𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚒𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚍 - 𝙰𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚆𝙵𝙲 𝚡 𝚃𝚎𝚎𝚗!𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛
Description: reader's parents kicked her out and she is struggling. The team is always there for her.
awfc x teen!reader
Kim Little x teen!reader
*Homophobic parents, self worth issues, angst with a happy ending
Kim was the first to notice. Kim is always the first to notice if something is wrong, especially when it is something to do with her protégé.
The sun was barely peeking over the horizon when Y/n trudged onto the football field, her heart heavy with the weight of the previous night's events. Her parents' harsh words still echoed in her mind, each syllable a reminder of the home she no longer had. The field, usually a place of solace and escape, felt foreign and unwelcoming today. She tried to shake off the feeling, but it clung to her like a second skin.
As the team gathered for their morning warm-up, Y/n forced a smile, hoping it would mask the turmoil inside. Her teammates chatted animatedly, their laughter ringing out in the crisp morning air. Y/n moved through her stretches mechanically, her mind elsewhere. She was grateful for the routine, something familiar to hold onto amidst the chaos.
Jonas blew the whistle, signaling the start of a new drill. This one involved quick footwork and passing accuracy, requiring each player to move swiftly between cones while maintaining control of the ball. Y/n took her position, determined to push through the haze of her thoughts. She moved with the group, her feet dancing around the cones, but her usual grace was missing. The ball slipped away from her, rolling out of bounds.
"Come on, Y/n! Keep your head in the game!" Jonas called out, his voice carrying across the field.
Y/n nodded, forcing herself to concentrate. She retrieved the ball, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. As she resumed the drill, she caught sight of Viv and Beth, her teammates and a couple, working together seamlessly. Their movements were in sync, a testament to their understanding of each other both on and off the field. Y/n felt a pang of envy mixed with admiration. The ease with which they expressed their love was something she had always longed for, yet it was the very thing that had driven a wedge between her and her family.
Nearby, Katie and Caitlin, another couple on the team, were laughing as they practiced passing the ball back and forth. Their joy was infectious, and Y/n couldn't help but smile despite herself. Yet, the sight also served as a stark reminder of her own situation. While her teammates were embraced for who they were, she had been shunned by her own family for loving women. The injustice of it all gnawed at her, threatening to overwhelm her composure.
Jonas called for a water break, and Y/n gratefully took the opportunity to catch her breath. She sat on the grass, sipping from her water bottle, trying to steady her racing heart. Kyra and Vic had both attempted to talk to the girl only to be met with annoyed mumbles and blank stares. Teyah got the same treatment when she tried.
Kim watched on with a frown on her face, Jen coming to check on what she was so worried about.
"Just look at her, it like every bit of light has been sucked out of her. I can't bear it." Kim sighed as she watched you zone out, kicking at the ground aimlessly.
"You know her better than anyone Kimmy, go talk to her after practice." Jen encourages before they are all called back onto the pitch.
Training didn't get any better for the remainder of the day. Poor passes, sloppy in possession and way off target when shooting. It just wasn't good enough and Y/n knew that. The words of her parents from the previous night going through her head with every failed attempt on goal, every time she lost possession by making a silly mistake.
All the girls saw it, they noticed how sloppy her play had become. A stark contrast to her normal 110% effort every time she trained. It worried them all. They all made an effort to try and boost her up with pats on the back and words of encouragement but they were met with silence and no improvement.
Training ended as the afternoon air came in. The girl made their way off the pitch and back into the locker room. Y/n lingered back as she watched them all converse. Beth & Viv walked hand in hand into the locker room in front of y/n. This made her chest pang, it was jealousy, it was longing, it was sadness.
All the girls chatted as they got changed and packed up their stuff whilst y/n sat in her cubby trying her best not to cry. She was approached by Leah who knelt down to her height in her cubby.
"You alright chick?" The blonde asked, her brows furrowed in worry.
Y/n looked up at Leah, putting a small smile on. "I'm alright, I slept really rough last night thats all, I'm sorry for not being at by best today Lee."
"Don't apologise y/n, we all have off days. Try and get some sleep so we can get our happy girl back yeah?" Leah patted the girls shoulder as she stood up to go home.
With Leah gone, y/n looked around the locker room spotting no one there, she let her guard down and broke. Tears streamed down her face as she replayed the harsh words of the night before. Her parents' anger and disappointment had cut deep, leaving her feeling raw and exposed. She hugged her knees to her chest, seeking comfort in the small, enclosed space she had created for herself.
What y/n didn't know was Kim hung around to talk to Jonas about something and had just reentered the change rooms as y/n was crying. Kim quickly made her way over to the small girl, wrapping her arms around her, pulling her close.
"Y/n?" Kim's voice was gentle, filled with concern. "What's going on sweetheart?"
Y/n quickly sat up, wiping the tears away from her eyes. "I'm fine, just tired." She tried so reason as her voice cracked and tears continued to well in her eyes.
Kim shook her head, squeezing her a little tighter. "You don't have to pretend with me. I can tell something's wrong. Do you want to talk about it?"
Y/n hesitated, the words lodged in her throat. But the kindness in Kim's eyes coaxed them out. "My parents... they kicked me out last night. I finally worked up the courage to come out. They don't love me anymore Kim." The last sentence broke her as she cried again.
Kim's heart ached at the vulnerability in Y/n's voice. She reached out, placing a reassuring hand on Y/n's back. "I'm so sorry, Y/n. That must be incredibly painful."
