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ginnsbaker · 21 days ago

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All Of Your Pieces (34 - The Prisoner)

Chapter Summary: For Wanda, it lands on her all at once that you’re back. You’re really here with her, not buried six feet under like you wanted her to believe. Only now does she understand that she’s never truly stopped grieving, not until this moment. Because as much as she loved the Y/N she created in Westview, as much as she tried to shape that version out of everything she loved about you, it was never the same. No matter how perfect that version was, crafted from all the pieces of you she carried, it could never be the real thing.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 6.9k+ | Chapter Tags/Warnings: Smut, Angst, Sorta dubcon

A/N: This is the last weekly update I'll be making for this series. I haven't finished writing the next chapter after this one, and I cannot commit a date on when I can publish it :( All I can say is that, of course I intend to finish the story. We're close to the end anyway // More author's notes here.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Warmth is the first thing you feel.

Sunlight spills through the bare windows, bright and unrelenting. You lie on your back, body aching but still, there's a strange calm in your limbs. For a few blissful seconds, you forget everything. Maybe last night didn’t happen. Maybe the fence wasn’t real, and you can get up now and walk out of the forest without problem.

Maybe it’s just another bad dream layered on top of worse ones.

You breathe in deep. The sheets smell faintly of lavender.

You try to turn over, reach for the warm hollow beside you—

Except, your left arm doesn’t come with you. You frown, try again. But to no avail.

That’s when you finally look.

Your wrist is bound, though not with a typical rope or cuffs. A red wisp, soft-looking and faintly pulsing, coils around your hand, shackling you to the headboard. It isn’t tight, but it leaves no room for escape. Every time you move, it shifts slightly, like it’s aware of you.

You stare at the glowing knot and sink back into the mattress. Not a dream then.

She didn’t even bind both hands. Just one. Just enough to stop you from getting near the barricade again and risking hurting yourself trying to break through it. Breathing shallow, you inspect your body, recalling the grotesque pain you experienced in your stubbornness to escape this forest. It was worse than you let yourself believe. Fresh bandages wrap your torso, stained pink at the edges. You stare at them for a long moment, then look away.

You start to wonder how many more hits your body can take before it finally gives out.

From the other room, you hear the unmistakable sound of a spoon tapping a bowl, the low hiss of water starting to boil. You can feel Wanda listening, measuring your wakefulness. You close your eyes a beat too late; the handle turns and the door opens without a word.

Wanda shuffles into your room, still in her pajamas from last night. You notice for the first time how sharp her cheekbones have become, how the dark circles under her eyes aren’t smudges of makeup or tricks of the light. She carries a tray in both hands, with steam rising from a shallow bowl beside a small pitcher of water and a few fresh rolls wrapped neatly in linen.

Your stomach growls right on cue.

“Good morning,” Wanda says, her voice almost polite. She sets the tray on the nightstand and drags a chair beside the mattress. You stay quiet, eyes fixed on her with deliberate intent. It’s the only power you have left—watching her, making sure she feels it.

“I wasn’t sure you’d wake so soon,” she continues, lifting the spoon. Broth smells of chicken and thyme. “Drink.”

You turn your face away. It’s petty, but you have no intention of making this easier for her.

Wanda sighs. “You’ll heal faster if you eat.”

You merely stare at her hollowly.

She sets the spoon down, picks up a small pair of shears and bandage rolls. “Then let me change these.”

Feeling your intense gaze on her, Wanda keeps her eyes down, concentrating on the bandages. She peels back the linen, now damp with faint traces of blood, and dabs the wound clean with warm water. The pain is astonishingly minimal, and you can tell it's her magic making that possible. The sensation of her touch, the intentional way she’s being gentle and careful, sends heat skittering under your skin. It seems being deprived of her touch has made your nerves traitors.

“Thank you,” you mutter in relief before you can stop yourself.

“No need,” she replies. “You can’t exactly manage this yourself.”

“Convenient definition of care,” you say, tugging at the red tether. “You could start by untying me.”

Surprisingly enough, she considers. “I can’t risk another escape attempt.”

You catch Wanda off guard as you suddenly thrash against the restraint. It’s a useless effort, and you know it, but you throw everything into the performance.

“It’s a compulsion knot,” she explains softly. “It responds to intention. The harder you fight, the tighter it weaves.”

