each day more and more perished and you watched helplessly, fretting for the day when you or, worse in your mind, a loved one came down with this mysterious disease. 

And then that dreaded day did come. Your older brother, a person who embodied your entire world, the one person that made sure you had food on the table as a child and a roof over your head, fell ill. You saw the signs as soon as they started, the coughing, the specks of blood on his handkerchief he tried so hard to hide, the dulling of his once vibrant eyes. He pushed himself, still working in the lumberyards until he finally collapsed and from that day on you were either at the apothecary giving people temporary reprieves for this ailment’s nasty side effects, but never able to provide any of them with a cure, or you were at his bed side, hand feeding him and praying each day that his eyes won’t finally close for good. 

You felt helpless, no matter how hard you tried to find a fix for this nothing was working. All you were was an apothecary apprentice, not yet ready to manage your own shop, just now practicing making your own elixirs and poultices. However, the woman guiding you seemed to have given up long ago on combating this blight. So, you stayed awake day and night, reading through old books and trying to find anything that might mention this affliction that has cursed your people. 

It was a long shot, really, the thing that brought you out to the woods. In your desperate attempt, you had pulled dusty books from the back of the apothecary’s small library. In it, you found a string of illnesses that have similar, but not entirely the same, symptoms. The book was in bad shape, with a worn black leather binding that looked like it hadn’t been touched in the entirety of the time both you and your teacher had been alive. Either way, it claimed that a specific plant, one you had sworn you’d seen in parts of the forest, would be the best method to fight off the fever that was rapidly taking out the entire population. So, after reading as much as you could about what it took to develop an elixir, you found yourself wandering into the forest at daybreak and now here you were, starting to tip toe your way into a part of the woods that you absolutely shouldn’t be in.

You had heard the stories, you knew the parts of the woods that were off limits to you. And as you scoured the forest floor for a delicate flower, whose petals were as red as blood, but with a stem so vibrantly purple it looked like it would line the walls of every royal’s castle, you found yourself running closer and closer to the one place you absolutely should not be. For there, a witch lived. 

Everyone knew her cabin lay on the outskirts of the forest, but close enough the whole village could see the plumes of strange crimson smoke that poured from her chimney and loomed over the town. Everyone knew, if you followed the smoke you’d find her cottage, an unassuming place from afar. However, the closer you got the more strange it became. Shrubs made of only thorns, bigger than any found elsewhere, began to line the way to her door. Behind her cottage, where the streams met, lie a small body of water, lined on one side with rocks and a small water fall, that glowed and sparked as if the water itself was alive. It was a pool of both beauty and oddity. One to avoid, yet men still made their way to her. It was always those who made desperate bargains for their starving families, or lonely wives begged for potions to make miracles, or bored youth dared their peers to brave going to the door. But all in all, it was a place you were always warned to avoid. 

But now, you were two steps away from entering her territory. It only caused you a slight pause; then you took those two steps. For, there over the unspoken line of the witch’s property was a glimpse of blood red nearly hidden in the brush. It was as if the sun broke through the trees just to shine upon the very flower you needed. Or, really you needed its strange thorns and its twisted roots. Without much hesitation, you crept through the brush until you could reach out for the flower. Your fingers caressed the petal, moving down until you could ghost them over the thorn, pushing away the foliage of the neighboring plants to confirm, in your utter relief, that it was the exact one that book had described. 

One elixir would not be enough for a town whose people were dropping like flies. So after plucking the flower, as carefully as possible, from the place in which it was rooted, your eyes scanned for more. To your surprise, suddenly, you saw many. The only drawback was with each new one you spotted, it got further and further into the witches’ part of the wood. Closer to her cottage, where the strange smoke ever poured out above the trees. 

When you plucked another, soon you saw two more in the distance, and then another two and and another two, until you were practically in the witch’s backyard. However, you hoped that the tangle of thorns and the dark looming trees kept you hidden. You didn’t dare edge near where the streams met, for you heard other stories about the strangeness of those waters and it frightened you to your core. 

As the last rays of sun disappeared, it was as if the woods got eerily still. For some reason, you thought you had way more daylight left, but maybe you were too preoccupied with your desperate need to find this hopeful fix that you didn’t accurately track the time. It was already difficult to see the sun, when the further you got into the woods, the thicker the trees were. Knowing what your brother told you as you grew, about especially staying out of the forest when the sun began to set, part of you thought you had enough and you should turn around and begin your work on crafting a tonic to cure your ailing village. But still, a louder voice in your head convinced you that you had no idea how much of these strange plants you may need to cure every single one of the sick that remained. So, you continued to gather, knowing it was necessary for the survival of all you ever knew and held dear, your concentration on the plants never wavering. 

That was, until a twig snapped in the distance, echoing through the silent forest. 

Your whole body went rigid and you leaned back up from where you had been plucking the plants with caution. The sound, you were sure, had come from behind you, so careful not to make your own sounds, you turned your body slowly. 

There, behind a tangle of twisted thorns, glowing red eyes were staring back at you. 

It could’ve been any number of dangerous creatures, but immediately you knew what was behind them. You had heard the stories, remembered the rumors. The description of her always mentioned the way her deep, scarlet eyes could simply stare at a man and make him go mad. That is why you knew, in that moment, that what stood in the shadows, stalking you, could be none other than the very Witch of the Woods that you had so carefully avoided up until this very moment in your life. 

“I-I’m sorry,” you called out to the eyes still staring at you, “I realize this is your property and I have no business to be here.” 

“That’s right,” a low voice broke the silence beyond the brush, “so why are you?” 

“I needed a specific plant and it seems it only grows on this side of the forest.” You couldn’t keep your hands from trembling as you spoke, not knowing what to expect from this ill fated encounter. “You see, there is a sickness plaguing the village.”

“And you thought to take my property to help those pathetic beggars?” The figure finally stepped out from the shadows, moonlight shining down just enough for you to get a good look at who you were dealing with. 

Your eyes widened as you finally, for the first time in your life, saw the witch everyone so feared. Men described her as a monster, but what was in front of you did not seem as such. While her presence still terrified you, her beauty struck you as entirely surprising. Without helping yourself, your eyes flicked to her hands that were crossed over her chest. There were finger tips, black as coal just as the stories told, but not crooked or shaped as some sort of monstrous talons. 

The witch stood there while you took her in, her own face shifting from anger into curiosity as she watched you try to make sense of what was in front of you. She took a step forward and when she did that, that was what snapped you out of your inquisitive stare. 

“I- yes!” You stuttered as you clutched at the satchel on your shoulder. “I suppose it is your property. I am truly sorry,” you bowed your head, surprising yourself by taking your eyes off the supposedly dangerous being that was slowly creeping towards you. “Might there be anything I can exchange for what I’ve gathered?” 

The witch didn’t say anything, but instead took another few steps until she was right in front of you. When you tipped your head back up, her face was unreadable and the stillness of the forest began to feel suffocating. 

“I um…” you shifted your shoulder, pulling the satchel to your chest and rummaging through it with trembling hands. “I found this in another part of the woods, near the brook. It’s not from your property and I think it has value…” your hands finally touched the small pouch that you had tucked in there. In your desperate search, as you scoured the forest for the plant you needed, you had stumbled upon a different flower. One you had not recognized, nor had you seen it in any of the books you read in your efforts to cure the blight. You don’t know why you plucked it, but you had, thinking its beauty may brighten your brother in his sickbed. As your fingertips brushed against its stem, delicately placed in the small pouch, you thanked the gods for thinking of even taking in the first place. Maybe it would be the one thing to appease the witch, even momentarily.  

Trying your best to move delicately while your hands shook was difficult, yet you managed to pull out the strange flower with care. “It’s not much, but I can find more.” You weren’t sure that was true, never had you seen such a crystal blue flower that seemed to twinkle in different angles. Your eyes went back to the witch’s staring, unwavering in front of you. Extending your arm to the witch, you revealed the shimmering blue flower resting on the palm of your hand.  “I was going to use this to… well, never mind what I was going to use it for. It can be yours, if you’d like it.” You outstretched your hand even more to the witch. She remained silent, her eyes dragging ever-so-slowly down to the flowers resting in your hand. 

When her eyes returned to your face, you swore the red hue in them had faded a little and you couldn’t help but search her eyes, the curiosity returning to your own. “I’ll take it,” the witch finally responded, outstretching her own hand and covering yours with hers before she carefully wrapped her fingers around the stem of the flower. 

Her touch, while not ice cold like the stories had warned, still made you shiver and you didn’t understand why. Maybe it was the way her eyes never left yours when she took it from you, or the way the intensity of her glare felt like it bore into your own mind. Either way, you didn’t dare look away or move a muscle. 

When her hand retracted, her eyes finally left yours to inspect the flower. “You are correct, this is of great value to me,” she murmured as her charcoal finger tips stroked the petals with care. “However, it is nowhere near the equivalent of what you have taken from my land.” 

“Oh,” your eyes finally shifted away from her face as you contemplated what else you could offer her in this moment. “I can give something more to you, but it may have to be at a later date.”

“You will have to,” the witch suddenly snapped her eyes back to you as she spoke. “I expect proper payment for the trespass and acquisition of what’s mine.” 

“O-of course,” you stutter, your palms sweating as you took in the seriousness of her tone. “I promise to repay you...” You would have to get creative, trying to find proper payment. While you had promised her more of that flower, you were almost sure it would be an impossible feat to find such a rarity as that. Even if you didn’t understand what it was. Something told you, she understood that whatever form of payment she expected, it would be different than more of that mysterious flower. Maybe she expected monetary compensation? Although, if it was coin she wanted, you definitely didn’t have that. “I can come at first light with whatever repayment you see fit.” That was still a bluff, but maybe you could figure out something.

“No,” the witch husked, stepping so close to you that you felt her hot puffs of breath as she slowly took a deep breath in and exhaled. “I will retrieve my payment when the time comes.” 

Your eyebrows scrunched at that. The wording was strange but maybe she knew from your appearance that coin was something you’d have to earn and save in order to repay her. Or worse, maybe she knew what promises you did just try to make were a bluff. Either way, it sounded as if she would give you time to acquire the payment she expected. You had never heard stories of the witch coming into the village, but then again it would make sense if she did. She couldn’t possibly provide everything for herself. 

You stared at her, eyes filled with confusion and for a moment she simply stared back, utterly unreadable. Then after a moment, her hand reached forward, as if to touch your face. You stayed perfectly still. Her finger brushed your cheek. “Thank you,” her lips twisted into a smile that made your blood run cold as she spoke, “for the beautiful gift.” The way she said the last word was curious to say the least. Your whole body shuttered at that simple utterance. She stepped back, her smile growing wider for a moment. You heard a small chuckle escape her lips and then in a flash, red smoke swirled in front of you one minute. The next, you were alone in the moonlight. 

—————————-

Weeks had passed and the witch hadn’t come to collect as she had said she would. You had carefully set aside coin when you could in case she asked for a large amount. It was a struggle, especially when your brother still was bedridden in his process of recuperation. To make matters worse, the illness was still sweeping the village and growing with each day. People were getting desperate. The flower you collected from the witch’s territory had cured some, but when one person recovered, two more fell ill. 

It had done exactly what you hoped it would, actually. It had fought off the fevers and you were successful in securing your brother’s recovery. However, it wasn’t enough. You were running low and you couldn’t stomach the idea of going back to the witch’s home. If she had yet to collect your debt, you truly did not want to accrue more. Each day that the witch hadn’t shown herself was a day filled with relief for you, still having not yet shaken the dark look in her eyes the moment she took the strange flower you offered from her. But, even in your relief of having not seen her yet again, you were getting more and more jumpy with each passing day. You’ve heard so many stories of the witch, yet none of them mentioned the strange nightmares that now plagued your dreams after seeing her face to face.

And by strange, they were absolutely bizarre. Nonsensical flashes of imagery, swirls of red, her voice speaking to you (at least you thought it was to you) in a language you had no familiarity with. One that sounded as ancient as the old gods. Yet, in these flashes, in these words, came a strange feeling, one that wasn’t all that unpleasant. It was as if these dreams played on your curious nature, beckoning you to go back to the woods, to catch a glimpse of the witch again. To feel her warm fingers leave goosebumps on your skin as she trailed them over your skin once more. With the fear of seeing her, these dreams made you almost wish that you would. Your mind was both conflicted in your attempt to cure your village and the strange pull you were feeling at the very essence of your being to return to the woods and stand in front of the dangerous witch once more.

You fought those feelings tooth and nail every day in silence. Not a soul knew of this encounter that you had shared with the Witch of the Woods and any time anyone questioned you about the strange plant you had returned with to cure those suffering from the fever, they got a vague answer of a location in the forest that was in the exact opposite direction of the cottage. 

But then, even if you were winning your battle to ignore your urge and stay in the village where you were needed, your temptation finally did come to you.

You heard the commotion from the shop rather than really seeing her at first. It was the crowds of people running towards the center of the village and shouts of panic that echoed outside the apothecary’s door that piqued your curiosity. You didn’t need to see to know exactly what was causing that public outcry for you to know the source, though. The feeling in your stomach, a mixture of dread and excitement, similar to the feeling you had felt that day when she was near gave you a hint at what had just arrived.

Moving as if in a trance, your shaking legs took you to the door.  Your hand turned the knob and, against your better judgement, you peaked outside.

In all her brilliance, she was there. You could see her looming over the crowd. How was it that she was taller than every single person in the village? Was it a trick of her magic that made her tower over them? She had yet to see you, your head barely peaking from the doorway, but still your feet found themselves stepping outside.

If it was because you were afraid of what was to come or because you had a singular ounce of preservation sense left in you, your body at least remained at the back of the crowd. You watched as the witch scanned the mass of bodies, her eyes swirling with red, a matching red smoke playing at her feet. 

The crowd were, for the most part still, their bodies shaking slightly as they looked up at the mysterious woman hovering above them. She didn’t speak, she waited, until finally a man stepped up. The mayor of the town was ill, you had known that because you had attempted to treat him. It wasn’t fever he was failing with, it was one of the more brutal symptoms. But this man who stepped forward in the crowd, you recognized as someone who worked closely with the head of your town. Someone the village trusted, someone who in this time played as the mayor’s second in command and was respected for the work he had done. 