Y/n nodded, her tears flowing freely now. "I just don't understand why they can't accept me. Seeing everyone else so happy and accepted... it just makes it hurt more."
Kim nodded, understanding the depth of Y/n's pain. "You deserve to be loved and accepted for who you are. And you are, Y/n. By all of us."
Y/n looked up, her eyes searching Kim's face for reassurance. "But where do I go now? I don't have anywhere else, I'm 17 I just want my parents."
Kim's expression softened further, her resolve clear. "You can stay with me, as long as you need. You're not alone. The team loves you and I love you. You are so incredibly brave and strong."
The offer hung in the air, a lifeline extended in Y/n's darkest moment. Gratitude surged through her, mingling with the sadness. "Thank you, Kim. I don't know what I'd do without you."
Kim smiled, her own eyes misty with emotion. "We're a team, Y/n. We look out for each other. Arsenal is a family. You're part of our family."
Y/n leaned into Kim's side, drawing comfort from the warmth and solidarity. The locker room, once a place of routine, had become a sanctuary—a space where she could be herself without fear of judgment.
"You're so strong, Y/n," Kim continued, her voice steady. "And we'll get through this together. You've got a whole team behind you, ready to support you every step of the way."
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˖⁺。˚⋆˙ur good for my heart | DR3˖⁺。˚⋆˙
pairing: daniel ricciardo x faceless y/n reader (she/her)
genre: social media au, established relationship
warnings: like 1 single sexual joke lol it's all jus fluff some mean tweets perhaps sorryy hope u like it
summary: in which f1's favourite couple has news to spite their doubters
a/n: making these is the most fun i've had in my whole life who else should i write for tehe
fc: various brunette girls from pinterest
song
my masterlist
instagram ->
yourusername
liked by landonorris, maxverstappen1 and 77,978 others
yourusername jus checking in yes me & ricardo are alive
tagged: yourbff
view all 8,437 comments
user1 y/n having a hamster called ricardo is my roman empire
user2 no daniel?
user3 ikr & max is always in her likes it's weird
user4 they r obviously friends?
landonorris wtf is that
yourusername i know ur not talking about my gay hamster
landonorris get a life
yourusername homophobe
yourbff next time i drown u
landonorris y/n taking L after L in this comment section
yourusername i literally dont like either of u
yourbff
liked by yourusername, landonorris and 3,547 others
yourbff no one is doing it like us happy birthday to the love of my life y/n/n
tagged: yourusername
view all 245 comments
landonorris haps baps yourusername
yourusername thank u babygirl
yourusername i love u so much omg
yourusername im jus a shell without u😭
yourbff i will always love u till my dying days & beyond xo
user5 has anyone else noticed y/n hasnt been seen with daniel lately
yourbff why the hell u saying this shit on my post get a job
liked by yourusername
whatsapp ->
twitter ->
instagram ->
danielricciardo
liked by yourusername, maxverstappen1 and 203,574 others
danielricciardo happy birthday to the love of my life
tagged: yourusername
view all 23,658 comments
user10 i knew they were still together
yourusername waiting for a hamster joke tbh
landonorris the gag is this post is not about u it's about ricardo
yourusername well i am not surprised if i was a gay hamster i too would want danny
danielricciardo do u want me even tho ur a regular girl?
landonorris no she doesnt
maxverstappen1 she does not
yourusername didnt want u to find out this way
yourusername tysm i love u forever & a day
liked by danielricciardo
user11 she is so annoying
comment deleted by danielricciardo
twitter ->
whatsapp ->
instagram ->
danielynlover
liked by yourusername, yourbff, and 3,023 others
danielynlover some of our favourite dan & y/n moments to remind everyone why they have been & will continue to be everyone's favourite f1 couple 🫶
tagged: danielricciardo, yourusername
view all 373 comments
user17 omg my actual parents
user18 i love how y/n always supports & shows up for danny no matter what team he's on
liked by yourusername
danielynlover exactly she is the most genuine wag imo
yourusername 😭🩷
danielynlover OMG HI Y/N
yourusername forever grateful for all of ur love for me & dan
user19 daniel ricciardo y/n y/l/n you will always be famous
whatsapp ->
instagram ->
danielricciardo
liked by yourusername, landonorris, and 547,372 others
danielricciardo baby on board
tagged: yourusername
view all 102,483 comments
landonorris couldn't even think of a joke for this one congratulations to my favourite couple
yourusername only took us getting pregnant to be freed from the horrendous jokes of lando norizz
landonorris i'll be back on form when i've had times to process the news
danielricciardo i told u 2 months ago
landonorris yes and?
maxverstappen1 congratulations 🎂
liked by danielricciardo and yourusername
yourbff i've never screamed so loud. im going to be an auntie
yourusername my baby is so lucky 🥹
user20 IS THIS REAL
user21 omg my parents are becoming parents
yourusername
liked by danielricciardo, maxverstappen1, and 75,382 others
yourusername bun in the oven
tagged: danielricciardo
danielricciardo of course you snuck that hamster into your pregnancy announcement
yourusername he is nothing if not a stickler for a party
yourbff i love u
liked by yourusername
user22 the girls are gonna love this one
user23 running straight to twitter
lewishamilton congratulations ❤️
yourusername tysm uncle lewis 😛
yoursister y/n mama hasnt stopped crying since u told her 🥹🥹🥹
yourusername sending all our love to u all 👨👩👧
twitter ->
time skip: many months later
instagram ->
yourusername
liked by danielricciardo, maxverstappen1, and 124,593 others
yourusername she's here 🥹 grace evelyn ricciardo born at 6am 7lb 2oz with her father's eyes
tagged: danielricciardo
view all 12,294 comments
yourbff i cannot wait to meet her🥹
yourusername 🥹🥹🥹
landonorris noo hahaaa im not crying... you are..