“New spell?” you growl. “From your favorite book?”

The slight flinch in her shoulders confirms it.

“You really think that thing cares about you, Wanda?”

Wanda’s eyes harden. She rises, gathers the bloodied cloths, and reaches for the tray. “The Darkhold doesn’t care about anything,” she says quietly. “It just gives options. And you know I don’t get many of those.”

She finally meets your eyes, and for a moment, you almost back down. She’s right. She’s never had many choices. Not as a child, not as a woman, not now. Things just happen to Wanda, and people expect her to survive them. You hate that you became one of those people, the one who took away her chance to decide if you were still worth it, if whatever this is between you was still something she wanted.

She’s right about that.

But that doesn’t excuse her. It doesn’t make it right to take away choices now, as if they don’t carry consequences.

“Kidnapping? Feeding the stray you dragged in like a house pet? Those are your options now?”

You bite your tongue to stop yourself but it’s too late. You hadn’t meant for the accusation to go that far, hadn’t meant to touch anything beyond your own situation. The incident at Westview from weeks ago is still fresh, and Wanda still hasn’t fully faced or processed everything she did and went through there. And now here you are, throwing it all at her feet like she’s some kind of monster.

Wanda’s spine straightens at the word kidnapping.

You scramble to take it all back. “Wanda—”

“You went after me,” Wanda says simply, voice even, almost weary. “And now you’re just facing the result of your actions.”

You let out a dry snort in response.

“You should eat,” she adds, glancing at the tray, the steam already starting to fade. You groan in protest but Wanda takes matters into her own hands and spoons up a small measure of broth and brings it to your lips, and this time you don’t resist, partly out of guilt for what you said, and partly because, honestly, you’re starving.

You part your mouth, taste salt and rosemary, and let the warmth slide down your throat. She withdraws, gathers another serving, and your gaze tracks the slow sweep of her wrist. The cotton sleeve slips higher, revealing a pale stretch of forearm dusted with freckles you used to map with your mouth. You try not to think about that, yet you can’t stop remembering how she shivered under your breath, how her pulse quickened beneath your lips.

The truth is, you haven’t fully wrapped your head around the fact that Wanda’s back. That she’s alive. After five years of mourning her, missing her, she’s suddenly here again—just a breath away. So far, you’ve managed to keep yourself in check, resisting that familiar pull of being helplessly, carelessly in love with Wanda Maximoff—a feeling that’s far too easy to get lost in. The situation is far from ideal, and you know she hasn’t forgiven you for the deception. Still, it’s shameful how your desire for her is like embers being coaxed to life, slow at first, then flaring hotter than ever when you need it least.

You swallow another spoonful, then blurt the first thought that trips across your tongue.

“You look exactly the same.”

Her hand stills.

You didn’t intend to let the words leave out of your mouth, but it’s too late to take them back, so you scramble to follow that up with something that would make the situation less awkward for the both of you.

Instead, you manage to say something much worse.

“Same lashes, same little hollow right there,” your gaze drops to the curve beneath her cheekbone, “I used to trace it in my sleep so I wouldn’t forget the shape of you.”

But it’s like a dam has burst, and you can’t hold back the flood you’ve been drowning in for years. “After you were gone, I kept counting your freckles every night, memory-by-memory, because if one went missing in my head, I knew I’d start losing the rest of you too.”

A tremor skates through her fingers and broth beads at the rim. She says nothing, but the scarlet knot around your wrist quivers as though feeling her pulse.

“I thought I’d forget eventually,” you say, voice a little hoarse. “I tried to. But you know what’s worse than forgetting someone?”

Her silence dares you to finish.

“Remembering everything.”

Wanda’s throat works. You open your mouth for another spoonful, and she offers it, her hand slightly less steady now. When a bit of broth spills down your chin, you move to wipe it instinctively, but Wanda beats you to it. She reaches forward without thinking, wiping it away with her thumb. The pad of her finger drags gently along your cheek.

It’s only when she notices your other hand isn’t bound that she seems to catch herself. But the damage is done. Her cheeks flush pink, and she pulls back so quickly the spoon rattles in the bowl.

Wanda clears her throat and gets up, saying, “You still have one arm free.”

“Wands—”

“I have to go.”

And then, she’s gone.

You let your head rest against the headboard, eyes falling closed.