The crowd grew even more silent as the man looked upon the witch. “What brings you here?” his eyes didn’t seem to waver as he stared at the witch. However, hers never met his, instead she scoffed.

“That is not the question you want to ask me,” She replied, finally her eyes, a darker shade than they once were, turned towards him. 

He squared his shoulders and cleared his throat. The stillness of the crowd felt suffocating. “Have you brought this illness upon us, Devil?” His voice was filled with false confidence as he uttered his true question. 

Blood red eyes flared as they looked in the direction of the accusation. “No!” Her voice boomed. “But I can rid you of it.”

“Then do so,” a woman cried within the crowd. “Please! I have already lost one child to this blight.”

“It will not be for free,” the witch warned. 

“We’ll pay anything!” Voices shouted in the crowd. 

“Name your price!” 

“Whatever it takes!” 

You remained frozen, hiding at the back of the crowd as it grew restless, your eyes fixed on the witch. 

“My price,” her voice echoed over them, “is simple. Give me the girl and your village shall be free of this plague.”

Questions flooded through the crowd. Murmurs of who she could mean or what exactly she wanted left the lips of nearly everyone in the mob before her. You stood glued to your spot, your frightened eyes watching as things unfolded before you. The pull in the pit of your stomach grew and twisted. As her words rang through the crowd, repeated with the questions of who and where this girl should be, they spun around your head like a whirlwind. You knew exactly who she was talking about, even if you didn’t want to admit it to yourself. All you had hoped is that she didn’t see you in the back and that no one in the crowd would think to accuse you of being the one she seeked. 

That hope didn’t last long. To your horror, as if in slow motion, you watched as the witch outstretched her hand. Her pitch-black finger pointed and moved over the crowd as all in the mob before her fell silent again. Only a single gasp could be heard as a woman you had known as the baker’s wife turned to where the witch was pointing, finally realizing who this mystery girl was. With a sickening gulp, your eyes finally moved from the witch to the crowd, all now staring right to where the witch was pointing. Right to you. 

“Her,” the witch confirmed as her eyes finally fell to you. “Hand her to me and your sick will be healed.” 

—---------------------------------------

What happened next was chaos. Everything that transpired from the moment the witch pointed to you until now was a blur of angry shouting, hands tugging at you, until finally your body had been forced to the front of the mob–and in a result, into the witch's clutches. 

The next series of events felt fragmented, but had led you to where you were now. You were perched on a lavish bed in what you assumed was the cottage you had been standing outside of weeks ago. How you got here, you weren’t entirely sure you understood. Once the mob had shoved your body towards the witch, her arms clasped around your chest and held you tight. You weren’t sure if you should’ve been thankful that she had caught you before you had fallen head first onto the cobblestone or if you should be cursing the gods for the fact that a village you worked so hard to save handed you over without a moment’s hesitation to the one thing they feared most. Or, maybe second most after seeing how this blight had decimated a small portion of the population…

Either way, once you felt the Witch’s arms clasp around your waist and pull you to her chest, in a matter of seconds a rumbling laugh echoed through the town, the source of which you were sure was the red-headed witch that had you in her grasp. She boomed out a thank you to the towns folks and promised an end to the plague, all while locking you tightly against her. Even if you wanted to struggle, the iron grip she had on you mixed with the fear you felt being in her clutches, had you frozen, glued to her chest. And after a moment, the red smoke picked up like a storm brewing in the wind, filling all your senses, until you finally blinked, coughed, and you were exactly where you are now. 

Except, you think you’ve been sitting on this bed for maybe about two hours now. Watching, the only part of you moving is your eyes, as Wanda moves about what you’re assuming is her own home, gathering things you didn’t recognize. Her attention is barely on you other than the brief moment she pushed your shoulders to peel your body off of her. 

It occurred to you, maybe far too late, that you should start defending yourself in some way. So after an hour or more of silence you finally clear your throat to speak. “What um… what is it that you want?” 

Wanda doesn’t even stop in her tracks, filing through small bottles of odd little trinkets on shelves, but her eyes do flick to you briefly. “I got what I wanted.” Her tone was so flippant and didn’t answer a single thing for you.

“But from me… what do you want from me?” You clarified, your hands trembling at your sides as you looked up at her from where you were perched on the edge of her bed.

She paused this time, her whole body turning towards you and let out a small laugh, dry and humorless. “You don’t know?”

You blinked and slowly, hesitantly, shook your head. 

“Do you not know what it was that you gave me? The promise you made?” She took a few steps towards you and it took everything in you not to crawl away in fear. 

“I said I would repay you, but taking me from the village– It– I fear all my coin is back in my home.” 

“That’s not the promise I meant.”

Your eyebrows scrunched and she stalked ever forward until you were scooting back on the bed. You weren’t fast enough to scurry away, however, and suddenly she was leaning over you. Her hands fell to either side of you on the bed and you shrunk back as she got into your personal space. “You gave me a promise,” she repeated her eyes filled with a searing seriousness that made you shiver. “The flower you presented to me, you had no idea what you were giving away? The magnitude of what it symbolized?” 

Your blood ran cold as your memory flashed back to the beautiful flower. Something so insignificant to you when you plugged it from a clearing in the woods. But now, as you ran through the memory over and over in your mind, you saw the strangeness that surrounded it. When you were looking for the plants needed for the tonic, your mind didn’t focus on anything but them. But when you saw that flower you had stopped, the woods had gone quiet, the sun had shown through the trees directly onto its glimmering petals. You weren’t one to pluck such beauty unless necessary. So why, at that moment, did you so badly want to take it? Your excuse was to give it to your brother, but in reality you just wanted to have your hands wrapped around the stem, your fingers brushing against each delicate petal. And when the witch had caught you plucking away her property, it felt as if it was the rightest thing in the world to give that mystifying flower to her and only her. 

“I placed that myself,” the witch drawled. “Only to appear at the most opportune of time. Only to be picked by specific hands and you…” she took a deep breath and leaned closer, her black finger tips reaching up and grabbing you by the chin. “You took it without so much as a second thought.”

“I– I did not know,” you stuttered, wincing as her fingers squeezed slightly against your jaw. “I am so, so sorry.” 

“Sorry?” She chuckled, leaning back, but never releasing her hold on you. “What an odd thing to say when you’ve promised yourself to someone for all eternity. Shouldn’t the correct response be a thank you? I have agreed to accept your promise of eternity.”

Your eyes grew wide and you tried with all your might to turn your head away, but quickly her hand squeezed so tight she forced your face to look right back at her. You hissed in pain as she leaned closer yet again, a twisted smile upon her face. 

“I don’t understand,” you whined as the witch’s eyes began to swirl with red yet again. 

“You see,” she continued, “where I am from, a world far from this, we have a custom. Beings like me, beings who are… cursed, must wait for someone pure of heart to come, offer themselves to us with this particular item, a magical item, and then they are ours.”

So many questions battled to escape your lips, but you knew there was more. As much as you didn’t want to hear how stupid you were for sealing your fate without even knowing it, you knew you needed to learn more. 

“And then what happens?”

The witch licked her lips before leaning in as close as she could without actually touching your lips. Her breath came out in hot, ragged puffs, her eyes slipped close for a second before opening again and showing a glowing red. “Then, my pet, creatures like me are free to do whatever they please. You have no idea the gift you have blessed me with, the power that will return to me.”

“What… what will happen to me?”

“You,” her lips trembled with delight as she pondered her next words, “will be mine to corrupt.” 

A gasp made its way to your lips but was cut off by the firm placement of her lips onto yours. Your eyes nearly fell out of your skull as you felt the hand on your chin tighten, her thumb tugging down slightly so you were forced to part your lips for her. Never have you felt this, never had you even been kissed. But now, this witch–this creature as she stated–was stealing this experience from you just as she had claimed she had stolen you from your life. 

The worst part was, after a moment of feeling her lips against yours, it wasn’t this horrendous moment you thought it would be. Instead, it felt as if you had drunk too much wine and your head was spinning. Your eyes slipped closed and you felt the witch’s other hand snake around your body. It was at that moment that you realized you were pushed more onto the bed than before and she was now hovering over you, pulling your body until your chest met her own.

That’s also when you began to realize exactly what was happening and who it was that was stealing this kiss from you. Your body went ridge and you tried to push on her shoulders. That only made her kiss you harder. Without much thought your teeth clamped down onto her bottom lip and finally she released you with a low growl. 

You looked up at the witch, eyes swirling, blood trickling from her mouth. Instead of a snarl for the attack you just landed on her lips, her twisted grin was back.

“Pure as you might me,” she purred, “you still surprise me.”

She pushed herself off the bed, leaving you there, curled in on yourself, panting and trembling. It was as if this moment never happened, her back turned from you yet again to go back to work at whatever it was she was concocting. 

You just laid there, watching her as long as you could. But after a while, your eyes grew tired and your head lulled back. 

When you opened them again, you noticed that the sun no longer showed through the cracks in the cottage windows and the witch was now sitting in a wooden rocking chair across the room, a book open on her lap. An enticing aroma filled the air and you realized, as your mouth watered, that you had yet to eat today. 

The witch noticed as you sat up and your head snapped back to where she sat in the corner of the room when you heard her book slam shut. 

“Finally,” the witch complained, “you’re a fragile mortal.”

“And you… are not?”

“Not what? Mortal?” The witch’s eyes remained locked with yours and you were just thankful she remained seated. 

You nodded in response.

“Well you call me a witch, do you not?” Your stomach dropped as she finally stood up. But to your relief, she didn’t stalk closer as she did before. “Although, I have watched as your kind has exterminated countless mortals, deeming them an evil witch too. Therefore, I suppose, I am not that, nor am I mortal.”

“What are you then?” Your voice felt hoarse as you propped yourself up on shaking limbs. 

“Little one, there is not a word in your language that makes you understand just what manner of creature stands in front of you. Some have called me a god, your people call me a witch, others a queen. There have been many names for me.” 

“And what is yours? Your name, I mean?”

The witch only looked over to you, her hands busy with a pot over on the table across from you. 

“You may call me Wanda, but I request that you tell me yours now in exchange.”

“It’s (Y/N),” you heard yourself say before you could stop yourself. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you heard the old teachings of your late parents echoing that names held power to the mysterious beings that dwelled in the forest. Then again, she gave hers so willingly. Wanda, what a simple name for a being that you couldn’t even begin to comprehend. She could’ve lied, she could’ve given you a fake name, but as your mind ran over each syllable internally, you somehow knew she offered you this truthfully.

“Here,” Wanda was in front of you before you even noticed, handing a wooden bowl full of what looked like stew and what you were now realizing was the source of the delicious aroma that had woken you. “Mortals must have food to keep their strength. Eat, you will need it.”

For the second time, without thinking, you didn’t hesitate to do as she asked. This food could be full of any number of poisons or concoctions, but it smelled so delicious you didn’t stop yourself. Plus, it sounded–to your utter dread–like she planned to keep you for a while, so why would she kill you now?

To your relief the rest of the night was silent. Wanda went back to reading in her corner of the room as you finished the bowl. When you were done, wordlessly she stood up and plucked it from your hands. Your eyes lingered on the ink black tips of her fingers and you knew she noticed, yet she said nothing, offering you no information to what might cause this slight difference that sets her apart as something other than human, other than like you.

You remained on the bed for the night, your eyes watching Wanda as she continued to page through her book, every once in a while standing up to check something on her shelves of strange trinkets and items. You had assumed maybe these were items she may use to concoct one of her infamous magic potions that people come back with from the village. Maybe, if you looked closer you’d find ingredients not unlike the ones found in the apothecary, but you didn’t dare get up and closer to where she sat.

As the night hours stretched on, you found yourself lulling back to sleep again. It wasn’t until you felt a shift in the bed did you jolt upright from your slumber. 

“What are you doing?!” You nearly gasped as you scrambled as fast as you could away from the body that was crawling next to you on the bed.

“I don’t need as much rest as a mortal, but I do like to dream,” Wanda deadpanned. 

“We’re to share a bed?” you clutched at the blankets underneath you, your eyes wide with panic.

“Why would we not?”

“I do not know you,” you scrambled. “It is indecent to share a bed!”

“You do not know me,” Wanda repeated with a growl, “yet, you are now mine. So, it is within my every right to share a bed with what belongs to me.”

You gulped, your face twisting into one of panic again.

“What you have promised me,” Wanda hissed as she leaned closer to you, “is not unlike a marriage between you mortals, only with more power, more magic.” 

You shivered as you watched Wanda crawl ever closer to where you stayed rooted to the edge of the bed.

“You are not simply mine because I took you,” she continued. “You’re mine because the moment you gave me the item needed to release me from this curse, you took it on yourself. Where once I was bound to the land, my body and soul trapped here, you freed me and in return bound yourself body and soul to me.” 

Her hand came up to your face, her pitch black knuckles brushing gently on your cheek. It took everything in you to stop from shivering. “So, we will be sharing a lot more than a bed.” 

You swallowed hard at that. If this is to be something of a marriage, whether you liked it or not, you knew something of the things that happened in a marital bed. You were not prepared for that, you did not know this woman before you. In all honesty, things like marriage and courting were distant thoughts in your mind as an adult. It was a silly dream you had to be whisked away by a brilliant prince or a dazzling knight when you were a child, but when you had lost your parents and watched as your brother struggled to provide for the both of you, that dream died. Instead, you were focused on your apprenticeship at the apothecary, hoping one day to take over and provide for your brother in the way he did for you. 

But now here you were, Wanda’s body so close to yours, her eyes getting that red glimmer again as her fingers began to play with a strand of your hair. “Does it scare you, pet?” she cooed as her hand tangled into your hair and forced you to lean closer to you. “When I kissed you today, was that your first?”

“Yes…” you shivered. 

Her other hand reached up to trace her fingertips along your lips. “And when I take you, it will be your first?”

“Of course,” you said with both anger and dread.