danielricciardo embrace it
maxverstappen1 when can we get her behind the wheel
yourusername what the hell is wrong with u
landonorris this is too far even for you
danielricciardo stay away from my daughter
danielricciardo and my wife whilst ur at it
user24 WIFE???
user25 WIFE?? WHEN DID THIS HAPPEN
danielricciardo i love you i am so proud of you i am so lucky to have met you and to be loved by you my wife 💍
yourusername i love you u r my entire universe 😊
user26 who else will never recover from this
liked by yourusername
THE END 🤍
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pairing: past wanda maximoff x fem!reader / present natasha romanoff x fem!reader
summary: When you see Wanda again after the secret relationship you shared during your college years, you realize the lasting impact she had on you. Haunted by flashbacks of your time together, you struggle to reconcile the memory of the Wanda you once knew with the woman she has become a decade later.
content warnings: angst, homophobia, a few homophobic slurs, internalized homophobia, heartbreak and grief, some smut, tragedy
word count: 7.1k+
Masterlist
A/N: This is heavily inspired by the song Us. By Gracie Abrams ft. Taylor Swift. I would recommend listening to it simply because it is a masterpiece and the foundation of this fic.
comments and reblogs are always appreciated! happy reading ♡
The Secret of Us
“Babe, are you ready?”
Green eyes peek around the doorframe, delicate fingers working a dangling diamond studded earring through a slightly reddened ear. There’s a gentle smile on Natasha’s face, a strand escaping her perfectly curled hair and falling somewhat in front of her face. It brushes softly against her cheek, a sharp exhale moving it as a wince appears on her face.
“Here, let me,” you say, curling a single finger in her direction. You place your makeup brushes onto the vanity in front of you, your fingers gentle as you pluck the earring from Natasha’s hand.
It’s a beautiful piece. The golden metal is dainty, yet solid, woven into complex swirls that catch the dying rays of sunshine streaming in from your window. Your hands are careful, threading the earring through her skin like a seamstress, with confidence that comes from years of practice and love woven into each measured touch.
“Perfect,” you mutter. You both know you’re not just talking about the earring.
Natasha smirks at you, full of confidence that is only slightly contrasted by the pink flush rising to her cheeks. You laugh slightly, the sound low and full of warmth as you turn back towards the mirror.
Strong hands rest lightly on your shoulders as Natasha’s fingers firmly rub circles into your skin. You can feel the tight knots give away beneath her ministrations and sigh in relief as you brush highlighter onto the highest point of your cheekbones. Green eyes track your movements lazily, taking you in like it's the first time she’s seeing you. You find it quite romantic and tell her just as much.
“Well,” the bright smile on Natasha’s face shines through the word, “That was my goal, detka.”
A soft shove from you has Natasha’s hands wrapping around your own as she pulls you to your feet. You sway slightly, blinking against the headrush that comes from changing positions too quickly. Arms wrap around your waist as strong as the pull of gravity, unwavering and inevitable.
“You look beautiful,” Natasha murmurs, her lips brushing yours.
“Compared to you, I am nothing.” The words flow from your lips easily, the truth of them lying comfortably under your skin, feeling like the steady weight of a cat curled up on your chest. You kiss away any protests, your tongue swiping against hers when she tries to speak.
“We should go,” Natasha manages to say, the words separated with the firm kisses she places against your lips. “We’re about to run late, and I know you hate it when people are inconsiderate with their timing.”
You nod against her, your hands squeezing her waist gently as you breathe deeply through your nose, unwilling to part your lips from hers.
“Sweetheart.”
Natasha’s tone is firm, her hand pressed against your sternum as she pushes you away. It's gentle, almost hesitant. You know that if you pressed back against it, she would crumble like a sandcastle at high tide. It's for that very reason that you don’t, not wanting to disrupt her carefully planned evening.
“Lead the way, my love.”
—
You find yourself hanging from Natasha’s arm, feeling every bit like a trophy. Shining, and put on the highest shelf, gazes sliding appreciatively over you before moving on to the next impressive thing. You wonder how long it will be before the dust begins to collect.
A man, standing close to your wife. His fingers twitch, his eyes glancing dismissively at you. He’s talking just a bit too loud for the short distance between him and Natasha, and you feel a white-hot rage rising before you take in the fake smile plastered across her face.
It's too wide, showing too many teeth and yet not enough at the same time. Her eyes are sharp, the soft crow’s feet that normally appear at the edges nowhere to be found. The pressure of her fingers against your waist grounds you, leaving you feeling every bit like a rock standing solidly against the crashing waves.
The man moves on, loses interest. You don’t mind. The memory of him is already floating away, being replaced by the soft look Natasha is sending your way. You feel shiny again, not a speck of dust in sight.
Dragging your eyes around the room, you let yourself get lost in the sea of bodies.
Natasha had brought you to some important work event. It was essentially a party, disguised under layers of professionalism in celebration of a multi-million dollar partnership with their rival company.