—

The moment Wanda leaves, you finish the rest of the broth she left behind, eating slowly, almost defiantly, until the bowl is empty. Your stomach thanks you for it. Your body, exhausted from fever and pain, folds into the mattress the moment you let yourself relax. You don’t even realize you’re falling asleep again until you wake hours later.

Your second nap of the day ends with a soft groan and a long stretch—at least as much as your single unbound arm allows. The fatigue that wrapped itself around you this morning has mostly faded now, burned away by food and rest. You feel... almost good. Your head is clear. For the first time in what feels like days, you're not in pain. You’ve almost forgotten what normal feels like.

What’s not normal, however, is being trapped in bed like a convalescent child. You glance around the room, your new prison as it seems. Restlessness prickles at your skin.

Your body has mended enough, but the sheets under you smell sour. If Wanda unbound you, you could move around, straighten the room, clean the sheets, maybe even cook something simple. You could be useful again, do something other than count the hours and wonder what she’s thinking. You used to take care of each other, before the snap, before the lies. In Scotland, it was you who made breakfast most mornings. It was Wanda who patched the holes in your coat and kissed the bandages on your knuckles when you burned yourself cooking.

Now, as Wanda’s prisoner, you lie on stained linen, itching to move and unable to do anything at all. You stare at the scarlet tether, a thin strand of light looped around your wrist. You flex your fingers and pull, not violently, but with enough force to test its limits. It doesn’t budge.

As you continue to move around, the headboard creaks beneath you. It suddenly registers to you how old and worn it looks. Your eyes go to the screws holding it to the frame. An idea comes to you quickly. If you can break it free, you won’t be entirely free, but at least you won’t be chained to the bed.

With your other hand, you shove at the headboard, fingers prying at the joints. The wood groans. You feel it give slightly, splinters catching your palm. But when the headboard starts to crack, the red wisp stays exactly where it is, floating just above the broken wood. The tether wasn’t bound to the bed at all.

It was bound to you.

You sit back, breathing hard, staring at the magic. There’s no end to it, no knot to pick at, no clasp to undo. You follow its path with your eyes, tracing it outward, slipping beyond the bed, beyond the cabin walls, disappearing through the wood like mist through a sieve.

You shift and swing your legs over the edge of the bed, feet meeting the cold floor. You squint out the window, looking for any trace of the tether, maybe a thread of light leading into the woods or up into the sky. But there’s nothing. It fades out of sight, like it disappears into the air. You’ve been made aware of the incredible progression of Wanda’s power recently. But it’s still hard to fathom how she’s doing all this, even before the Darkhold came into the picture.

You take a shaky breath, mind racing. You can’t just sit and wait. Your eyes land on your pack at the foot of the bed. Slowly, awkwardly, you stretch out your foot, toes reaching for it. You catch the zipper tab and pull the bag closer, inch by inch.

Finally, you get it close enough. You pinch the zipper with your toes, ease it open an inch at a time. Your pulse lifts when your toes brush the familiar pocket where your phone should be, but the compartment is empty. Only the lining greets your searching foot. Wanda must have removed it while you were unconscious.

You let the bag drop and resigned to your fate. She has stayed several steps ahead of you from the start, and seven days isn’t enough time to figure out how to get the hell out of here.

—

The afternoon light creeps across the floor in long gold bars, and for a while the only sounds are your own breathing. More than the lack of mobility, it’s the boredom that gets to you. Time moves excruciatingly slower when you’re literally counting the seconds and minutes until Wanda’s return.

You feel sticky and gross. The sheets cling in places they shouldn’t. The room smells of sweat, dried blood, and frustration.

You close your eyes, imagining what it would feel like to stand, to wash, to move freely again. But the thought only makes the present more unbearable.

Then, without warning, the door creaks open. Finally.

Wanda enters without her coat, hair gathered in a loose knot. She carries a wide wooden tray balanced in both hands: a small pot of stewed vegetables, two thick slices of bread, and a chipped enamel cup that smells of mint and willow bark.

She sets the tray on the chair beside the bed, not looking at you. Things got out of hand earlier, and she’s determined not to let that happen again. Keeping her distance while making sure you’re fed seems the safest way forward. This time, she’s in a hurry to leave, fingertips already lifting the latch.

“Wanda.” Your voice is rough from disuse.

She stops, if only to acknowledge you having called her.