Wanda leaned in, her lips brushing against your cheek this time before moving to your ear. “You're a surprising thing,” she whispered. “But I will not take from you again unless you give yourself to me willingly.” 

Your head turned in shock at her words. A surprising act of kindness from a being who could overpower you so easily.

“But just know,” Wanda licked her lips as her fingers yet again traced over your own. “One day, sooner than you expect, you will give yourself to me. And this kindness of mine only remains, if my patience is not tested.” 

You gulped at those words. Wanda pulled back from you all at once and you were left just staring at her. “Tonight,” Wanda looked back at you. “We rest. I’m sure that is an acceptable reason to share the bed for you?”

All you could do was nod and watch as Wanda extinguished the candles throughout the cottage with a flick of the wrist.

That night, your eyes remained open as you lay perfectly still next to the sleeping form of this unknown creature you now knew as Wanda. There was a large part of you that wanted to sob and scream, an even larger part that wanted to sneak out and run, but you did neither. Instead, you watched, wordlessly, as Wanda’s face remained calm, soft even, in the moonlight. 

At some point, in the late hours of the night, you too fell asleep again. This time, dreaming the same dreams you’d been plagued with before your capture. Only now with more clear imagery. Moments flashed in your sleeping mind, moments with Wanda. Your bodies intertwined, dark clouds of smoke surrounding the both of you, but in these clear visions, rather than the fear you expected, all you felt was warmth.

—--------------------------------------------

Weeks went by and you were surprised at how easily it came to you to fall into a rhythm of living as Wanda’s captor. Where you definitely were aware of the restraints figuratively placed upon you, she gave you everything you needed. She fed you, she provided you with clothes much nicer than the ones you had left behind in the village, and she informed you that the strange glow of the pond behind her cottage was just a result of the plantlife that grew within it, crushing your fears and providing you with a beautiful place to bath under the stars each evening. 

Of course, she also let you know that if you did try to run there would be consequences to your actions. Something she didn’t go into detail about but you understood that the capability of her rage was endless, and you did not want to test that. Yet still, you found yourself longing to go back to your village. You wanted to know if she made good on her promise, if there were still those that suffered the plague. Your heart would twist at the thought of your brother, all alone, still recovering from the plague and regaining his strength.

You wondered if he knew what the village did, if he knew they handed you over. Part of you wondered if he was okay with that, in order to save himself from the plague. While he was better from the elixirs you made for him, the path to recover was still a long one for him before you left. The struggle he went through just to take one small step from the brink of death was already a lot for his body. Maybe he was okay with his only sister, a source of burden for most of his life, to be gone from his care. 

At least that’s what you told yourself when you wondered why you had yet to see his face outside of Wanda’s door, demanding for your return. Although, maybe it was a blessing that he didn’t show. You had seen Wanda’s rage in these weeks, at least peaks of it. Every once in a while a villager from a neighboring town would show up at her door, sometimes they would test her patience just a little too much or demand what they had no right to demand from her. She would send them scream and if they pushed their luck. It was the silence that fell throughout the woods that really made your skin crawl, when they pushed her too far and the screams would abruptly stop. 

But, you also got chances to see her be kind. Quickly, you realized when mothers or children showed up at her door, it was easy to sway her to provide a solution. She kept most of the magic she performed hidden from you, but what you did see, you understood, had the power to change the course of people’s lives. If a child had a serious ailment, she could cure it better than any of the poultices or tonics you’ve made ever could. It had you, in those moments, in awe of her.

Not to mention the surprising gentleness she showed you. It was a test for her and you could tell. She was used to taking what she wanted, but she had to hold herself back when it came to you. She never stole another kiss from you, never forced herself upon you. When you slept, she stayed on one side of the bed and never crossed over to yours. Of course, there were small touches here and there. Her hand would press to the small of your back when a knock came at the door, urging you to go out back while she attended to business. Or a hand would brush hair from your face when you came in after bathing. Things like that were starting to form a different image of Wanda in your mind. One that complicated the image of the evil monster she herself tried to imprint into your brain.

In moments like that it was almost as if she cared for you. That the tie that you unwittingly forced upon yourself and to Wanda went both ways, that she was yours just as much as you were hers. It was silly thinking, but as the weeks stretched on that feeling just got harder and harder to ignore.

Until finally, something had to break.

A family had come to her door this time and you had been out back, tasked with picking some roots specific for something Wanda needed. You didn’t question it, you were happy to be out of the cottage, even if it meant you couldn’t stray that far from her land. Except, as the day's breeze swept through the trees, you found yourself wandering, your mind on all that has changed in what you think might be around the past three months now. Time felt different with Wanda, so keeping track was difficult.

Your hands brushed against the soft leaves of plants as you walked, your eyes still scanning for similar root to what Wanda requested, but also plucking small flowers here and there. Maybe it was childish, but you thought they might brighten her eyes if you showed her flowers you found beautiful.

When a twig snapped in the distance, you thought yourself still close enough to the cottage that no one would dare wander around, unless on the specific path that leads to her front door. It wasn’t until a man, armed with a bow, stood right in front of you did your feet halt in their tracks.

“Are you the witch that lives in the cottage?” he motioned with his notched arrow to your new home.

“No,” you said, your hands coming up slowly. “I am not a witch.” 

“I watched you leave from there. You live with her then?”

You swallowed and nodded. “What is it that you want?” 

“What are you to the witch?” He ignored, stepping closer as you stepped back. 

You couldn’t answer that question easily. Her captor? Yes, maybe. Her companion? That seemed like it didn’t quite fit. Her wife? You were unsure, but the way Wanda talked of the binding between you two, it seemed as though you were, even if there were parts to that union that had yet to occur. 

“What are you to the witch, I said!” He repeated and you startled.

“I– Well… I am her helper!” It was all you could think of. “I am tasked with gathering ingredients for her.”

“Does she care for you?”

“What?”

“The demon took everything from me!” His voice was harsh. “I had a wife! Useless as she could be, she was still mine and one day she says she visited your witch, gained what she needed for a better life, drank some blasted potion and vanished before my eyes! The witch took her, I know she did! So I ask again, does she care for you? Are you important to her?” This wasn’t an innocent question and something in your mind told you that if you answered yes, it would be trouble, but if you answered no, he would not believe your words. So instead, your eyes scanned the woods, trying to find anything to distract him.

Your only thought was to take the handful of flowers you had stuffed in your satchel, throw it smack at his face, and turn to run. Luckily for you, it worked in stunning him for a moment, but he was running right behind you a moment later. You heard him call for you to wait, but you refused to stop, your feet trying as best as they could to carry you back to the cottage. 

A root stuck from the ground and your ankle tangled around it before you could make it back onto Wanda’s property line, causing you to fall hard onto the forest floor. There was pain as you tried to scramble back to your feet but the man was back on you, his arrow once more trained between your eyes.

“Run once more and I release my arrow.” 

You twisted to look up at him, struggling to catch your breath.

“You are to bring me to the witch,” he demanded. “And I will put an end to her.” 

It felt like ice running through your veins as he seethed out his demand and for whatever reason you could not understand, the last thing you wanted to do was lead her into danger.

“You might as well kill me,” you snarled back at him. Why was it that the thought of being her demise, even as her own prisoner, made your blood run cold? Never did you think you’d defend her, but now suddenly you’re willing to die for her. 

“I will give you one more chance,” the man barked, “bring me to the witch and I will let you live.”

“If you kill me,” you spat, “she will tear you apart for taking what’s hers.”

His eyes grew wide for a moment at the realization that you stood firm in protecting Wanda. His stance shifted and your eyes narrowed as you watched him ready the bow, pulling back even further to make sure his arrow would fly true. 

But when you blinked, right as he began to release, the arrow never came. Instead a plume of smoke formed in front of you and in an instant, the bow was on the ground, the arrow had never reached its target, and there was a sickening squelch of sound before an even louder thud hit the ground in front of you.

Your eyes took a moment to understand what had actually occurred. Standing in the middle of the smoke, as it dissipated was a seething mess of red hair. You couldn’t see Wanda’s eyes, but you could imagine the blood red rage that swirled around them. Her whole body was trembling and in her hand was a jagged knife, blood dripping from its sharp edge. 

The man was on the ground at Wanda’s feet. She had slit his throat.

The woods were silent again, save for the ragged breathing of Wanda as she stood, her body towering over your assailant. 

After a moment, she doesn’t turn to you, but she says, “you wandered too far, pet.” Her voice is filled with contempt. You shiver at the anger that is found in them. 

“I… I didn’t mean to,” you stammer as you struggle to get up onto your feet. “I wanted to bring you flowers and I just didn’t pay attention to where I was.”

She didn’t say anything to that, her body still shaking with rage as she stood over the man’s corpse. 

It wasn’t until she heard your hiss of pain did her head snap back to look at you. Her eyes were wild with anger, but in them too was concern. “The cretin hurt you,” she seethed. 

“No,” you stumbled. “I tripped trying to run back to the cottage.”

“But it was because of this mongrel.” Her eyes darkened. “I shouldn’t have given him a quick death. I should’ve made him watch as I–”

“You’re hurt!” You didn’t let her finish, partly because it frightened you to know in what depth her mind could go when it came to these dark fantasies, but also in part because you felt genuine concern when you saw the signs of crimson ooze from her side.

“The arrow nicked me,” Wanda’s demeanor changed from rage to annoyance. “I will be fine.”

You stood up fully this time, stumbling slightly on your now sore ankle. Wanda steadied you with a firm hand on your elbow as you stood in front of her. “Still,” you mumbled as your hands brushed the fabric of her clothes back to see the wound. “We must treat it.”

Wanda didn’t say anything to that, her eyes watching you as you began to rummage in your satchel for a rag and dab at the bleeding cut. 

“Let’s go back to the cottage,” you mumbled, “I can bandage you from there.” 

Wanda nodded, her hand never leaving your elbow as she walked the two of you back.

—----------------------------------------------

“You told me the pool wasn’t magic,” you huffed as you stood at the banks of it. 

“Would you have bathed in it otherwise?” Wanda deadpanned as she slipped the rest of her clothing off and began to step in. “It heals, that is all.” 

You had tried to insist on bandaging her wound once you returned to the cottage and Wanda had entertained that thought for a moment, but as soon as the sun set and the glow of the moon showed over the water’s surface, she had removed all the bandage and insisted on going for a swim. 

That also when she insisted you did too, something you both had never done together. But when she revealed that the small quarry where the streams met behind her cottage did in fact have magical properties, that was when you allowed yourself to follow Wanda curiously outside towards it. 

“Healing is all it does?”

“Yes, but only under moonlight” Wanda said, her body now fully nude but submerged in the water. “And you’re hurt too, so remove your clothing and get in.”

Your face flushed as she watched you expectantly. With shaking hands, you removed your clothes slowly, Wanda’s eyes shining in the moonlight, but never once leaving your body. 

Your feet slowly dipped into the pool of water as if it were the first time you’ve ever enjoyed bathing under the stars here and once your ankles were fully submerged, the ache you felt in them and the small sting from the various cuts you received from your fall, all disappeared. 

When you were fully submerged, you couldn’t stop yourself from covering your chest as Wanda waded towards you. The look in her eye was one you’d seen many times in the past few months. It was one that told you Wanda was hungry, but she was trying her best not to give into it. 

“Here,” Wanda murmured as she took one of your hands that was wrapped around your own chest. “Feel.” She pressed the hand to her side where the jagged cut had been, it was all but vanished. There was a small hint of raised skin where it once was, as if it was an old scar. “It’s gone now, see?”

Your hand remained on her naked side for a moment, your eyes trying their best to see through the water with the help of the moonlight while Wanda’s remained glued to you. She was breathing slightly harder than usual and you could tell the close proximity to her while the two of you were in such a state was greatly affecting her.

“Thank you for rescuing me,” you mumbled as your fingers continued to trace, not just where the cut was anymore, but forwards, tracing the muscle of her abdomen. “I’m sorry that you got hurt, because of it.”

“All is forgiven, little one,” she reassured, her voice sounding slightly strained.

“I just wanted to bring you something beautiful,” you said more to yourself than to her as your eyes slowly dragged up her naked form in the moonlight.

Wanda stretched a hand forward slowly, her fingers brushing against your cheek before tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “You are a curious little thing,” she whispered. “Bringing me flowers when the gift I want remains right at my finger tips but yet to be given.”

There was a pause. Your eyes locked and you understood exactly what she meant. You knew what she wanted before she even said it. And as if a moth to the flame, you closed the distance.

Your arms encircled her waist in the water, your naked forms pressing to each other. You titled your head up, and knowing your exact intentions, Wanda leant down until your lips found each other in a second, this time much sweeter kiss. 

Her hands fell to your hips, pulling you impossibly closer until you were unsure of where you ended and she began. The way she kissed you back was slow this time, deliberate and savoring in the moment. 

You two remained interlocked together for a moment, kissing with a languid lust that made your head swim, until finally it was her who pulled back.

“Careful,” Wanda husked, “I am close to my limit and you are tempting me to take what I’ve been waiting for.” 

You took a deep breath, your hands running up and down Wanda’s sides in a way that made her shiver this time. It was a reaction that you revelled in. It was all you needed to make up your mind.

“Then take what you’ve been wanting, Wanda,” you breathed. 

Wanda blinked and for a moment, her ever steadfast gaze wavered and was replaced with one of surprise and hesitation. But that lasted a mere second before being replaced with both an excitement and a hunger that shone in the light of the stars. 

Her hands pulled your body back to her own, kissing you this time with a little more fervor as she waded the both of you back onto the opposite side of the pool, to its rocky outcrop. When her tongue licked along your lips, this time you willingly parted them for her and when hers brushed against your own you weren’t sure if it was you or her who moaned into the kiss. 

Wanda’s hands moved down your body as she kissed you until you felt them grab at your hips and, with a squeak that was muffled by the way Wanda was capturing your lips, she hoisted you up, forcing you to hook your legs around her waist. Twisting the two of you, with this new hold on you, in two seconds she pressed you to the cool rock at the water’s edge. Her lips finally leaving yours to kiss at your neck.