There was an undercurrent of tension, being slowly filtered into a sort of understanding and grudging respect. The alcohol probably helped.
A woman’s laughter rang around the room. The tension in the air shuddered and released its hold slightly.
You amend your statement. The alcohol definitely helped.
Lazily, you return your gaze to the room. Natasha is slowly walking you towards the center of the room, leading you with gentle touches at your waist. You feel every bit like a lamb, awkward with growing limbs as it is shepherded into a crowd.
Bouncing around the room, your eyes take in the multitude of people. Features start to blur together. A pointed nose, blue eyes almost hidden under thick eyeliner, shimmering dresses that catch the light and make your head spin.
Your eyes catch on brunette hair. Soft, flowing like a calm river on a warm summer's day.
Startling slightly, you blink, a memory dredging its way to the front of your brain like molten lava, slow and inevitable.
Brunette hair, falling effortlessly over strong shoulders. The scent of vanilla washing over you and enveloping you like a well-known embrace. Green eyes sparkling down at you as soft lips move. You focus, dragging your eyes away from the perfectly manicured nails softly brushing against your desk.
“Mind if I sit here?”
A feeble shake of your head, and rapid blinking as you attempt to return the moisture lost to wide-eyed staring back into your eyes.
She’s beautiful.
Her words are kind, a small smile seemingly locked into place on her lips as she regards you. Green eyes roam your face, lingering around your lips for just a second too long.
“I’m Wanda.”
The memory slams into your skull, reverberating painfully around as you feel an age-old, nearly forgotten crack in your heart reopen. It takes your breath away, the weight in your chest feeling like a paperweight, settling down on the last few pages of a story full of loss and anguish.
Natasha’s speaking to someone, her raspy voice filtering through your ears. It’s nothing like the cadence of melted butter you still sometimes hear in your dreams. It's different, better. You wonder when the lies will morph into a semblance of truth.
You take a deep breath, letting those thoughts slide back to where they belong. In the back of your mind, locked away and left to be forgotten. It wouldn’t do you any good to dwell on the past, with its looming, crumbling chess pieces that dance around you in a game that you don’t quite understand the rules of.
“Ah, fuck.” Comes Natasha’s voice, the words mumbled directly in your ear.
You twist your head, shaking it free of cobwebs sticky with memory as you take in your wife. Her eyes are locked on something across the room, the faint furrow of her brows the only sign of displeasure etched on her face. Her lips are moving, mumbling something about an important blah blah man blah blah, rich and influential at her rival company blah blah…
Smiling slightly, you hide your amusement with practiced ease as you turn your gaze towards the man, no, a couple heading your way. Your eyes barely register the neatly parted blonde hair of a tall man, his eyes locked on Natasha with a calculating sort of look in them before your eyes slide over to the woman on his arm.
Fuck, indeed.
Your heartbeat rushes through your ears, a dull ringing cascading through them as you feel your breath catch. Everything has gone numb, or cold, or tingly. You’re not really sure. Everything is too much and the room is too hot even as goosebumps rise on the surface of your exposed flesh. You suddenly see yourself in a third-person view, your mind projecting outside your body as you go rigid at the sight of her.
Wanda Maximoff.
Green eyes, brighter and lighter than the ones you stared lovingly into at the altar. Her gaze flickers over to you, not fully meeting your eyes, a forced sort of dissonance playing out briefly on those perfect features before she focuses on Natasha.
Another memory slams into you, rising unbidden from the depths of your mind before you can stop it.
Soft laughter, echoing around the room before it's absorbed by the four walls surrounding you. Green eyes, smiling at you before returning their focus to the pen and paper in front of her.
Wanda writes something down, your eyes tracing the elegant script that flowed easily from her fingertips. Something scratches at the back of your mind, a tendril of something fond, warm. It feels like coming home, future impressions of familiarity beginning to take root.
“Let me see,” you’re saying, moving closer. Your hands reach for the book. No, it's a leather-bound journal. You’d picked them out earlier, after walking to the store with Wanda from your English literature class.
“No, oh my god,” Wanda was saying, giggles erupting from her as she half-heartedly wrestled the journal away from you. Her hand lands on your knee, her cheeks a little too flushed. It reminds you of the cherry she’d eaten earlier, licking the whipped cream from her milkshake off before smiling and sucking the fruit into her mouth.
Her hand stills, awkward and stiff for a moment. You don’t comment on it, shifting your body weight to be slightly closer to her. The warmth from her palm spreads through your body like a slow creek, new and small and promising bigger currents down the road.
“Let me read yours out loud and I’ll let you read mine,” you offer, taking her journal gently and placing yours in her lap.
“It’s just poetry,” the words flow from your lips, but you know it’s more than that. It’s the very contents of your soul, laid bare for her to see, wrapped under layers of grammar and careful wording. It’s a confession, it’s a sin, it’s something twisting and beautiful and as graceless as a newborn foal. Her eyes meet yours, your thoughts reflected back at you as her fingers twitch slightly on your knee.
Wanda’s hand takes your journal, those green eyes skimming the words as her lips move silently.
You don’t look away, you can’t look away. Her hair is falling over her shoulder, as delicate and soft as the words written before you. There’s a palpable tension in the air, low and thumping like a familiar heartbeat.
Green eyes, flickering back to you. Something behind them that you can’t interpret. You feel like she can see your every thought, the very contents of your being laid out before her as she analyzes each individual piece. It’s frightening and it’s intoxicating, and you look away.