“I… I need a favor,” you say.

At that she turns, one brow arched.

You swallow and shift to sit higher against the headboard. “Look at me,” you begin evenly. “I stink. These sheets stink. If you leave me like this much longer, I’m going to lose my mind before I can give you my answer.”

Her expression remains guarded, but you see the war behind her eyes. She’s weighing the risk, your sincerity, her guilt. You hope the last two are winning.

You lick your lips, your eyes falling down to your lap. You hate begging, but you do it anyway.

“Please.”

At last, Wanda lets her gaze settle on you. Her green eyes are bright and clear, and for a moment, there’s a softness in them—so slight you could almost miss it. She steps closer, stretches her hand towards you and murmurs a word under her breath. The light loosens and then slips away from the headboard and coils instead around your wrist like a bracelet. It still hums with magic, but now it allows the freedom of your other arm and both legs.

“Only long enough to shower,” she says. “When you’re done, call me.”

Relief sweeps through you, almost dizzying. You swing your legs off the mattress and stand; the first full stretch makes your muscles sing. For a second you wobble, but Wanda’s hand braces your elbow before you can fall. She removes it at once, as if contact burns.

She guides you across the hall to a narrow bathroom. A stack of folded towels waits on the bench. Mist rises from the shower stall, and you realize she must have turned the water on before coming into your room.

“I’ll handle your sheets,” she adds.

You rest your palm on the doorframe. “You really don’t have to—”

“I’m using my powers,” she cuts you off sharply. “It won’t take long.”

That surprises you more than anything. Back in Scotland, Wanda avoided using magic for chores. She always said there was a kind of satisfaction in doing things the ordinary way, especially when you worked side by side. She’d mend the fraying cuffs of your coat with needle and thread instead of a flick of her fingers, laughing at the crooked stitches. You cooked, and she washed the dishes by hand, even though she could have made them clean with a thought.

You open your mouth to remind her, then close it again. That Wanda feels very far away.

She turns, already retreating down the hallway. You watch her for a moment, then step into the shower. You strip off your clothes in a hurry, a quiet sigh slipping from you as the hot water pours over your skin, bringing instant relief. Aside from the dirt and grime, you feel some tension in your chest wash away too. In this small, tiled corner of the world, it’s almost possible to pretend the last five years never happened.

When you’re done, it doesn’t even occur to you to call out for her like she’s your babysitter. The cabin is small, and you know your way around. You’re too relaxed to think about escaping, and besides, you’re half-naked under the towel. So you just head back to your room. The towel, wrapped high beneath your arms, hangs to mid-thigh, and water slips down your legs, leaving dark streaks on the floorboards. When you reach the bedroom, you find Wanda is still there.

She stands by the bed, palms raised, focused on her work. She said she’d clean up, but she’s doing far more. She’s repairing the rotted wood, mending the headboard you damaged, even improving the small room to make it warmer, more comfortable. The gesture draws a smile from you, unbidden. She doesn’t have to do any of it.

She’s so absorbed in the task that she doesn’t notice you.

You clear your throat. “It looks great.”

Wanda is visibly startled, whirling toward the sound. Her gaze snags on the towel clinging to your damp skin, travels the line of your collarbone, and catches on the droplets sliding between your breasts. A faint flush rises in her cheeks before she drags her eyes to your face.

“You moved fast,” you say, letting a small, appreciative smile curve your lips. “Thank you.”

Wanda makes a small noise at the back of her throat. “Magic is efficient.” You don’t miss the way her eyes follow a droplet that strays down your shoulder.

And there it is, the proof that Wanda isn’t as detached as she pretends. The pull between you still holds her. Just like it does you.

You decide to test it, taking a single, daring step closer.

The towel loosens against your thighs as you move, and Wanda’s eyes quickly dart back to your face, wide with something that looks dangerously like want. “Wanda,” you whisper. You really aren’t sure what you’re going for. Maybe you just need her to stay this close for one more breath.

But she’s quicker than your brain’s struggle to come up with its next move. With one graceful slide, she moves between you and the door, leaving at least a foot of space between herself and you.

“Dinner will be ready soon,” she murmurs, retreating toward the doorway, the warmth still lingering on her cheeks. Just as she’s about to step out, she pauses, as if remembering something. With a small flick of her hand, the red wisp at your wrist stirs to life, stretching and tightening until it binds you once again.