Your eyes screwed shut at all of these new sensations. To feel Wanda’s naked body in between your own legs, nothing between either of you, just bare flesh, had your head reeling. And then the way she was kissing your neck, leaving long, slowly licks and nips in places that had you shivering and felt more sensitive than you ever expected. It was all overwhelming. Your body was already trembling, and you just hoped that Wanda didn’t notice.

When Wanda’s hands went to your breasts and began to toy with your nipples, you couldn’t stop the whimper that fell from your lips, only for it to be met with a chuckle from Wanda. “You are devine, my love,” Wanda murmured against your skin as she nipped at a newly discovered sensitive spot that made your heart race faster and your hands tremble as they clawed onto Wanda’s back. “I have waited far too long to feel your skin on mine like this.” Her fingers pinched and played with your nipples in a way that sent unfamiliar heat between your legs. Everything that was happening, it felt both torturously slow and overwhelmingly fast all at once. 

“Wanda..” you breathed out as your body began to rock into Wanda’s, trying to find some sort of release for the building feeling that was making your head swim.

“I know, pet,” Wanda cooed. “I will give you what you have wanted too.” One of her hands went back to wrap around your waist, steadying you between the rock and her body as her other began to snake down your stomach until she reached between your legs.

You jumped at the gentle brush of her fingertips under the water when they found your clit. But with an encouraging hum from Wanda, your body relaxed again as she began to make light circles around it.

The feeling of her fingers between your legs was something unimaginable to you, but in the best way possible. Your lips found Wanda’s again as she started to apply more pressure and you felt that same pressure begin to build, reaching a peak you weren’t sure you quite understood. All you knew was that it felt incredible and the more it went on, the harder it was to kiss Wanda at the same time. But when she stopped, your lips tore from hers and a whine fell from your mouth.

You saw Wanda smirk in the moonlight before feeling those fingers dip down further, tracing your entrance. “From tonight onward,” Wanda purred, “you are mine in every sense.” With that you felt two of her finger tips push into you. Your head fell forward onto her shoulder as they pushed further, until they were up to the knuckle.

“Yours,” you whined into her shoulder, not fully aware of what you were even affirming, “in every way.” Your hips began to grind into Wanda’s own body until finally she moved her fingers, pulling them out before pumping them slowly back in.

She was gentle with you in a way that even surprised herself, but she knew this was what your first time had to be like. Her fingers stroked inside of you in a steady pace, curling up to press on a spot that had you crying out her name. Her free hand came up to tangle in your hair when you began to move better in time with her fingers on your own.

“That’s it, pet,” she cooed as her fingers began to quicken inside of you, pumping at a pace that made it almost difficult for your own body to follow. The way you were grinding, your legs still hooked around Wanda, your hands clawing at her back, had Wanda utterly enthralled. With the help of the water and the way she had you pressed against the rock wall of the pond’s edge, it allowed for you to continue to get off on her own fingers while she curled them inside you and made sure to press at just the right place at just the right times. 

Moans were filling the air and you thanked the gods that Wanda lived so far from civilization, because otherwise this would be a scandal that swept through the village. Every neighbor would’ve been sure to hear the way you moaned Wanda’s name and cried for her to keep going. The feeling that was building when Wanda was playing with your clit was returning as well, growing ever closer as Wanda began to pump her fingers with a little more roughness, a little more possessiveness to it. Your whole body felt like it was trembling and with each stroke of Wanda’s fingers inside of you, white hot pleasure was being sent to your core. It only took a few more moments, Wanda’s hand tugging and tangling in your hair as your body moved faster against her own, before you fell over that edge with a low moan. 

Wanda talked you through it too, mumbling soft things into your ear in a way you had never heard her talk before. Telling you that you were beautiful, that you did perfectly, that you were cherished. It was almost as if she loved you, in the way she was petting your hair as your body pressed limply against hers when you came down. 

The both of you were breathing hard, Wanda’s fingers were no longer inside of you, and instead her hands were wrapped around body as she pushed off the wall and waded the both of you towards the banks of the pond. 

“Now you know what you have fought against all this time,” Wanda whispered as her body emerged from the water, her hands still holding you to her as if you were just as weightless in the water as you were outside of it. “This is what you have missed each night you have denied me, my love. And now that you are mine, you shall deny me no more.”

Your head stayed resting on her shoulder. Wanda had maneuvered you until she was cradling you in her arms. Both your bodies dripped as she walked you to the cottage. 

“Tonight, you must rest,” Wanda pressed a kiss to your forehead as she opened the door to the back of the cottage with nothing more than a simple point of her finger. “Tomorrow is a new day for us, pet.”

There held in those words a lot more meaning than you could comprehend in this moment. If you had looked up, as Wanda carried you to the bed, you would yet again see the powerful blood red swirl in her eyes. If you had looked up, when Wanda placed you gingerly in the bed, you would’ve seen the twist in her smile once more. If you had looked up right before Wanda blew out every candle in the cottage, you would’ve noticed the inky black of her fingers spread up to her forearms. 

But tomorrow would be a new day, and much more was to come.

taglist: @geekyandgay98 @desperate-gay @high--power @xxxtwilightaxelxxx @natashamaximoff69 @natashasilverfox @lovelyy-moonlight @jareguiromanoff @dj-bynum3718 @noahrex @simpforlizzie @taivantaylor @mrsmothermaximoff @beggingonmykneesforher @dorabledewdropp @belovasecho @umadirectioner @natsnerd @natsknife

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They say if you ever see money lying on the street—shiny, folded, or wrapped in an envelope—don't touch it.

It might not be yours to take.

That day, you were just…tired. Hungry. The kind of hunger that dulls thought and turns the world into noise. You had just come from another job application—your third that week—and the rejection barely stung anymore. It was the same phrase, different faces and voices: "We'll call you." They never did.

Your stomach was twisting itself into knots when you saw it—a small brown envelope on the cracked sidewalk, edges wet from the afternoon rain.

You looked around. No one. Just the faint rustle of leaves and the hum of the city pretending not to notice.

So you took it.

You were almost crying and laughing at the same time as you ate what you ordered with the money—a strange, pitiful mix of emotions bubbling up all at once. The noodles were too salty, or maybe that was just the taste of your tears. You wiped them away with the back of your hand, forcing a small smile.

You had failed another job application but at least you had two hundred dollars now. A two hundred miraculous dollars you'd found lying on the street, like a tiny gift from the universe. It felt like a blessing—or maybe just a lucky accident. Either way, you weren't going to waste it. For tonight, at least, you could eat without worrying.

You twirled another bite with your fork, trying to laugh off the sting of the day. "All I just need to worry is how will I eat tomorrow," you muttered softly to yourself, half a chuckle slipping out because the remaining change of the money will go to the rent you owed.

You lived day by day not in some poetic, free-spirited way, but in the kind where you woke up and hoped there was something to eat or someone who needed something done. Sometimes, you'd drop by your friends' place, pretending to hang out, when in reality, you were there to ask if they had assignments they didn't feel like finishing. Essays, reports, reaction papers—you'd do them all for a few bucks or a free meal.

On slower days, you'd stay around the neighborhood, talking to the old folks sitting outside their houses. You'd crack jokes here and there and they'd laugh, shaking their heads, calling you "that funny kid." And just like that, one of them would ask if you'd eaten already, and somehow dinner would appear in front of you.

That was your way of living—surviving through borrowed laughter and kindness, trading humor for bread, and hiding exhaustion behind every grin.

That same night, you dreamt of a woman.

She stood with her back on you—her figure tall and still, framed in a red dress that seemed to bleed into the darkness. Small horns jutted out from her head, just enough to catch the light. You didn't know where you were, only that your wrists were bound, your skin pressed against cold fabric—a white gown, long and heavy, tightening with every breath.

You tried to speak, to ask for her help, but no sound came out. Only a faint rasp, the kind that gets stuck in your throat. Slowly—agonizingly slow—she turned her head. You felt your heart pounding, a tremor climbing your chest as your scream began to form.

When her face came into view, your voice finally broke free.

You jolted awake, gasping—the kind of breath that burns going in. Your chest heaved, your hands shook, and for a terrifying moment, you thought your heart had forgotten how to beat.

After that nightmare, sleep was out of the question. So you got up, washed your face, and started doing whatever needed to be done in your tiny apartment.

You did the laundry, scrubbed the dishes, even planned out your day on a scrap of paper like it would somehow fix the rest of your life. It didn't, but it made things feel a little less heavy.

Then came the call—an agent you'd spoken to once before, offering a job. She didn't say what kind, just told you to dress nice and show up. You didn't even bother asking for details.

Now, at the meeting place, you were made up carefully, clothes neat and pressed—like someone who had her life together, even if you barely made it out of bed this morning.

"She's a pretty thing," the woman said, her voice low and sharp like the click of her heels against the tiled floor. She tilted your chin up with two perfectly manicured fingers, her perfume thick and sweet in the air.

"Do you dance?" she asked, eyes glinting like she already knew the answer.

You swallowed hard. You didn't. Not professionally, not even confidently. But you nodded anyway.

"Great," she said, a satisfied smile curling on her lips. "You start tonight."

Your voice came out small. "What's the job?"

She laughed—not cruelly, but like she'd heard that question too many times before. "Stripper, hon."

The word hit you harder than you expected. You blinked, throat dry, and all you could manage was another small nod—because what else was there to do?

The night came faster than you were ready for.

One moment you were staring at your reflection in the cracked mirror of your apartment—the same reflection that looked too tired, too hollow—and the next, neon lights were bleeding through the club's tinted windows. Your stomach twisted with every passing second. The air smelled of perfume, alcohol, and something faintly metallic. Laughter echoed from the dressing room; women in glitter and heels walked past you like they'd done this all their lives.

You, on the other hand, stood there clutching your borrowed outfit, your heart racing loud enough to drown out the music.

You needed a job right? You need money. So here it is.

But as the lights dimmed and your name was called for the first time, the world suddenly felt smaller—and your breath, much harder to find.

You danced—awkward, uncertain, but trying. The crowd howled anyway, a noise that made your skin crawl. When it was finally over, a man at the back waved you over. The bouncer gave you a shove toward the private rooms before you could ask why.

Inside, the air felt wrong. Too close. Too heavy. The man's smile didn't match his eyes.

You told him you were new, that you didn't know the rules, but he stepped closer anyway. He shoved you through the wall, your cheek pressing so hard against it. You started screaming for help but no one came in and his hand were already spreading your legs apart, the other fondling your chest.

Instinct took over—the same survival instinct that had kept you alive this long. You stomped your heel so hard on his foot making the man cry in pain. And you didn't waste time bolting for the door before anyone could stop you.

You didn't even wait to collect your pay or get your things back. You ran. You didn't think about where your feet were taking you—you just needed to get out. Away from the voices, the lights, the smell of alcohol and the touch of the man that clung to your skin. The night air hit your lungs like knives as you turned into a narrow alley, the sound of your footsteps and cries echoing off the brick walls.

You stopped there, finally, chest heaving. Your hands shook as you pressed them against your face, trying to hold yourself together, but the tears broke through anyway. And even though every part of you screamed to collapse on the ground that probably wound your knees, you stayed standing. Barely. But still.

Through your crying, a voice slipped into the night—soft, calm, and too close.

"Do you need a job?"

You froze, breath catching mid-sob. The sound didn't belong here, not in this forgotten alley where the only witnesses were shadows and your shame. You wiped at your face with the back of your hand, smearing tears across your cheeks, and turned toward the voice.

A man stood there under the dim streetlight—blonde hair, blue eyes, too calm for this hour. You didn't know him, and with the way he looked at you made your stomach twist.

You took a step back instinctively, arms crossing over your chest, trying to make yourself smaller. The air was cold against your bare skin where your clothes had torn. You held back your sobs and wiped your messy cheek, feeling a bit conscious.

You looked at him from head to toe—a decent man, maybe around your age, the kind you wouldn't normally talk to in a dark alley. But he certainly didn't look like the old man who had just laid his hands on you.

You'd just been violated—body trembling, eyes blown and swollen—so why would you really care now? What else could the world take from you that it hadn't already?

"50 for a blowjob, 150 for sex."

Your voice cracked when you spoke, low and hoarse from crying, the kind that sounds more like a wound than a sound. You didn't even know where it came from, the offer, the surrender that wasn't really a choice. Maybe it was your trembling, traumatized mind or maybe from the fact that you haven't eaten anything yet for this entire day.

The world had already taken so much from you that you started to think maybe this was just how things worked.

"Are you down or not?" you asked, patience running out.

"You know…you're already working for someone," the man said quietly. You frowned, confusion slipping through the exhaustion. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out an envelope—the same one you'd seen yesterday, "You actually just got your first paycheck yesterday."

Your fingers trembled as you took it, the paper was thick and rough. You didn't understand—none of this made sense—but you clutched it anyway, like it might disappear if you blinked. And when you flicked it open, your eyes widened, seeing the thick hundreds inside, probably fifty of them.

He smiled faintly, almost kindly. "How about I'll see you tomorrow?" he said. "We'll discuss about it then."

You hesitated, then nodded. You didn't trust him, but you didn't have much left to lose.

There were tales—old ones whispered by tired grandmothers—that you should never accept money from strangers.

Especially when they wore a pendant of ashes around their neck.

That same night, you dreamt again—a woman you didn't know.

She descended the stairs slowly. Her red hair caught the light, glowing like embers against the warm haze of the dream.

When her eyes met yours, something in her expression shifted—relief, maybe, or something deeper, something you couldn't name. She approached you quickly, her hand reaching for yours, her brows knitting together like…like she was scolding you. Her lips were moving, she was saying something but the words were muffled, distant, like you were hearing them through water.

She guided you carefully, one hand pressed lightly against your back, the other curling around your arm as though you might break if she let go.

When you sat down, she knelt in front of you. Her eyes softened, a faint smile tugging at her lips as she reached out and placed a hand over your stomach. She leaned in slowly, her hand cupped your face, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw with a tenderness that made your breath hitch. Her lips touched your cheek first, soft and lingering, then traced their way down to the curve of your jaw.