You’re reading her words now, the sentences flowing and mashing together in your mind as you pluck the strings of her mind with your careful hands. It’s beautiful and well-written, layered with so many truths and lies that you can’t begin to interpret the true meaning of her sentences.
Something tingles at the base of your skull, warm and light as it blossoms through your head. Understanding. Or, the semblance of it.
You look up. Light green eyes stare back into yours. They’re captivating, and you wonder if they ever left. If she watched you the same way you did her, attempting to unravel her very being through carefully constructed lines and flowing script and words layered with meaning.
Those green eyes have the power to shatter you. You pick up your pen.
“So what is it that you do?” The man is speaking.
Your mind crashes back into the present, another hairline fracture appearing on the surface of your heart. You can practically feel it, the torment running deeper than the illusion the thin crack offers. It’s bone-aching, and you suddenly feel exhausted.
“I’m a copywriter,” Natasha answers, sounding casual. You can sense the clipped tone and undercurrent of frustration, and your hand gently traces circles against her wrist. “I graduated with a degree in English Literature.”
“Ah,” the man says, sounding every bit as pretentious as he looks. “My wife got a degree in that as well.”
Another crack, splintering into you. Your eyes flick down, catching the ring on Wanda’s finger. It’s shining and big, the diamonds glittering back at you, the mockery of it seeping into your soul. The meaning of it is every bit as surface level as what you assume Wanda’s feelings for this man are. You know better, she had told you just as much.
“I don’t think I’ll ever love a man in the way I’m meant to.”
You don’t have to ask what she means. You don’t respond, a gentle sigh escaping you as the weight of her head rests solidly on your shoulder. The clock on your nightstand blinks back at you, the numbers twinkling in the early morning. Pens and paper and journals are strewn around you, a poetry book facedown in your lap. Your voice had grown too tired from reading, but neither of you seemed to mind the comfortable silence stretching around the room.
Until now.
“I know,” you say. There are not many words you can speak.
It's simple. That’s a lie. It’s not, it’s complicated and it's painful and there’s nothing you can do to take that away from her. You wish you could. You would do anything to let Wanda’s soul have respite in your presence, to be unburdened from thoughts of sin and duty, to be able to finally breathe properly.
Soft fingers find your hand, tangling with your fingers almost hesitantly. Your palm slides easily against hers, and you swallow the lump in your throat. Your hands fit like a jigsaw puzzle, feeling like the final piece as it clicks into place. Confusion and frustration sliding away as the picture finally makes sense.
“Poetry feels like prayer.” Wanda’s voice is quiet, and you know what she means. It feels holy, even with the words only spoken in the sublunary space of your dorm room. Her head twists on your shoulder, and you feel your gaze drawn to her like the inevitable magnetic pull of the earth. Her green eyes peer up at you. “Will you pray with me?”
Picking up the poetry book in your lap, you begin reading. Your thumb runs over the pages. Staring at the words in front of you, you wonder why they’re blurry. You realize later, after Wanda had fallen asleep from being lulled into comfort by your voice, that it had been unshed tears.
You let them fall.
“Yes,” Wanda is saying, and her voice is exactly the same as you’d remembered. She’s speaking, saying something about the university she’d attended and how she got her degree. The only thing you can focus on is the familiar lilt of her words, the smooth cadence you’ve memorized and seared into your brain.
It’s painful, but you can’t take your eyes off of her. Natasha’s hand moves slightly against your waist, and you blink. The man next to Wanda has his arms almost possessively around her shoulders, his hawkish eyes watching you.
You look away.
“Oh, you and my wife went to the same University,” Natasha says, trying to be helpful. You don’t appreciate it. Her words are genuine, but the statement falls short, a beat of awkward silence stretching into an eternity as you try to respond. What could you even say?
Yes. We did. I fell in love with the confident, full-of-life brunette who looked at me like I hung the moon, and I looked at her like she painted the stars just to give the moon some company. I loved her as easy as breathing, and now my lungs never feel full enough, my breaths labored and weighted with the words of love I breathed into her ear that I can’t take back, won’t take back.
Refuse to take back.
“We must have missed each other,” Wanda says, her eyes flashing in your direction, but not fully meeting yours. “It’s a big school.”
A polite smile plasters itself onto your face, too small and stiff to be sincere. Your heart clenches painfully, a small part of your mind begging Wanda to meet your eyes. God, it feels just like when you were at University.
Her husband’s fingers tighten slightly around her shoulder, pulling her further into his side. You wonder if Wanda feels like she’s suffocating yet. You hope not, you want her to breathe. To fill her lungs with light and hope and passion and… not whatever this is.
Another memory, sludging through your mind like a heavy foot through quicksand.
You don’t talk to Wanda much outside of class and the late-night poetry readings in your dorm. She blames it on her busy social life, being in a sorority is apparently no joke. You’ve learned to keep your head down when you see her in public, her eyes always lingering near you, but never fully meeting yours, too focused on the sorority sisters that always seem to surround her. Appearances are everything to her, you know that.
But god, it hurts.
It still doesn’t cut quite as deep as the weekend her parents came to visit.
Wanda had grown up the daughter of a pastor, a well-spoken man with a quiet, hidden-in-the-shadows wife. You’d watched from afar, noticing the small glances her mother would send her way, and the nervous twitching of her fingers as she adjusted Wanda's collar, or brushed a piece of invisible lint from her daughter's skirt.