The door closes. You exhale the breath you didn’t realize you were holding and glance at the fresh clothes neatly folded on the mattress. The sweater is soft heather gray, the joggers a darker charcoal. You shrug into them awkwardly, one hand at a time, towel dropping to the floor.

You sit on the edge of the bed and test the new restraint. It gives you just enough slack to lie down and turn whichever way you want. But your thoughts are far from what you can do while being Wanda’s prisoner.

All you can think about is how she is obviously still drawn to you, even as she keeps running away.

—

Something strange happens later that night. You wake to a soft rustle, eyes still gritty with sleep, and wonder if the wind just rattled the window.

At first you think you imagined the sound that pulled you from sleep.

Then you hear it again. Your name. Being called in a whine by the only other person sleeping in this same cabin.

“Y/N…” Wanda’s voice floats across the dark room. You pull against the binds, testing. They stretch farther than before, as if the magic itself is distracted. You move carefully, sliding to the edge of the bed and wait. Maybe you’re dreaming. It wouldn’t be surprising, not with how strange this place feels, Wanda’s magic being all over the place, and the beating your body has taken over the past week.

“Y/N…” Wanda’s voice is louder this time. That spurs you to action. The magical rope surprisingly allows you to walk out of your room and wander into Wanda’s quarters. You find her in the middle of the bed, tangled in the blankets, deep in a dream—or more likely, a nightmare. She’s sweating, her brow furrowed, lips moving soundlessly.

You hang back, watching her struggle, not sure if you should wake her or just stay close until it passes. But when her face twists and she starts to cry in her sleep, the decision is made for you. You kneel beside the bed, reaching out gently. “Hey,” you whisper.

Her eyes snap open.

In the same breath, she surges forward, arms locking around your neck, holding onto you for dear life. She's shaking, trembling so hard you feel it through both your clothes.

“I’m here,” you murmur against her hair. It’s damp with sweat, sticking to your cheek. “I’ve got you.”

She doesn’t let go. Her nightdress is soaked through, clinging to her skin; when she shifts, the fabric drags across your sweater, and you become acutely aware of every place your bodies meet. Heat floods up your neck. And somewhere else you’d rather ignore.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she mumbles, although her tone seems to tell you she doesn’t mind that at all.

You cup her face, your thumb brushing a line of wet beneath her eye. Wanda rarely had nightmares in your time together. Although you’ve heard her have them when you were both living in the Avengers compound, with your rooms next to each other.

“And I’m not going anywhere,” you answer, and you mean it more than being literally chained to this cabin. You mean it so hard it hurts.

Wanda tenses in your arms, then shakes her head so sharply you half expect her to hurt herself.

“You’re not supposed to be here. Not with me.”

You pull back just enough to see her face. “What do you mean ‘with you’?”

She doesn’t answer. Her arms drop to her sides, the absence of her touch somehow louder than her words.

“Wanda.”

“You’d be happier if you’re just willing, Y/N,” she says. She starts retreating further but you reach for her hand, fingers wrapping around her cold ones.

“Not like this.”

“You don’t understand. The Darkhold wants you gone. It wants you dead. As long as you’re here, it refuses to show me my children. You… you complicate everything.”

It’s the confirmation you’ve been dreading. It’s that damn book, twisting her, pushing her to a place the Wanda you knew would never go. You don’t even want to imagine what other lies it’s been whispering to her.

“I’m not—”

“All I’ve ever wanted is to bring Billy and Tommy back,” she says, and she sounds so unbearably tired. “The book keeps telling me what I have to do—what it’ll take. And you... you’re the price, Y/N. You’re what’s standing in the way.”

“Do you want me gone?”

Wanda finally looks at you, her face still streaked with tears from the nightmare. She looks utterly wrecked.

“You wanted me to believe you were gone.”

Her answer leaves you speechless. No matter how far you’ve chased her, how long you’ve searched, or how ready you are to stay by her side now, it doesn’t change the truth—that you were the coward who ran away first.

When your silence lingers too long, Wanda speaks again.

“It’s not just about being their mother again. It’s about saving them, Y/N. I know they’re out there…somewhere. Lost and probably scared.” Her voice wavers. “Without the Darkhold, I have no way of reaching them. I could burn this whole world to the ground, and it still wouldn’t be enough. Not without that book.”