Then came the kiss to your neck—gentle, almost reverent, until it wasn't. Her lips parted slightly, and there was a sharpness in it now, a heat that burned through the tenderness. The sting was small at first, then deeper, blooming under your skin like fire spreading through paper.

You gasped, instinctively clutching her wrist. She pulled away, her mouth hovered close to your ear, her voice barely more than a breath.

"I'll see you soon."

Then she stood and turned toward the door. Before stepping out, she looked back one last time and waved—a small, knowing smile on her face.

And just like that, the door closed behind her. The dream ended.

You stretch awake, you sigh before opening your eyes. The room was quiet, washed in the faint gray light of early morning. You blinked a few times, reaching blindly for your phone on the nightstand. The screen lit up and it's 6:33 am. You rubbed your eyes, thumb hovering over the time like it would somehow slow it down, making sense of the heaviness pressing on your chest.

Then, through the reflection of the screen, you caught something—a shadow, a mark just below your jaw. You frowned, angling the phone, trying to see better. The light caught it then—faint but unmistakable. A dark, flushed mark on the side of your neck.

"Fuck," you whispered, voice cracking. You touched the spot again, half-expecting it to fade under your fingers. It didn't. The warmth of it, the sting—it was still there. "What the fuck?" you breathed out, louder this time, like saying it could make it make sense.

You stumbled out of bed, the blanket tangling at your feet, your heart thudding so hard it hurt. You checked the mirror and it was still there.

You tried remembering—you dreamt about something…someone…a woman! That's right! A woman! Her face, the warmth of her hands, she whispered something. But when you tried to hold on to it, it slipped away. Just flashes now, her touch and voice fading at the edge of your memory.

"Whatever," you muttered, forcing out a dry laugh that didn't sound convincing, even to yourself. Maybe you bumped into something last night that you didn't remember. Maybe it was nothing.

You were going to meet the man—the one from last night—in just a few hours. So you need to get ready.

You splashed cold water on your face, the chill biting against your skin, chasing away the last traces of sleep and that strange dream still clinging to the edges of your mind. You brushed your teeth, fixed your hair, went through the quiet, mechanical rhythm of your morning like you always did. It was easier to pretend everything was normal when you focused on routine.

You opened your mini fridge and were greeted by nothing but the low hum of its motor and a half-empty bottle of water. No leftovers, no instant noodles, not even an egg. You sighed—a long, tired breath that seemed to deflate your whole body.

You shut the door quietly, leaned against the counter, and that's when your eyes landed on it—the envelope. The same one the man had handed you.

It was still there on the table, untouched. You actually did check the envelope last night—just enough to see the thick folds of cash inside. But you hadn't even looked inside when you got home; you were too shaken, too exhausted to care.

You sat down, pulling the envelope closer. Your fingers hesitated at first, then slipped inside, pulling out the bills one by one. They were crisp, new, too clean. You started to count—ten, twenty, thirty—and your chest grew tighter with every stack.

Fifty.

Fifty hundreds.

Five thousand dollars.

You froze. The room suddenly felt smaller, the air heavier. That couldn't be right. You flipped through them again, faster this time, your heart pounding louder with every bill. Still the same.

Last night, it just looked like money. This morning, it looked like a question you didn't know how to answer.

"You're already working for someone."

"Why would he give me this much?" you whispered, your voice barely a breath.

Still, despite the unease curling in your gut, you found yourself waiting for him.

You'd told him a place, public and safe for you. Just a precaution. A small restaurant near the main street where people came and went constantly. You'd even checked the exits twice on your way there. You told yourself that if things went wrong, you'd just walk out or fucking run. Simple as that.

You were still standing on the curb when the car's window slowly rolled down. The tinted glass revealed his face. He didn't say a word, just gave a small nod, the kind that said get in without needing to speak.

You got in like you had no survival instinct left—very stupid of you. The seat was soft, too soft, the hum of the engine low and steady as the city outside slipped away.

The drive stretched on longer than you expected. Buildings turned into open roads, and open roads turned into silence. Then, through the tinted glass, you saw it—a mansion. Huge, dark-roofed, the kind of place that didn't belong in your world. Iron gates, tall hedges, the gravel road curling like a private secret.

The car slowed, then stopped in front of it.

Your pulse thudded in your throat as the driver stepped out first. The air outside was colder, heavier somehow. The man turned to you, finally—calm eyes, unreadable still—and simply said, "Come."

You stepped out of the car, your shoes crunching against the gravel. The mansion loomed over you—its windows tall and dark, its walls washed in that pale morning light that made everything look colder than it really was. You followed the man up the steps, each one creaking faintly under your weight.

The door was opened for him, the sound echoed—a hollow welcome into a space too large, too quiet. The househelpers bowed to the man as soon as he stepped inside. You followed right behind him, suddenly too shy, too conscious of how out of place you looked, you quickly bowed back—not to the man, but to the helpers. It was awkward, unsure, but it felt like the only thing to do.

Inside, the floor gleamed, marble veined with gray. A chandelier hung above. The man walked ahead without looking back and you followed, because what else could you do?

He led you into what looked like a living room—high ceilings, soft light spilling through tall windows, and furniture that looked too expensive to touch. He gestured toward one of the sofas.

"Wait here," he said, his voice calm but clipped, like someone used to giving orders.

You hesitated, your fingers twitching at your sides. "Wait—what's your name?" you asked before he could disappear through the doorway.

He turned back just a little, "Pietro. Pietro Maximoff." He said simply, with a small nod. Then he was gone, his footsteps fading down the long corridor.

You looked around, cautious but curious. Everything seemed…normal enough, right? Expensive, yes, but not strange. The house was spotless—too spotless. Not a speck of dust on the shelves, not a smudge on the glass tables when you dragged your finger on. Even the air felt filtered, like it had already been cleaned before it reached your lungs.

You glanced around again, your eyes tracing the perfect order of things—the straightened curtains, the symmetrical vases, the carpet without a single crease.

If the man…Pietro offered you to be a helper here, what would you even clean? There was nothing left to wipe, nothing to scrub, nothing to fix.

You let out a shaky breath, forcing a small laugh under it. "Maybe I'll just dust the air," you sing-song to yourself, though your voice sounded hollow in the silence.

Then, your eyes wandered toward the hallway, where the light dimmed slightly. Something there drew you in—a large shape on the far wall. A painting, you thought.

Slowly, you began to walk toward it

Your eyes narrowed as the shadows began to take shape. A woman, draped in black—rich, heavy fabric that seemed to bleed into the darkness around her. Her hair, a deep auburn, cascaded down her shoulders like strands of fire dimmed by time. It looked so real it was unsettling—like it hadn't been painted at all, but captured live. The woman sat gracefully, her figure visible only up to the waist. Her hands rested delicately on her lap.

Two tall candles stood on either side of the frame, their flames swaying faintly. The wax had melted down in long, uneven trails, as if it had been burning for years without ever going out.

You squinted, taking a hesitant step closer until you were standing directly in front of the painting. The woman's gaze loomed above you. You tilted your head back, trying to make out the details of her face—the curve of her lips, the softness in her eyes—and that's when the strange familiarity hit you.

You had seen her before. Somewhere.

Your brow furrowed as you tried to remember where and when—but the thought slipped away like smoke between your fingers. The longer you stared, the heavier the air felt.

Then it came—a sudden chill brushing against your skin, crawling up your arms and down your spine. It wasn't the kind of cold that made you shiver. It was the kind that made you feel watched.

Her expression was calm, almost tender, but her eyes followed you, or maybe it was just your imagination, but the illusion was perfect.

It didn't feel like a painting anymore. It felt like a window.

And the woman inside was waiting.

You were about to turn away when you collided with something solid.

A body.

You screamed—sharp, raw, instinctive—your voice bouncing off the marble walls like it was trying to escape for you. Your hands flew up to push whoever it was away, your heart pounding so violently it hurt.

"Hey, it's just me, hey," a voice cut through, calm but startled. It was just the man—Pietro.

You blinked, breath hitching, trying to ground yourself as you stared up at him. He stood there with both hands raised in surrender, eyes wide with concern and maybe a bit of amusement. "Don't sneak up on people like that," you managed to say, your voice trembling.

"You were so focused, I didn't want to interrupt." He chuckled. He glanced at the painting where your eyes were at seconds ago, his expression unreadable for a moment. His laughter finally softened as he looked at the massive painting behind you. "That's my sister," he said, voice suddenly calm—almost reverent.

You blinked, turning back to the painting, "Your sister?" you asked quietly.

"Yeah, her name is Wanda." He nodded, a faint smile ghosting across his lips, though it didn't reach his eyes.

"Wanda." The name rolled on your tongue familiarly.

Pietro stepped closer to the painting, his voice softening as his eyes lingered on the painting face.

"She was strong," he said quietly. "Stronger than anyone I've ever known." He exhaled slowly, almost like he was remembering something painful. "People thought she was gentle—too gentle. But that wasn't it. She just…carried her strength differently. She didn't need to raise her voice to make people listen. She could look at you once and you'd stop talking."

Uhh, okay? What's the point of telling this to you?

"She took care of everything," he continued, his jaw tightening. "This house, me, even people who didn't deserve her help. She was the kind of person who'd burn herself out just to keep everyone else warm." He laughed softly, though it sounded more like a sigh. "And she always said she'd never leave this place. Guess she meant it."

You thought you were getting everything right—his tone, the way he spoke about her, the weight of his words. It all sounded like grief like this woman was no longer with the living. Still, you asked, just to be sure if you're really right.

You tore your gaze away from the painting long enough to glance at him. "Where is she?" you asked softly.

"She died," he said, almost like the words still hurt to say aloud. "It'll be her first year of death in three days," Pietro continued. His hand came up to his mouth, rubbing at the corner of his lip as if trying to wipe away the thought. "She got into an accident. Car crash. It was really quick, they said," he paused, exhaling a shaky breath, "But no one really dies quickly. Not when you're the one left behind."

The silence that followed sat heavy between you, thick enough to feel. Then his gaze turned on you, his eyes tracing a path from your face down to your neck. You didn't think much of it—until the corner of his mouth lifted into a knowing smirk.

You froze. Your hand instinctively flew to your neck, covering the spot where the faint mark had been. You thought the concealer had done its job, but it had worn off.

"Sestra ochen' lyubit pomechat' to, chto prinadlezhit yey." (Sister really likes marking what's hers) he murmured, the words rolling out in smoothness.

You blinked, caught off guard with the unfamiliar accent and language, "What?"

Pietro only shrugged, that same faint smile still ghosting on his lips. "Nothing," he said simply, turning his attention back to the painting as if he hadn't said anything at all.

But the way he spoke—the way he looked at you—made your stomach twist, uneasy. You frowned a little, your fingers brushing against your arm as if trying to shake off the chill creeping up your skin.

Then he started talking again, his voice softer this time, distant—like he wasn't really speaking to you, but to the air around him.

"My sister, she always told me she's scared to die alone." He chuckled faintly, though there was no humor in it. "She doesn't want to be alone. Never did."

You stayed quiet, unsure what to say. If you should comfort him or what?

"She wasn't able to marry anyone," he said, almost to himself. "Never found someone who could…handle her." His eyes drifted up toward the woman in the painting again, the candlelight catching the faint shine in his gaze. "But she always wanted to have a family, kids...a wife," he added.

"Wow—she's gay…wow," you muttered under your breath, but Pietro apparently heard. A soft chuckle escaped him. "Relax—I'm not a homophobe. Actually, I'm an ally…well, I'm actually gay myself," you added.

A sly smile spread across his face as he watched your rambling then he turned his eyes on the painting again, like he was speaking to her instead of you. "I don't want her to be alone." The words came out steady, but something in them trembled. He rubbed the back of his neck, sighing. "She hated silence. She used to fill every room with her humming, her cooking, her commands. Now…" he paused, shaking his head. "Now the house feels like it's holding its breath." Then his gaze flicked to you, and for a moment, it felt like he was searching your face for something. "You understand, don't you?" he asked quietly. "No one deserves to be alone."

You weren't sure what any of this meant—why he was telling you all this, why the air around you suddenly felt heavier—but you nodded anyway, you felt the need to comfort him.

"Uhm, well…" you looked at the painting again—the woman's unreadable face, the dark tones swallowing the light around her. "She's safe now," you said, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. "Wherever she is…she's not alone anymore. You don't have to worry."

It felt like the right thing to say, something kind to fill the silence. But when you glanced at Pietro again, his expression was something distant—something that almost looked like pity. He shook his head slowly.

"No," he said quietly, his voice cutting through the still air. "She's not safe."

You frowned, unsure if you'd heard him right. But he kept going, his eyes drifting to the painting in front.

"She was never safe. Even now… she's restless." His tone carried no anger, no grief—just a strange certainty that made your skin prickle. He looked at you again, gaze unreadable. "She doesn't want peace," he murmured. "She wants company."

The tall man finally tore away his eyes from the painting and looked down on you.

"And you," he said quietly, almost tenderly, as if he were stating something inevitable. "You are going to accompany my sister."

You flinched, taking an instinctive step back. "Wait, I…" you let out a short, uneasy laugh, your mind racing to make sense of everything. That, alone, was enough of a red flag—you needed to get out. You started taking a step back slowly, giving him space, telling yourself maybe he was still grieving. "I…I'm sorry for what happened to your sister," you said, swallowing hard. "But…this-this is a mistake. I'll go now."

You were rethinking everything that brought you to this moment, to this place—

"Y/N…Y/L/N," he said, each syllable deliberate, chilling. It made you stop, because you never told him your name. "You're twenty-two. You live alone in that apartment downtown, apartment 2B. You've got a utility bill of $242, a lease debt for three months amounting to $2,400 dollars. You moved out of your own home. Now, you are lying to your family about your whereabouts, that you have a decent job and that you're still studying. When in reality, you're in debt…"

"There'd be a day you won't eat at all, saving money so you can send some for your brother," he said, each word landing heavy, deliberate.

"Stop." You squeezed your eyes shut, shaking your head as if that could block him out. But his voice didn't stop—it echoed off the walls, wrapping around you, crawling beneath your skin.

"You're a college dropout."