Per usual, Wanda was nothing short of perfect. Her hair was perfectly curled, laying gently over her shoulders as the brunette strands glowed in the sunlight. She’d done her makeup just subtle enough to perfect her already dainty features, but not enough to rouse suspicion that she was promiscuous.
You’d watched her do her makeup many times, her hands perfecting the art. You wondered how much of her father’s influence and mother’s worry controlled the easy flick of her brush as it spread a light blush across her cheeks.
Tracing your gaze down her form, you glance back to the book in front of you. A poem glared up at you, the words swimming off the page as you remember the subtle curve of Wanda’s spine, her head bowed slightly as her father spoke into her ear.
Wanda was full of life, shining brightly and standing out amongst the rest of the population at this university. Or perhaps that was simply your own observation, after all, your entire waking moments were consumed by thoughts of her.
The point is, she wasn’t… docile. Or submissive, or meek like her posture suggests when her father lays a hand on her shoulder. You can’t tell if he’s gripping his fingers tightly or gently around her, but either way, Wanda doesn’t make a move to remove his hand.
She’s nodding, her head turning towards him. You can see her smiling easily at him, saying something back.
His hand returns to his side, and you hope that you imagine the slope of her mother’s shoulders relaxing. The way her fingers twitch towards her daughter, wanting to replace the feeling of his hand against her skin, but choosing to brush a strand of her hair behind her ear instead. Always deflecting her true intentions.
Wanda’s face turns towards her mother. You see the momentary look that passes between them, but you’re unable to interpret it from across the quad. The moment passes, and her mother returns her attention back to her husband. Always a faithful, obedient wife.
When Wanda and her parents pass by the table you’re seated at, she doesn’t spare you a second glance. Her green eyes are focused on some unimportant thing in the distance, her father’s lips moving near her ear again. You silently plead with her to look your way, to take solace in the silent comfort you can provide.
Her green eyes don’t meet yours. You feel a crack appear on your heart, and you swallow harshly as you stare blankly at the poetry in front of you. Shoving the crack down where you’ve displaced all the other ones, you begin to read.
The poem is a romantic one. Full of yearning and hope and unbridled passion. The only thing you can think about is how incredibly tragic it seems.
Natasha’s thumb is slowly moving, caressing your hip as she holds you loosely by her side. Not possessive, but not without care either. You’re grateful for the touch, and focus on it as Wanda’s husband continues to talk about… what is he talking about?
You don’t really care.
The version of Wanda that you knew and the woman you see in front of you clash in your mind, splintering your thoughts. You’re also aware of your wife beside you, and guilt creeps into your heart.
You chose Natasha. You’re happy with her, you stood across from her and declared your love and promised her that you would love her until the end of time. You intend to stand by that, to uphold your promise. Imagining a future without her seems impossible.
But you’d also imagined a future with Wanda once. It didn’t seem right to just ignore that. And it was impossible to keep the memories at bay. Not when she was standing before you for the first time in ten fucking years, with her perfect hair and her natural looking makeup and her light green eyes and the scent of vanilla washing over you and and and-
Breathing in, feeling the comforting scent of vanilla enveloping you in the strong embrace of a familiar lover. Wanda’s hair just beneath your nose, the silky strands brushing against your cheek and chin as you place a gentle kiss on her head.
Her arms are wrapped around you, her breaths even. You aren’t asleep, but you let her think that you are. It's easier for her to be herself when she thinks nobody is watching. Her fingers slowly dance along the exposed skin of your stomach, softly tracing nonsensical patterns against you as you feel your heart pound steadily.
A poetry book rests at your side, forgotten in the favor of holding her in your arms. You understand what all the poets mean, with their suffering and their longing written painstakingly on pages of crinkled paper beneath their ink-stained hands, as you hold Wanda gently against you. This moment feels too precious, too raw to ever be put into words, to write down for the world to see.
No, you’d much rather keep this moment pure and untouched, resting in your heart alongside the inevitability of Wanda Maximoff.
You can feel her in your soul. Or rather, maybe it’s your soul that’s bleeding and filling the space between you two. You hope that it is mixing with Wanda’s, filling the painful parts of her that she pushes down and cushioning them with warmth. Is it too much to hope that she’ll carry a part of you with her forever? Is it selfish to take the willing parts of her soul that bleed into yours and keep them there until they’re so ingrained in the fiber of your being that you would lose yourself if she took it back?
Maybe that's the true definition of love.
Natasha's hand grips you tightly, her fingers tense around your hip. Her eyes are locked on Wanda’s husband, his drawling voice grating your nerves. You risk a glance at Wanda, recognizing her blank look at the ground for what it is. Escape.
She used to tell you about the places she’d go inside her mind when life got to be too much for her. It sounded peaceful. She could be whoever she wanted inside her own head, without the pressure of her father or the quiet concern of her mother and the encompassing guilt that she was never making the right choices. You hope she's there right now, and return your gaze towards her husband.
“I mean,” Her husband's eyes are sharp, glinting dangerously at your wife. “It’s so nice that they allow so many… diverse individuals to work with your company.”
His eyes travel down her body before flicking over to you briefly.
“Is it hard to keep your lifestyle and work life separate?” he asks, and your blood boils. You see Wanda’s head lower further. “I imagine it's quite difficult to relate to your peers, with a secret like that.”