You hold on to her hand tighter. “There is another way and we can find it together. You and me. We always—”

“No.” Wanda snatches back her hand from yours. “You don’t see. I can see them through windows—in my dreams. But I can’t break through to where they are. Not without the Darkhold.”

You brush her cheek. She flinches, then lets herself settle against your hand. “So you’re really walking from everything you fought for? Gambling it all on that book to get Billy and Tommy back?”

She nods. “This is what I want. I’m sure of it.”

And that’s the worst part. Because you know she believes it. And it’s killing her. And it might kill you too.

You ease your hand away from her face but stay close, sensing the fragile détente might shatter if you so much as breathe too loudly.

With Wanda not leaving room for doubt about what she’s aiming for, you look to a different avenue, resulting in a question that pushes to the front of your mind.

“What were you dreaming just now?”

“Nothing,” she says, almost too quickly. “You should go back to your room.”

Her eyes drop to your wrist, and you see the flicker of realization cross her face. The magical confines should have kept you from leaving your room. When her mouth tightens into a line, it confirms what you already suspected—you weren’t meant to get this far.

You don’t move. If she wanted you chained again, all it would take is a snap of her fingers.

But until she does, you’re not going anywhere.

“You were calling my name,” you tell her, and Wanda’s brows furrow together at being caught doing just that. “Were you dreaming about me?”

“I don’t dream anymore.”

You search her face, waiting for elaboration.

She sighs, the impatience clear, like she’s tired of explaining things you should already understand. “They’re not dreams. They’re real places. Real people—from another universe. I see the boys there through a variant of me. And sometimes…” Wanda sighs. “Sometimes I see you, too.”

A slow, almost involuntary smile curls your lips at her disgruntled admission. “So you were dreaming about me,” you murmur.

Before Wanda can protest, you lift your hand, your thumb brushing gently against her lower lip. The warmth of her skin, the softness you’ve missed, nearly undoes you. And it undoes her. She shivers beneath your touch, eyes darkening as her breath hitches.

The Darkhold growls at the back of her mind. But her body drowns it out. Her body remembers. It remembers the real you: the one she never got to keep, never got to watch grow and change, the one who broke her heart again and again but somehow still makes it feel fuller than anything else ever could.

Your eyes are dark, clouded with want. You trace her lip once more, slower this time, watching the way she trembles, how her lashes lower like she can’t bear the implication of her response to your touch.

“In that universe,” you ask quietly, “are we together?”

Wanda swallows hard and gives a small nod.

Your heart beats faster. “What were we doing there?”

Color blooms in Wanda’s cheeks, a flush trailing up her neck to the tips of her ears. She drops her gaze, but not before you catch the answer written clear as day on her face.

You lean in, slow and steady, letting her see every inch of your intent. Her eyes stay fixed on your mouth, and if this were some ordinary argument years into a marriage—if she were just being stubborn, waiting for you to make peace—you might have laughed at how easy she is to read.

This moment was never meant to exist, not weeks ago.

So you move carefully, holding the moment like it might break, because you don’t know if you’ll ever get another.

The kiss is feather-light. You’ve applied just enough pressure to know that your lips are touching hers, enough to feel her exhale a breath through the small gap between them. It’s so innocent compared to the ones you’ve shared before—and you’ve shared hundreds of them, not that you’re counting—but it feels like the most important one.

You don’t push for more. In fact, in a second or two, you pull back.

Wanda, on the other hand, does not agree with that. In the space of that single heartbeat, her fingers fist in the front of your sweater, and she drags you forward with a force that steals breath from your lungs. Her mouth finds yours again, and this time, there’s nothing innocent about it.

All the grief and anger she’s carried pours out in the rough slide of her lips, the nip of teeth at your lower lip, the way her breath shakes when you open for her. You gasp against her, and she follows the sound, pressing you back until your spine meets the soft mattress. Her hand cups the back of your neck, holding you there. Holding you still. Her tongue pushes past your lips, greedy and unhesitating, claiming what she’s been denied for far too long.

For Wanda, it lands on her all at once that you’re back. You’re really here with her, not buried six feet under like you wanted her to believe. Only now does she understand that she’s never truly stopped grieving, not until this moment. Because as much as she loved the Y/N she created in Westview, as much as she tried to shape that version out of everything she loved about you, it was never the same. No matter how perfect that version was, crafted from all the pieces of you she carried, it could never be the real thing.