"Fuck…" you whimpered, your knees threatening to give way. Your pulse hammered in your ears, the hallway closing in like the air itself was thickening.

"You fall too easily," he continued, his tone calm, almost pitying. "Who was it? That New Yorker girl you met on Tumblr—Lara…Layan or Remi? What's her real name between the three?" he tilted his head slightly, studying you like he could see the look on your face.

"Shut up!" you screamed, your voice cracking, desperation spilling out. But he didn't even blink.

"Do they even know that you're dying?"

The words struck like ice, freezing your heart mid-beat. You couldn't move.

"Breast cancer, right? Does your family know?" he asked, as if confirming what he already knows is a fact.

You swallowed hard, forcing a breath. "I'm-I'm not dying. I am going to be better…it's just mild," you said, trying to sound steady, trying to convince both him and yourself.

"It's been a year and a half since you last saw a doctor. No medications, no follow-ups, no chemo. Who knows what stage you're at now?" he shook his head slightly, almost pityingly.

You whipped around, eyes blazing, fists clenching. "Who the fuck are you?!" you shouted, voice cracking with rage and disbelief. "How do you know all this? What the hell do you want from me?!" Every nerve in your body screamed at him.

The tall man only tilted his head, his tone eerily calm, almost chilling. "Have some respect," he said like he was disappointed. "You do not curse in my sister's home. She doesn't like girls with a dirty mouth."

Then, you felt a sudden, wild energy rise in you, and without fully understanding why, a manic grin spread across your face as your eyes darted to the painting behind him.

"Fuck your dead sister," you spat, the words sharp, unhinged.

In an instant, he surged forward, hands closing around your throat with terrifying grip. His whisper was low, menacing.

"Oh, she will."

The world blurred as your vision tunneled, the pressure on your neck tightening, and then everything went black.

ᱬ

Your sleep is deep and dreamless until suddenly, you feel a foreign sensation between your thighs. Something rough and warm is rubbing against your clit, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. Your hips instinctively lift slightly, pressing against the unknown object seeking friction. Your legs spread wider on their own accord, inviting the mysterious pleasure-giver closer. The rough texture rubs more intensely now, directly hitting your most sensitive spot. A soft moan escapes your lips without you even being awake enough to register it. Your hands unconsciously grab onto the sheets beneath you, gripping tightly.

As the intense pleasure continues between your legs, you suddenly feel an overwhelming heaviness pressing down on your chest. It's like an invisible weight, making it impossible for you to move or even lift your arms. The pleasure intensifies, almost to the point of pain, but still incredibly arousing. You're trapped.

You still managaed to snap your eyes wide open.

Someone—something—was hovering above you. A pale, ghostly figure, her body faint and shimmering like smoke. For a heartbeat, she looked divine—an angel caught between worlds. But then her eyes opened, dark and endless, and all the warmth in the room drained away.

"Come here," she whispered. "Come for me."

The voice slithered into your bones, sweet and cold all at once. You gasped—then screamed. The sound tore through the air, and she vanished, leaving nothing but silence.

You sat up, trembling, your body slick with cold sweat.

When you looked down, your bottoms were gone, your skin burned with faint, purple bruises on your thighs. You touched them, shaking, but they didn't fade.

"What the fuck happened…" you whispered.

A ghost can't touch you. That's not possible. You told yourself that again and again, even as your heart raced, even as you felt the phantom weight of hands that weren't supposed to exist.

Your mind reeled, grasping for memory—for something solid. Pietro, that fucking man.

The last thing you remembered was his hands around your throat, the pressure building, your vision fading to black. You should've been there—at that mansion. But you weren't. You were home.

Your breath came out shaky as your gaze drifted, searching for proof you hadn't gone mad. And then, you saw it. On the table across the room, something caught the light—black briefcase—one you didn't remember owning. Its leather gleamed faintly, too pristine for something that belonged to you. And beside it is an envelope.

You stood slowly, your knees weak, the air in the room feeling heavier with every step closer. You didn't remember bringing anything home with you. You didn't even remember walking out of that mansion. Yet somehow, the proof of it sat right in front of you—quiet, waiting. Your fingers trembled as you slid them under the seal and tore it open.

You unfolded the documents one by one, your breath hitching with every line you read.

Your name.

Your address.

Your family address

Every loan under your name.

The exact amount of debt your family owed—down to the last cents.

You flipped the page, your heartbeat pounding in your ears. There were more.

A job offer for your sister—steady pay, full benefits, the kind she had been praying for for years. A scholarship for your younger brother, in a private school he could never dream of entering.

All legitimate. All already stamped and signed.

It was all there. Everything you had ever wanted for them—everything you could never give.

Your heartbeat thudded violently in your ears as your focus now turn to the briefcase. The metallic click echoed in the silence of your apartment.

Inside, there is money. Stacks of it. Thick bands of crisp bills, neatly arranged, packed to the brim like a coffin lined with wealth. The scent of paper and ink hit you hard, dizzying. You couldn't even begin to count how much there was, but you knew—this was life-changing.

You felt the tears building up, hot and sharp, as your eyes fell on the last line written in the paper, separate from the documents themselves:

"A dowry."

This wasn't a gift. It was payment.

You didn't think twice. You yanked your old Jansport from under the bed, the faded one with a broken zipper and a coffee stain on the front. It didn't matter anymore. Nothing did.

You shoved the cash into your backpack, handful after handful, until it strained under the weight. Then the envelope—the one with your name written in that dark, wet-looking ink—followed. You zipped the bag shut, the sound harsh in the silence of your small apartment. For a second, your vision blurred. You wanted to cry—maybe from relief, maybe from fear—but you didn't have the time.

You didn't know where you were going or what you were running from—only that you had to move. Now.

You left a stack of cash, enough to clear your debts in your entire stay, maybe even leave a little extra. The keys were cold in your hand as you set them down beside the money.

No note. No notice.

Just silence as you stepped out and closed the door behind you—for the last time.

You pulled out your phone, unlocking the screen. The pin blinked faintly—a location your neighbor had texted you before, the address of some healer somewhere on the outskirts of town. You remembered the story only in fragments—like flashes from a half-forgotten afternoon.

Pepper had told you about the healer named Lilia if you remember correctly. You weren't really paying attention at the time. She'd stopped you outside your apartment door, talking a mile a minute about how her 8 year old daughter, Morgan had gotten sick—fever, night terrors, that ended up her little girl crying and screaming at nothing in the middle of the night. Hospitals couldn't explain it, the doctor just wrote a prescription for fever and that's it. But then they went to this woman, somewhere on the edge of town.

"She said a spirit was playing with my child," your neighbor had said, shaking her head as she laughed nervously. "Not hurting her, just…playing. But after the healer prayed over her, burned some wood, poof—gone. My daughter slept fine."

You remembered nodding vaguely, pretending to care, more interested in the smell of a dish wafting from her kitchen. Somehow, that long conversation had ended with you being fed—rice piled high, a free meal you hadn't expected but desperately needed.

You could barely recall the details now—but the memory of your neighbor's voice lingered. "She helps people like that," she'd said. "People the spirits notice."

At the time, you'd laughed it off.

Now, that line replayed in your head like a warning.

You zoomed in, tracing the route with your thumb, calculating how long it would take to walk there. Maybe two hours. Maybe less if you hurried.

Then—ping

A notification slid down the top of your screen. Your breath caught. It was a message from your mother.

Mom: Y/N, can you send money? Just a little for your brother's school project.

You stared at it for a long time, the blue light of the screen reflecting against your face. She didn't ask where you were. Didn't ask how you were doing. Just money—always money.

Then another notification.

A photo. A small smile curved your lips as it loaded. You couldn't help but let out a short laugh—quiet, almost disbelieving.

Your little brother was hugging that same ridiculous dinosaur cat plush you'd bought him for his fifth birthday—the "kittiesaur" as he proudly named it. Except he wasn't so little anymore. He was eight now, taller, thinner. His hair longer, sticking out in every direction. But the plush was still there, clutched tightly in his arms like it was a lifeline.

You remembered that day—you'd saved up just to buy it, wrapped it with newspaper because you couldn't afford buying a gift wrap that will be just ripped in seconds, and the way his whole face lit up made it worth everything.

Now, seeing him smiling at the camera, you laughed softly again. But the sound caught somewhere in your throat, because beneath that smile, there was something else—a pang that twisted deep inside your chest.

You'd missed so much.

You found an old remittance center tucked between a pharmacy and a bakery—you stepped in, clutching the strap of your backpack tightly against your shoulder.

Your hands trembled as you filled out the forms. The woman behind the counter didn't look twice at the amount you handed over; she just counted the bills, stamped the papers, and asked for names.

One transfer for your mother. Another for your sister.

You didn't say anything extra—no message, no note—just the money. Maybe they'd think you'd finally landed a good job. Maybe they'd think you were doing okay. That was good enough. When the receipts were handed back to you, your chest felt hollow. You should've felt relief. Instead, there was only that familiar weight pressing down on your ribs, that whisper in the back of your mind—you won't be needing it anyway.

You stuffed the receipts in your pocket, forced a smile at the teller. You stepped out of the remittance center, the noise of the city swelled—vehicle honking, vendors shouting, the smell of different perfume mixing with the polluted air. You were about to walk away when a woman sat by the curb, hunched over a large, torn trashbag a few steps from you. Her hair was wild and matted, streaked with gray and dirt. Her clothes hung loose, layers of faded shirts and a skirt too big for her. She was muttering under her breath, voice low, trembling.

When she shifted, something fell from her bag, some trinkets of sort rolling onto the sidewalk.

"Hey, you dropped something!" you called out, instinctively stepping forward.

No response.

You tried again, louder this time. "Hey!"

Still nothing.

She didn't even glance your way. You jogged a few steps closer, the wooden piece glinting faintly near her foot—but the woman only turned her head slightly, staring at the empty air beside her, whispering to someone who wasn't there.

A man from a nearby waved his hand. "Miss, let her be," he called to you. "She doesn't talk to people. She only talks to ghosts."

You froze, blinking at him.

Another bystander snorted, shaking his head. "She's crazy! Been that way for years!" then a woman beside him swatted his arm, muttering something under her breath. He winced, looking back at you, his expression softening. He gave you a small, uneasy smile and motioned for you to just back away, so you did.

The trip to the healer was quick than you had expected but the trip on your way back felt longer than before, like the world had stretched itself thin just to keep you wandering. The air was colder now, the sun already swallowed by gray clouds. You walked aimlessly, your head throbbing—not from the noise of traffic, but from the words the healer had said still echoing in your mind.

"You're marked. You are betrayed. That's not just a spirit—it's a bond. The dead don't pick the living without reason."

You'd wanted to scream at her then, demanding to undo it, that you had money for it even brandishing two stacks of cash, but she only looked at you with pity. The small piece of wood she pressed into your palm burned faintly, its scent of herbs and smoke lingering even now.

You thought you understood her instructions—burn it, everything, when the air turns still, when you feel her near and the moon is complete—but now, nothing makes sense anymore.

Now lost, you didn't even remember deciding to go here—your legs just carried you, guided by panic and the need to do something. Your sister's workplace, a small phone banking office that buzzed faintly with light even at this late hour. The glass doors were locked, but you knew the side entrance—she used to sneak you in during breaks so just the two of you could share lunch meant for one.

You glanced around once, twice, then forced yourself inside. The familiar scent of burnt coffee and cheap perfume hit you instantly, along with the faint hum of machines left running overnight.

You'd been there countless times before, that you know where her locker was and what her password is. Your hands shook as you entered the code. The lock clicked open, and the sound almost made you cry. You lifted the backpack from your shoulder, the cash inside weighing more than your entire body and placed it inside. Then you slid in the envelope beside it, pressing it down as if that could somehow make it safer.

When you closed the locker door, your eyes caught on something taped inside—a small, worn photo.

You, your sister, and your brother, arms wrapped around each other, grinning like the world couldn't touch you. Your throat tightened. The tears you'd been holding back finally burned their way out. You pressed your forehead against the cold metal of the locker, shoulders shaking, whispering a soundless apology you didn't even know how to form.

Then you wiped your face, took one last look at the photo—and turned away, leaving the key half-twisted in the lock, like a goodbye you couldn't say aloud.

The night air hit you like a slap when you stepped outside but before you could even gasp, a rough cloth was pressed hard against your nose and mouth. The sharp, chemical sting hit you instantly—sweet and nauseating all at once. You struggled, clawing at the arm that held you, trying to twist free, but your limbs felt heavy, sluggish. The world around you swayed, lights blurring into streaks.

Your muffled scream died in your throat as your knees buckled before everything went dark.

You found yourself standing in the middle of the darkness. Your see nothing but shadows until your gaze lands on something familiar—a painting hanging on the wall. It's the same portrait you saw the other day, the painting of Pietro's sister, Wanda.

You look down, confused, and see that you're wearing a wedding gown. The lace is delicate, the train long, and the bodice hugs your curves perfectly. Your hair is styled elegantly, with flowers woven into it. It's like you're a bride.

Despite your initial fear, something pulls you towards the painting. Your feet move of their own accord, as soon as you're standing directly in front of the painting, the candles in the room suddenly flicker to life. The soft glow illuminates the space, casting long shadows that dance on the walls. The painting seems to glow brighter too, drawing your attention solely to Wanda's face. Her lips curl into a slight smile.

You freeze in absolute terror as you feel warm kisses press gently against the back of your neck. You're paralyzed, too scared to move or scream. The kisses continue, moving down your shoulders, then suddenly, rough hands start groping your body through the wedding gown. In a blink, you're lying on a large, four-poster bed. The room is now filled with soft candlelight. Wanda is on top of you, her real body replacing the painting. One hand is between your legs, rubbing slowly through your clit.

Your wedding gown lies discarded and burning in the fireplace nearby, smoke curling up towards the ceiling. You're completely naked beneath Wanda, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders as she looms above you. She kisses you harshly, her lips crashing against yours as her fingers push inside you suddenly and deeply. You gasp into the kiss, taste of wine and something darker. Her tongue dominates yours while her fingers curl expertly, hitting that spot that makes your back arch off the bed.