Natasha is seconds away from exploding, tearing him down with sharp words and securing her own termination in the same breath.
You find your voice, the quiet strength of your words surprising you. “I’ve been out and proud since I was in high school. I’ve never been ashamed of who I am. And neither is my wife.”
Wanda’s eyes cut sharply over to you, that specific shade of light green filling your vision.
“Why the fuck would you give this to me if you didn’t want me to interpret it that way?” You’re not yelling, you never would. Not at her. Never at Wanda. But you can feel the frustration leaking into each syllable, and you hate the way that Wanda’s shoulders seem to hunch in on themselves.
“I never meant for you to…” Wanda can’t continue, her eyes locked on the poetry book you’re clutching between your fingers.
“You never meant for me to fall in love with you?”
A flinch, green eyes staring at the carpet and gentle fingers clenched uselessly over the back of a chair. The words bounce around your dorm room, settling in with a tentative weariness.
“Why would you give me this poetry book about romance and passion and fighting for love if that’s not what you wanted me to think about you?” you set the book down on your desk, the pages flipping open. You can see the smudged ink of your annotations. That was a flaw of yours, always writing too fast as you try to keep up with the thoughts in your head.
“That’s not what I mean I-” Wanda’s eyes are locked on the book and you watch her swallow harshly. Her voice is shaky, her head bowed. You hate it, and there’s nothing you can do to make it better. “I can’t love you.”
“You don’t love me?”
“That’s not what I said.” Wanda’s voice is quiet.
Oh.
“You don’t understand,” Wanda has unshed tears in her eyes. You want to wipe them away, your fingers twitching, unsure if you’re allowed to anymore. “My family means everything to me.”
Oh.
The weight of tragedy settles in, burying itself deep within your bones and wrapping around your heart and squeezing. All of the cracks you’d smothered appear at once, splintering and creating new fractures with each labored pump of poisonous blood coursing through your body.
You finally understand what the poets mean. The metaphors and desperation, the weight of grief and longing and the way it sticks to your very soul like a parasite that you keep feeding and nurturing because the pain of forgetting is worse than the crushing travesty of remembering.
Wanda is talking, and for the first time, you’re not paying attention to her words. She’s saying something about her parents and financial dependence and them cutting her off and all you can hear is that she’s stuck and scared and trying to protect herself and you can’t choose her path for her.
It’s agony, it’s grief and it’s nothing like what you imagined as you innocently read the words scattered across the pages of your poetry book. It’s so much fucking worse. Wanda’s hand is on the doorknob of your dorm, her vanilla scent already fading from your walls as she looks at you with longing and grief and something devastating hidden and suppressed deep within her soul. You wonder if this will be the last time her green eyes ever look at you with genuine emotion shining through them.
You wonder if you’ll ever escape the numbing chill of loneliness that settles beneath your skin like an old friend.
Vision, you’d learned his name at some point during the conversation, seems at a loss for words for the first time since you’ve met him. His face is steadily reddening, the tips of his ears practically scarlet as you watch the hand on Wanda’s shoulder tighten.
“I’ve seen your name credited a lot, you must be very good at what you do.” Wanda’s voice is melodic, her words placating yet genuine. She’s mending the rift, her words an unspoken apology for her husband’s behavior as he stands sullen beside her.
Natasha smiles and begins speaking.
It’s strange, to see the woman you’re in love with talking with Wanda. There was a time when you thought you’d never find someone who made you feel the way Wanda did. You were convinced that your love would live and die with her.
Then, you met your wife.
Natasha was everything you could have ever hoped for. She loved you openly and proudly from the moment she met you. Her commitment to you had never waned, her gestures true and meanings genuine. You’d never trusted somebody more, never felt as comfortable with another person.
She stood by your side when others did not. She held you when you were sick, and stayed by your side when you were at your lowest. The day that you had married her was the best day of your life, and your vows were nothing short of pure truth. The green eyes that had looked at you from across the altar were vibrant and dark, your love for that shade of green far surpassing the one you’d loved all those years ago.
So why did it still hurt to think about Wanda?
If you had to choose. Right now, Natasha or Wanda, you knew you’d choose your wife in every lifetime. But that didn’t explain the splintering cracks reappearing on your heart the longer you stayed in Wanda’s presence.
Music rattles the floor, a plethora of swirling hues surrounding you. Your senses are dulled by the fiery liquor burning within your veins, your brain finally relaxing.
“Dude, come on don’t just stand there like a weirdo,” Kate pulls you away from the wall, spilling your cup in the process.
You both look down at it for a moment, before bursting into peals of laughter that leave you clutching her shoulder for support as she bends at the waist. Her dark hair falls neatly over her shoulders, her backward cap holding it in place.
The music drowns out most of your laughter, but you’re aware of the eyes on both you and Kate as you wipe tears from your eyes. She’s pulling you closer to the DJ, dancing sloppily with you. You can’t bring yourself to care about the people around you. There was one goal tonight, get absolutely sloshed at the local college bars and then pass out on Kate’s couch to forget about the whole thing.
“Who the fuck let the sloppy, drunk dykes in?”
Kate doesn’t hear the words, but you do. You turn to face the group near you, the liquor making you bold. It’s a bunch of sorority girls, with their skin-tight dresses and judging eyes watching you with caked-on mascara. Your heart drops when you see Wanda standing in the middle of them.