Not even the Y/N she occasionally meets in dreams compares. She could find versions of you in a thousand universes, and none of them would matter.

She wants you, and only you.

The Darkhold does not approve of this realization, but it approves of the carnal want raging inside of her now.

She slips her fingers under your shirt and the seams give way under her unexpected strength. Cool night air rushes over your skin, goosebumps rising in its wake. Your nipples are already painfully hard, but they’re not ready for the searing warmth of Wanda’s mouth.

“Oh God, Wanda…” you breathe.

She sucks on a teat, tongue circling once before her teeth graze the tender peak. The roughness draws a gasp from your throat, pleasure spiked with an edge of pain that curls your toes against the sheets. Your back arches, offering more. Wanda answers with a low sound that vibrates against your breast. She sucks harder, then lets go with a soft pop—only to sink her teeth just below, marking the skin with a deepening bruise against its otherwise unblemished tone. Her hand covers your other breast, thumb stroking once, twice, before she pinches, coaxing another broken moan from your lips.

Now this is something different. Usually, you’re the one who leads, the one who sets the pace, the one who leaves Wanda a babbling mess. Not that you’re complaining—you’re already on edge, though you hate to admit it—but part of you wants to slow down, to savor this, because deep down you know it might be the last time.

For Wanda, there’s no slowing down now. Once she starts, it’s like a fever takes hold, leaving her unable or unwilling to stop. She moves on instinct, stripping away your pajamas until only your underwear remains. Her gaze lingers for a moment on the dark patch at your crotch, and she smiles to herself, pleased that your body still answers to her, even after all these years, even after it has known someone else’s touch while she was gone.

She doesn’t notice the scars you’ve gathered over the past five years, the ones that mark nearly half of you. The Darkhold sees to that, keeping them hidden from her as its power glows in her eyes.

Wanda doesn’t give you a second to adjust to the rush of cool air against your skin, or to the way vulnerability wraps around you now that you’re bare before her. She doesn’t give you the chance to tug at her nightdress, to even the playing field. Her nightdress stays where it is, slipping lower on one shoulder but nothing more, as if she’s determined to keep you exposed while she remains clothed.

Her mouth leaves your chest, but before you can catch your breath, she’s moving lower, hair brushing your stomach, fingers skimming down your sides. She kneels between your legs, pushing your thighs apart, and the scrape of fabric against your skin only heightens your awareness of just how wet you are for her, how much you’ve missed this, missed her.

She’s already lower, already focused on the place that makes your head spin. Her breath is hot against the wet patch of your underwear. She presses her mouth there, slow at first, savoring the way you shudder beneath the weight of it. You whimper, hips lifting instinctively, but she holds you down with strong hands, fingers digging into your thighs painfully.

The heat of her mouth soaks through, the wet drag of her tongue making you gasp, making your fingers clutch at the sheets. She lingers, tormenting you, rubbing slow, deliberate circles over that aching spot, savoring how you fall apart beneath so little.

“W-Wands…” you gasp, the sound of her name more plea than warning.

But she doesn’t stop. If anything, her hunger only becomes more dangerous. She releases one of your thighs, pushes your ruined panties aside, and positions a finger at your entrance. You shudder in anticipation, knowing you’ll come the moment she’s inside you.

You try to urge her upward, wanting her to hold you, to kiss you while it happens—but instead, the magical cuff around your wrist flares back to life. In an instant, it splits in two and pins both your hands to the headboard, leaving you with no choice but to lie there, hips shifting helplessly. You’re not even sure what you’re asking her anymore—to stop or to keep going.

Held open and helpless, you can only watch as she drags her mouth down your torso, eyes glowing a warning shade of red. She nuzzles between your thighs, nosing the soaked fabric of your underwear as though the damp proof of your need belongs on display.

“Please—”

She answers with action, pushing the gusset aside rather than stripping it away. She exhales a cool breath against your warm, aching cunt—before a single finger slides into you in one swift, sure motion. Your walls close around her immediately, a gasp ripping from your throat as she curls that lone digit just enough to draw another tremor from you. She keeps her finger buried deep, letting you pulse around her.

“Tako uska,” she breathes in Sokovian—so tight—her voice thick with possession. You clench around her instinctively, making you more wet if that’s even possible.