"Mine," she says against your lips with every deep plunge of her finger into your pussy. "Your taste makes me feel alive," her fingers moved faster inside you.

You writhe under her, your hips bucking against her hand as you gasp, "No—please stop..." your voice is weak and breathless, barely audible over her heavy breathing. Wanda smirks against your skin, her fingers never slowing their relentless pace inside you.

"Come…come here, come for me."

"N-No-oo…" you cried out as your orgasm crashes over you, your body convulsing beneath her.

You wake up suddenly, gasping and writhing on nothing. You're alone in bed, but the phantom sensation of fingers inside you lingers. A soft whimper escapes your lips as reality crashes back—it was just a dream.

Your breath came uneven as you looked around—nothing here was yours. The walls, the carved wooden bedposts, the strange antique vanity at the corner—all foreign.

Then your gaze dropped to yourself.

The sheets were cool and silken beneath your palms. Your thighs were sticky. You froze.

You were naked.

Your hands flew instinctively to your body, clutching the blanket against your chest. The silk beneath you was cool—too cool—and it slipped easily under your trembling fingers. Your breath came out ragged, sharp, the sound too loud in the silence of the unfamiliar room.

A knock echoed through the room—sharp, deliberate. You flinched, clutching the blanket tighter around your body.

It came again, before the door swung open.

Pietro stepped in like he owned the air you were breathing. He didn't even glance away as his eyes swept over you, his expression unreadable—calm, composed, almost casual, like this was all perfectly normal.

Something inside you snapped.

"Where am I? What did you do to me?"

He didn't answer right away. Instead, he leaned against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, "I didn't do anything. But my sister? I'm not sure, you tell me." The faintest smirk tugged at his lips. The same smug calm he wore the first time you met him.

Your heartbeat thundered in your chest, a mix of fear and rage burning through your veins. You wanted to scream, to throw something, to claw your way out of this room—but all you could do was glare at him, trembling. Your voice cracked before you even realized you were speaking. "Please," you whispered, "Please let me go."

Pietro's gaze lingered, unreadable. You clutched the blanket tighter, your knuckles white, trying to hide the way your hands shook.

"I don't want this—whatever this is," you said, your throat tightening. "I'll leave, I won't tell anyone, I just—please—"

He took a step closer. You flinched, retreating until the back of your knees hit the bed. His expression softened for a moment, almost human, and that was somehow worse.

"You don't understand," he murmured.

"Why me?" the words tumbled out of your mouth before you could stop them. Your voice was shaking, desperate. You gripped the blanket tighter against your chest, like it could protect you from the truth. "Please—I'm not…I'm not good. You've got the wrong person. I'm not special, I'm not someone worth this. I'm not who she wants."

"That's exactly why," he said softly. "A girl who didn't belong anywhere—estranged from her family, lying about a life that didn't exist, living in debt, living half-dead already." He tilted his head slightly, studying your trembling form. "You were perfect because you are nothing." He continued, his tone steady and unflinching.

Your breath caught in your throat as his words echoed—you're nothing.

You shook your head, hard, as if that could shake the words loose. "No," you whispered. "That's not true." Your voice cracked halfway through, too small, too desperate.

The man only tilted his head, watching you. His eyes weren't angry—they were calm, almost sorrowful, which somehow made it worse.

"Isn't it?" he asked softly.

You took a step back, shaking your head again, harder this time, your fingers curling into fists. "It's not true," you repeated, louder now, trying to sound certain, trying to convince him—trying to convince yourself.

He stepped closer, his presence heavy, quiet. "Then tell me," he said. "Who would notice if you didn't wake up tomorrow?"

The question hung in the air, cold and cruel. You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Only silence—and the sound of your own heartbeat breaking against your ribs.

"I have a brother," you said, your voice trembling but loud enough to cut through the air. "I have a family! They're waiting for me! Please!"

For the first time, your anger found shape—raw and shaking, but real.

The tall man didn't flinch. His lips twitched, not quite a smile, not quite pity. "A family?" he echoed softly. "You mean the parents who sold you to me?"

It was like a bucket of ice crashed over your head. The world tilted, your breath stuttered. You blinked once, twice, as if that could make his words vanish.

Your throat tightened. "What did you say?" you whispered.

"You didn't think that all that money appeared from nowhere, did you?"

Your stomach twisted, a sour, heavy weight pressing down. You staggered back, your hand instinctively clutching your chest. "No…that's not—"

Pietro stepped closer, his shadow swallowing the space between you. "Your parents didn't care," he said, almost softly, like it was a matter-of-fact. "They left you adrift. Debt, sickness, lies…you think it was a coincidence? My sister chose you because you were unclaimed. Unseen. You were nothing to the world—and that's exactly what she needed."

You shook your head violently, trying to shove the words from your mind, trying to force the reality out. "That's not true! I'm not nothing!" your voice cracked, tears pooling in the corners of your eyes. "I have a brother! My sister! I have a family! They're waiting for me!"

"You're lonely," he whispered, leaning closer, almost gently, though his words were like a knife. "You've always been lonely. That's all you've ever been. And that's why she wants you." He tilted his head slightly, studying you with something between pity and cruelty. "And your brother?" he said, almost mockingly. "He's what—eight now? He'll forget you when he grows up."

You froze.

His words cut through the air like a blade, so sharp they didn't even hurt at first—they just sank in, slow and cold.

"No…" you whispered.

"You were born in the year of fire—same as my sister. When they learned about the Ghost Bride rites, your parents came forward. Said they had a daughter born under the same stars. Perfectly matched."

You stared, eyes wide and wet, your body trembling. "You're lying—"

"I wish I was." Pietro's voice softened, almost like pity. "Ghost brides can't just be taken. They have to let go of the world first. They must be…empty. No roots. No faith. No love. No hope. Doesn't it make sense to you?"

You froze, your mind replaying it all. The envelope of cash you found after another rejection. The endless "we'll call you" that never came. The months of being invisible, ignored, dismissed, barely eating. Every hollow, lonely moment of your life—they weren't coincidences. They were preparation. And now, hearing his words, it all settled like a stone in your chest.

He leaned forward, looking at you like he was proud you're starting to figure it out yourself.

"That's why they let you go," he murmured. "Why they stopped calling except to ask for money. Why they let you live alone. They made sure you'd have nothing left. Nothing that could keep you from being hers."

Your chest heaved, but no sound came out. Just air and the sound of your heartbeat breaking apart.

"They made you perfect. A soul that's already halfway dead."

Pietro's eyes caught the expanse of your back, the way your skin glimmered faintly under the dim light. The comforter barely clung to you, leaving too much exposed. Without a word, he stepped closer, his movements deliberate but careful. His hands gripped the edges of the thin fabric and wrapped it around you, tucking it snugly over your shivering body.

He guided you gently toward the bed, easing you down until you were lying fully beneath the folds of warmth.

"This is her bedroom."

You froze and sniffled.

He took a few steps closer and kneels, his tone eerily calm, almost reverent. "She wants you to stay here tonight. To keep her company." His gaze drifted toward the massive bed, the silk sheets that shimmered faintly under the low light. "To warm her bed…until your wedding tomorrow night."

Your swollen eyes begin to water again, already shaking your head in fear. "P-Please no…"

He met your eyes then—steady, hollow. "She's waited long enough," he murmured. "A year is tradition, but she's restless. You can feel it, can't you?"

You could. The air was thick, humming faintly like static against your skin. The faint scent of roses and ash hung in the room.

"She doesn't want to wait anymore," Pietro continued, almost like he was explaining something natural, something holy. "She's already started touching you in your dreams." Then, with a small, almost courteous bow, he added, "Make my sister happy tonight, nevesta." (Bride)

And before you could protest, he stepped out, closing the heavy door behind him with a sound that echoed like the sealing of a tomb with your loud cries locked inside.

As the night wears on, you feel different touches—hands that aren't there, gripping your throat, squeezing your breasts, spreading your legs. You're being manhandled by air, fucked by unseen fingers. You wake up multiple times, soaked, trembling and crying, coming over nothing again and again.

The morning light streams through the window, casting long shadows across your broken body. Every inch of you aches; your pussy is raw and tender, throbbing with a deep, animalistic pain that when you try to close your legs, it hurts. Purple bruises mar your skin, some in the shapes of fingers, others in the form of bite marks. You're too spent to move, too sore to even try.

Food came every two hours. You didn't ask for it, didn't even hear the footsteps when it was placed by the door—just the faint click of a tray setting down and the whisper of the latch closing again. You never opened the door until long after whoever brought it was gone.

You ate only enough to keep from fainting, forcing the tasteless food down your dry throat, eyes darting to the corners of the room where shadows pooled and flickered.

Another knock echoed and the door opened before you could answer.

Two women stepped in. They didn't speak. They carried a long white box between them, setting it on the edge of the bed before silently leaving.

You stared at it for a long time, your heart pounding, throat tightening with fear and disbelief. And with trembling hands, you lifted the lid.

Inside was a wedding gown.

Ivory silk, old but flawless, the fabric catching the light like it remembered another lifetime. Lace sleeves, hand-stitched. A faint scent of lavender and dust.

That moment, everything sank in.

This wasn't just a nightmare you could wake from. This was real. And tonight—you were going to be married to the dead.

What felt like hours passed. You sat on the bed, clutching the comforter around you like a shield, every sound outside the door making your heart lurch. Then, a knock. Followed by the sound of the door unlocking from the other side.

Two women entered—faces pale and unreadable, dressed in black uniforms. They bowed slightly before approaching you with measured grace. One took the gown, the other had a basin of water and folded towels.

"Please stand," one of them said gently, "It's time to prepare."

You didn't move at first. Your body refused. It was as if your bones had turned to glass—too fragile to carry you anywhere. But then, you saw him.

Pietro stood by the doorway, arms crossed, watching. "Do as they say," he murmured, tone low, firm.

Your stomach turned.

The women helped you to your feet, their hands delicate but unyielding. The cold water brushed against your skin as they cleaned you, wiped your face, brushed out your tangled hair. Every touch felt too real, too invasive. When they slipped the gown over your head, the silk clung to you like a second skin—cool, heavy, final.

His gaze followed every movement. He could see the evidence his sister left on your body.

"Make sure it fits," he said softly, almost absently. "My sister deserves perfection."

You swallowed hard, the air thick around you. You could barely breathe as the women fastened the last clasp and stepped back, murmuring that it was done.

Pietro finally approached. His eyes traced the gown. He smiled faintly. "She'll be pleased."

When the two women exited, he immediately followed. "When I come back, the rites will begin. You may walk around as you please. But only inside the mansion."

As if that freedom meant anything. As if the walls weren't closing in already.

You didn't answer. You couldn't. The gown clung too tightly to your body, every seam pressing against your ribs, the silk heavy like it was trying to pull you under. You could feel the lace choking your throat, your breath coming shallow, quick.

You didn't look up. You just stared at the pale fabric of the gown pooled around your feet, its pristine white mocking you.

When the door closed behind him, the silence felt alive. You stood there, motionless, the suffocating dress like a second skin—and all you could think was that maybe it wasn't the fabric that was tightening around your throat. It was her.

You can't run anymore, it's pointless now. But maybe…maybe you can still do something.

It was a matter of hour when he came back, the air itself seemed to shift—thicker, heavier, filled with a stillness that made your skin crawl. He didn't speak this time. He only grabbed you and somehow, your trembling legs obeyed.

The gown dragged behind you as you walked down the marble hallway, every soft step echoing like a countdown. The air grew colder with every turn until you saw it—the open front doors, and beyond them, a courtyard bathed in moonlight.

You froze at the threshold.

Massive candles, tall as your shoulders, burned in a perfect circle before the mansion. Their flames wavered like they were breathing. At the center stood a bronze gong, dull and ancient, its surface carved with symbols you couldn't read.

Seven women knelt around it—each dressed in crimson veils that covered their faces, hands pressed together in eerie stillness.

And then you saw it—an empty space in the middle of the circle. You didn't need to ask. You knew that spot was for you.

Your feet wouldn't move. The gown suddenly felt heavier, like it wanted to root you to the ground. Pietro's hand came to rest on your shoulder—gentle, but firm enough to make you flinch.

"It's time," he said softly, almost kindly.

The sound of the booming of the gong was heard. You sank onto the pillow in the center of the circle, the cold floor pressing through the thin fabric of your gown. Your hands trembled slightly as you adjusted your posture, trying to steady your racing heart.

Before you, on the easel, was the painting of Wanda—the same one you had seen before, yet now it felt alive in a way that made your skin crawl. You stared at it as you had the first time, taking in every detail—the sharpness of her cheekbones, the depth in her eyes, the faint, unsettling curve of her lips.

And below, there were urns, two urns. One that contain the ashes of her remains...

And one soon to be contained with yours.

The seven women around you began to chant in low, rhythmic tones. The words were foreign and curling around your ears. The sound wasn't loud at first, just a hum that crept along your nerves, but it grew, layering over itself until it was a pulse you could feel in your chest. Every syllable vibrated through the floor into your bones, making it impossible to stay still.

You tried to close your eyes, to block it all out, but the chanting filled every corner of the room, and a heavy sense of inevitability settled over you. Tonight, the ritual would bind you to her. And already, you could feel her presence moving closer, unseen but undeniable.

You lifted your gaze to the moon hanging high above the dark sky, its pale light spilling over the courtyard. The silver glow did little to soothe you—it only made the shadows stretch longer, deeper, and more threatening. A cold breeze swept through, carrying the scent of burning candles and something else you couldn't place. It brushed against your skin, slipping beneath the edges of the suffocating gown, and made the hair on your arms stand on end.

Then, one of the kneeling women stepped forward. In her hands, she held a thin red ribbon, soft and fluttering like it had its own life. Without a word, she guided it into your hands. The moment it touched your skin, a strange warmth pulsed through your fingers, a heartbeat that wasn't your own. You looked down at it, the red thread seemingly vibrating in tune with the chanting that rose in waves around you.