Instead of adding a second finger, Wanda puts her mouth back on you—still over the fabric—her tongue tracing damp circles that turn your legs to water. Each stroke of her tongue sends a jolt straight through your core, and the friction of wet cloth against oversensitive flesh leaves you blushing at how easily she unravels you without even undressing you fully.

“Pogledaj se,” Wanda murmurs, voice muffled by your drenched bottoms. Look at you.

Your hips cant forward as she withdraws her finger only to thrust it back in deeper. The cuffs tighten just enough to remind you who controls the pace tonight.

“Wanda… please.”

“Ti si moja,” she growls—you are mine—and a second finger presses in beside the first, stretching you just right. Your walls flutter, and the sound that escapes your throat borders on a sob.

Her next words don’t pass her lips. Wanda goes inside your head and says—

I love you like this—messy and only mine.

It nearly pushes you over the edge.

Somewhere in the haze, you wonder if this is the Darkhold’s influence. Wanda has never been this bold, never slipped into your mind like this, especially after promising she wouldn’t.

It should scare you, but right now, all you can focus on is the feel of her fingers inside you and her mouth doing and whispering dirty things you never imagined hearing from her. It’s reckless. It’s wrong. And it feels perilously right.

Wanda’s fingers slide out almost to the last knuckle, and before you can fully exhale, she drives them in again—deeper, harder—while letting a third finger join the stretch. You twist against your restraints, helpless to do anything but feel. Wanda lifts her head, scarlet eyes pinning you in place. She commands—give me what is mine—before adding a fourth digit.

She punctuates the demand by curling all four fingers, pressing perfectly against that sweet spot. The swell breaks, heat rippling outward in a white-hot wave, your entire body tensing, then shattering around her hand. A ragged scream rips free as your climax crashes over you, pulsing so hard it borders on pain.

Wanda slows the curling of her fingers but keeps them buried deep inside you, letting your walls squeeze around her some more. Your hips twitch as the aftershocks seize your body, slick warmth coating her wrist. The sheer intensity of it leaves your eyes stinging; tears threaten, born of overstimulation, relief, and something you can’t name.

You lift your wrists, rattling the scarlet cuffs. “Please, Wanda,” you whisper desperately. “Let me hold you. Let me return the favor.”

Her lips curve in something almost sympathetic, but she doesn’t release you. Instead, she drags a single fingernail down your cheek, just rough enough to raise a faint red line, before bringing the same finger to your lips. “Suck,” she murmurs.

You obey, sucking eagerly as she presses her forefinger onto your tongue, tasting yourself. The humiliation and intimacy of it makes your eyes flutter shut.

“This is what you came for?” she asks quietly, watching you intently. “You wanted me to fuck you?”

You shake your head, the finger still between your lips. Pulling back only enough to speak, you manage, “I came because I have so much to make up to you. Because I was wrong. Because I finally understand I can’t live without you.”

“Yet you have lived without me,” she says. “You have—in a thousand other realities.”

You’re about to protest, but Wanda barely allows you a breath. Her fingers, still deep inside you, start to move again, slow at first, then harder, rougher, with purpose. The stretch stings as your slick begins to dry, and you hiss at the friction. Finally, she rips your ruined underwear the rest of the way off and shifts her hand so that each thrust drags her palm right over your clit, forcing your body to bloom wet around her once more.

“It’s lying to you,” you manage in a hoarse whisper, even as your eyes roll to the back of your head. “If the Darkhold’s telling you this, it’s lying.”

She answers by crashing her mouth to yours, teeth catching your lower lip hard enough that you taste blood. Her free hand closes around your throat roughly, almost cutting off your air entirely.

“The Darkhold doesn’t lie,” she growls into the kiss. “It just shows the truth.”

“A-and what’s the truth?”

Wanda abruptly stops and for a second, the red glow in her eyes fades just a little.

“That in every other universe, it’s always her. It’s always Kia.”

Her fingers thrust deeper. Rougher. Your wrists strain against the magical cuffs, useless as she works you ruthlessly. She doesn’t slow when you shudder apart; she rides each clench of your walls, pushing even harder as if determined to redraw every limit you thought you had. She drives into you again and again until all you can feel, hear, and breathe is Wanda Maximoff and the stench of her heartbreak.

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