Another woman emerged, carrying a smooth black stone. She pressed it gently against your palm. The instant it touched your skin, a chill spread through your veins, and your pulse seemed to echo with the murmurs of the chant. Finally, a third woman approached, cradling a length of sheer, crimson fabric, almost translucent. She placed it carefully above your head like a veil. As it settled over you, it clung in a way that felt unnatural, like it was merging with your body. Your breath hitched; the chanting intensified, the candles flickered violently, and the fabric seemed to pulse with a heartbeat not your own.

The women moved in perfect sync, their chanting filling the air. One of them stepped forward with a little brush dipped in a dark red, sticky liquid and from the smell of it, you knew it was blood. She knelt and started drawing weird symbols on the cold stone floor, one stroke at a time.

Another woman sprinkled a fine red powder along the edges of the circle. The grains caught the candlelight and shimmered. When they hit the floor, it felt like the ground itself was vibrating under you.

Then, just like that, the chanting cut off. Silence hit so hard it made your ears ring. The candles flickered violently, and for a second, you thought the wind had died—but it was something else.

Above the mansion, a thick smoke began curling into the sky. The smell was sharp and suffocating. You swallowed hard, your heart racing, and instinctively pulled your knees closer.

The women froze, staring upward, their faces tense, eyes wide. Even the moon seemed to dim behind the rising smoke. It moved slow at first, curling like a ribbon, then faster, twisting and stretching into shapes that made your stomach drop.

One of the women shouted, her voice cracking over the sudden silence, "Stop the fire!"

You barely had time to react before Pietro came running back inside.

Flames licked the walls, curling around the corners, devouring the wood and furniture with terrifying speed. Smoke choked the air, making your eyes water and your throat burn. You stumbled back on the cold floor, your heart hammering in your chest as the heat crept closer.

"Burn it, everything, when the air turns still, when you feel her near and the moon is complete."

You hadn't realized it would catch this fast. You remembered the small cans of gasoline you'd seen when you were allowed to roam around. With all perseverance and hope you had left, you had spread it, from room to room as much as you could, the smell of gas clinging to your hands and gown, sharp and choking.

Finally, you made your way back to Wanda's room—the room that had haunted you—and poured the gasoline there too. And when you were satisfied, you hid the gallon beneath the bed and you struck a match. The flames hissed and curled up slowly through the carpet.

Before you could watch it grow, Pietro returned. He grabbed you firmly, his presence startling you. He did not notice the first wisps of smoke already rising nor even smell the gas in you. You were pulled away for the rites to begin, the fire spreading quietly behind you—still unseen, still unknown to him.

You seized the moment when Pietro disappeared inside the house, half wishing the fire would eat him alive. Your fingers clenched around the small piece of wood the healer had given you. You counted to three before launching and pressed it to the painting. You snatched the veil from your head and threw it away before pushing a huge candle almost your size to the painting, the flames started to lick the edges of the canvas almost instantly, curling and twisting as smoke began to fill the air.

A chorus of horrified cries erupted behind you. The seven women's voices were sharp and frantic, mingling with the roar of the fire.

"No! Stop her!" one shrieked, her tone almost shrill with panic.

"She destroyed everything!" another wailed.

Their hands clawed at the air, reaching, grasping—but you were already moving, the heat licking your skin and the scent of smoke burning your nose.

But the painting, once so lifelike and commanding, was now being consumed, the fire feeding on every brushstroke of her presence. The smoke swirled, and the heat prickled your skin, but you didn't move—this was the chance you had been waiting for.

Before you could even think what to do next, one of the seven women lunged at you, a knife glinting in the firelight. Pain exploded in your shoulder as the blade plunged in, and you gasped, stumbling backward. The heat from the burning painting blurred your vision, but adrenaline took over.

Gripping the wound and ignoring the searing pain, you ran past her, pushing the candles in their direction. They started shouting and crying as the fire started to eat all of them alive. The fire crackled louder, smoke stinging your eyes, but you didn't stop—you couldn't. Every step was agony, every breath ragged, but you had to get out. The mansion was chaos around you, the screams and shouts fading behind as you ran toward whatever freedom you could grasp.

You ran. And you ran. The fire crackling behind you was distant now, drowned out by the pounding of your own heartbeat. Every step felt heavy and fast at the same time, your chest burning, your legs screaming, but you didn't dare stop nor did you glanced back.

You didn't know where you're going now. Your family just had betrayed you, you have no home to come to. But you keep running. You still needed help, so you ran and ran and you didn't know how far you had run.

When you look at the moon, it's still full.

"Help! Please! I need help!" you shouted, your voice cracking, echoing down when you finally reached an empty street. "Help me…please," you croaked, your hand never stopped pressing your shoulder, still bleeding from being stabbed.

A woman shuffling through a trashcan looked at you with widened eyes, a flicker of fear passing through her gaze as she stepped back slightly. Her body tensed, like she wasn't sure whether to approach or flee when she looked at you.

"Please…help me," you begged again, your voice shaking. You stumbled toward her, desperate. You remembered this woman—the one outside the remittance center. She might actually help you get to a hospital. "I was stabbed. I need to get to the hospital. Please…please help me."

"I… I'm not sure," she murmured, her words barely audible. Frustration flared inside you.

Then, a man walked by, glancing only at the woman in front of you and whispering with a hint of irritation, "She's talking like crazy again."

"What?" you hissed, eyes narrowing. "I need help!" you shout to him, but he didn't even glance back at your bleeding form. You even debated for a second to run up to him because he seems like he could actually help you than the woman in front of you, clutching her garbage bag like it's a fortune.

So you turn back to the woman again, whose eyes were past you.

"Please, please help me get to the hospital."

Her gaze remained darted behind you, her finger trembling as she slowly pointed over your shoulder. Her voice was barely audible, quivering like dry leaves in the wind. "I…don't think your wife would want that."

Cold dread clawed up your spine. Your breath hitched.

You turned.

The air seemed to chill around you, the world quieting, as if holding its breath.

And there she was.

It was a thin line between horny and genuinely emotionally hurtful.

Both of you had agreed to her idea to help you appreciate yourself more in a very unconventional way, to shed away from the hatred the world bestowed upon you, that held you back like shackles from so many life-changing opportunities, which in return sprouted more hateful feelings towards yourself, because you wanted to do so much more with your life, but you kept bonking into invisible walls.

Wanda hates seeing you suffer, but especially hated that you couldn't see what she saw in you. If you only knew how special you are, her most special person on this earth, how unique you are with all of your sweet quirks that make her whole face get happy wrinkles and her eyes sparkle with love, how fun and smart you are, how your 'broken' humour you always dismissed as nothing big was the main thing that made her ugly laugh, how your charm that you couldn't see is what made her fall for you.

She wanted you to see it.

Feel it.

The gasp from your own throat made you a bit more grounded back to her, registering that she pinched one of your nipples.

They are sensitive. It shot electricity straight to your core.

You looked up to her.

She was still waiting.

Oh, fuck.

"I-I-uh..." you broke into moans again, she never changed her pace.

"Something nice, come on." She coaxed, reminding you. Slightly sing-song like, and the decrease of oxygen and the rapid energy burn made her breathing shake for a bit, which made you even more horny.

"I... love... you..." You muttered between tiny gasps.

"Hmmm," she held back her chuckle. She loved watching the fuzziness in your eyes, she could see your soul swimming in there, you were so gone for her, "try again."

You closed your eyes as it started feeling pretty nice down there... hot waves washing over you, your abdomen contracting in preparation...

God, if you could only see yourself through her eyes you would bite your lip too, just like her.

But she shook her head too, there was a mission here.

She gently slapped your cheek a few times, slowing her pace just a tiny bit so you would process what you were saying and not just say it mindlessly just because that's what she wanted to hear in order to let you cum.

"Speak, Y/n."

"I l-love... the way... I love... you..."

She rolled her eyes playfully, but you didn't see, yours were still closed. You opened them when she spoke again. "Better, but not quite... what I want to... hear right now."

Your feet were swinging in the air with each thrust.

Your cervix was on fire in the best way possible.

"I love loving yoooou..." you whined, frustrated that she wasn't accepting your 'I love you's and that she was slowing down, your orgasm slipping away.

You were frustrated that you agreed to this whole scene scenario, but that was your arousal clouding your mind.

But then you were also frustrated at being frustrated, because that's what this scene was supposed to be.

"Y/n."

Well, maybe, she was right.

You took a moment, swallowing, taking a deep breath and a few hard blinks.

"I'm... proud of how much love I can show someone... and I love that I can make someone feel so special and loved..." you smiled genuinely at her.

"There we go, sweet girl. See? I know I make it hard-" she thrusted harshly and you gasped, almost sobbed even, "but you just needed to think a bit more. Yeah?"

"Yeeah~" you parroted.

"Oooh-hoh-hooh" she chuckled at you affectionately.

Suddenly she fastened her pace and you were slipping away again, tights twitching, mouth wide open, eyes rolling back. You were close and it looked like you didn't even know it, but it was all you could think about.

Your moaning sobs made her embrace you so tight as she fucked your soul out of your body.

She loves the way your back arched in an unconscious need to help her reach your precious spots deep inside.

She loves how vocal you are. She remembers how shy you were when you made your first pretty sounds around her.

Wanda comes into the bedroom that the two of you share, finding you sitting on the edge of the bed “Is everything okay? Nat told me you had to dip on training-” You groan, rubbing your chest and Wanda steps forward sympathetically “Oh Sweetie… Acid reflux again?”

You nod, letting out another groan as you keeping rubbing at your chest, trying to relieve your symptoms. You’ve been getting acid reflux for the past couple of years for no obvious reason. Wanda had convinced you to go the Doctor who’d prescribed you prilosec but it hadn’t helped much yet.

Wanda reaches into the bedside drawer, pulling out the small notebook she’s been using – she’s been working to see if there’s something in particular that triggers this for you “What did you have for lunch?”

“Cheese and tomato sandwich with orange juice.”

“Hmm I did read online tomatoes don’t help.” Wanda says thoughtfully, scribbling it down “Did you have any coffee this morning?” You shake your head “Feeling stressed or anxious?”

“I will if you keep asking me all these questions.” You tease her, giving her a small smile “No, not particularly. I was training with Nat and I suddenly felt a bit nauseous so I came back here. And it’s only gotten worse from there.”

Wanda keeps scribbling then glances at you sympathetically “Do you wanna lie down?”

You shake your head with a grimace “That’ll only make me feel worse.”

“You could lie in the medbay; they have those reclining beds so you could be sat up a little bit.”

You sigh “I don’t really wanna go to the medbay.”

Wanda puts the notebook back in the drawer and then wraps an arm around you, rubbing your shoulder “How long has it been going on for?”

“About an hour…” You groan.

Wanda presses a sympathetic kiss to your cheek – she knows acid reflux can last from a few minutes to a few hours, and you seem to particularly suffer from it. You’re usually unwell for several hours until the symptoms finally begin to ease “Look, come and lie in the medbay. Try and get some sleep, it’ll make you feel better.”

Without waiting for a response Wanda helps you up from the bed and leads you down the corridor to the medbay. It’s empty – there hasn’t been a mission for a while so nobody needs patching up at the minute. There are no medical staff around to interfere so Wanda helps settle you onto one of the reclining beds, fiddling with the buttons until you’re lying with your head and chest above your waist.

“There we go…” Wanda says softly as you curl up on your side “We should probably book you another appointment with the Doctor, this is affecting you most days.”

“Probably but he’ll just say we haven’t been using the prilosec for long enough yet.”

“Hmm. We’ll give it another week and then I’m calling him.” Wanda reaches out and begins stroking your hair, hoping to soothe you “What do you need love? Another pillow? Some water?”

“Just you.” You mumble “Keep stroking my hair, that feels nice.”

Wanda takes a seat at your bedside and continues running her fingers through your soft hair “You know, when I was little, I got really sick.” Wanda tells you, hoping to distract you “It was the day before the Christmas party at school. I’d spent all night being sick, my Mother was in and out of my room cleaning my sheets and rubbing my tummy. It wasn’t nice being sick, obviously, but I was mostly upset though because I was going to miss the Christmas party at school.”

Wanda’s hand finds its way to your cheek, her fingers stroking your face “We never got many treats when I was a kid. My parents didn’t have much money and Sokovia was at war so nice things were expensive. But the teacher had told us we were going to have sweets and Santa Claus would be there to give every kid a present. Pietro wasn’t unwell so he got to go whilst I stayed home. I sobbed and sobbed but my Mother told me ‘it’s okay Wanda, your brother will bring you home your present and you will still get some sweets’. But do you know what?”

Wanda pauses for dramatic effect and smiles as she remembers “He brought home my present. But when I asked where my sweets were he said they hadn’t given him any for me. His ears went bright red, a telltale sign he was lying. Sweets were such a rare luxury that he’d eaten them all himself. I was so angry and upset then he cried because he felt so guilty. When I finally calmed down I opened my present and it was a copy of that old book, you know, ‘The Night before Christmas’. My Mother read it to me every Christmas Eve until she passed away.”

“I’ll get you all the sweets you want this Christmas, I promise.” You mumble.

Wanda smiles and leans down to press a kiss to your cheek “I wish I could take away your pain love.” Wanda pauses, her hand running down to where you’re rubbing your chest. She hesitates then asks quietly “I want to try something… Would that be okay?”

You nod, so desperate for this to end that you’re willing to try anything “Please.”

Wanda closes her eyes as she concentrates, her hands lighting up with her red magic. You let out a soft gasp, the pain in your chest almost instantly alleviating “Wanda… I don’t know what you’re doing but please keep going…”

Wanda continues to concentrate for a few minutes before opening her eyes to look at you. Your eyes are wide as you sit up “Wands… It’s gone.”

“It’s gone?”

“It’s gone!” You throw your arms around her “I don’t feel sick, I don’t… I feel amazing. I didn’t know you could do that!”

“Neither did I.” Wanda admits, hugging you back, her hand running up and down your back comfortingly “It’s really gone? You’re not in pain anymore?”

“No.” You bury your face in her neck “No, I feel good. Thanks to you.”

Wanda presses a kiss to the top of your head “I’m glad I could help. Hopefully it will work next time too.”