Your blood runs cold, a surge of sadness and fury sweeping through you. It’s confusing, but most of all, it’s fucking infuriating.
Behind you, Kate stumbles, her elbow knocking into your side. Your arms wrap around her, keeping her upright as she mumbles an apology in your ear. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Wanda whisper something to one of the girls, their eyes on you and filled with mirthful laughter.
“You’re right, Wanda,” the girl says, loud enough for the whole group to hear. “These dyke sluts would probably jump on the nearest dick they could find, since nobody else wants to fuck them.”
The blood rushes to your ears, and Kate’s gasp reverberates around your skull. The bar seems quieter than before, and a multitude of eyes are on you and the blonde bitch in front of you is smirking like she just stole your favorite candy and Wanda is laughing and pointedly avoiding eye contact with you but her smile wavers slightly as her eyes grow sad for a split second before she remembers where she is and you’re so fucking mad and it all just seems so goddamn tragic and-
Your fist connects solidly with that stupid, smug smirk that the blonde girl proudly plasters on her face. There are gasps and Kate whooping loudly in your ear and arms wrapped around you and pulling you towards the door and alcohol making your head spin and fuck you’ve never felt more alive.
Wanda’s eyes finally meet yours. They’re filled with shock, but just before she turns away, you see a sliver of gratitude and the hint of an apology glimmering in their depths.
Needless to say, both you and Kate are banned from that bar.
Your wife is laughing. The echoes of mean laughter from Wanda and her sorority sisters fade into the background noise of your brain as you refocus on the conversation. Natasha’s soft chuckles bring a smile to your face before you can stop it, your lips turning up as you look at her.
She’s effortlessly pretty, her eyes crinkled slightly at the edges even as her gaze flickers warily over to Vision. Her arm is wrapped around your waist, solid yet unrestrictive.
Wanda’s eyes linger around the fingers that lightly draw circles against your hip. She seems to shake herself, eyes quickly moving back towards safer territory as she focuses on Natasha’s face. You don’t miss the fleeting expression of longing that flits across her face, her appearance seeming soul-crushingly tired for a mere moment before it smooths over in a way that speaks to years of practice.
You wonder if she’s remembering the same night that rises to the front of your mind. You try to combat it, to stay in the moment. Natasha's fingers squeeze your hips lovingly, and you descend into the memory with bone-deep guilt.
The concrete is cold beneath you, the wind picking up slightly and threading its way through your hair. You shiver, feeling Wanda adjust her body closer to yours. You’re aware of her heat spreading through you. Her hand fits seamlessly in yours, and you wonder when loving Wanda became as easy and inevitable as breathing.
“Do you think the poets compared their words to the stars?” Wanda asks.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” you say, breathing in her vanilla scent. It’s hard to focus on her words when her body is pressed fully against yours, your left side burning with warmth and something else that you’re almost scared to identify.
Wanda chuckles, the sound heating your cheeks further.
“Well,” she pauses. That’s one of the things you love about her, how careful she is with her words. “Do you think they viewed their words, their poems, as unattainable yet beautiful and pure?”
You’re quiet. You can think of something that is also unattainable, pure and completely inevitable. It’s not poetry, and it’s not the glittering stars that take up your vision. She’s lying right beside you, her nose bright red from the wind and a future stretching out ahead of her that she is able to mold into something beautiful and something that is completely her own. If only she had the courage to do so. You hope she does.
“Of course they did. They’re poets,” you respond, and Wanda hums. “Do you feel that way?”
Wanda doesn’t respond, and that’s enough of an answer for you.
The silence stretches on, but it's comfortable. Wanda is shifting silently, more of her body pressing against you, the wind having died down a while ago, leaving no easy excuses for her leg pressed fully against yours.
“You wanna know what I think?” Wanda’s voice is quiet, yet firm.
Turning your head, you look at her. She looks back, her lips mere inches away from yours. You can feel the soft, warm breath escaping her lips and hitting your face as she speaks.
“I think that you’re like the stars,” Wanda begins, her green eyes sparkling at you. They glance down imperceptibly, almost too quickly for you to catch. You notice, of course you do. “You're incomparable, chemical almost.”
Wanda trails off, her eyes firmly focused on your lips. You understand, you always do.
“I can’t tell if you’re a curse or a miracle,” you whisper, feeling Wanda lean in. The tension vibrates palpably between your lips and hers. “But I don’t really care.”
Soft lips collide with yours, a seismic shift that causes your head to spin for a moment. It’s perfect and pure and something bordering on holiness and you find yourself never wanting to leave this moment. Then, Wanda’s lips are moving against yours and the heat inside you is rising and her hands are everywhere and you can’t get enough of her and-
Her moans feel almost reverent, stretching out into the minimal space between you as she arches herself closer to you. Her skin is pressed against yours, warm and alive and feeling every last bit like an all-consuming force that you gladly pull closer. Your fingers slip inside her easily, the feeling of her bringing tears to your eyes. You want to live in this moment forever, with the taste of her on your lips and her thighs impossibly soft around you, her head thrown back as she chants your name like a prayer.
You’ve never believed in God. But in this moment, you finally know what it truly means to worship.
A man’s voice pulls you from your thoughts.
“Well, as lovely as it’s been to meet you…” Vision trails off, and Natasha simply raises an eyebrow.
“Thank you for the wonderful conversation,” Wanda’s smooth words cut in, another unspoken apology and excuse for her husband's behavior. “We should probably be leaving, it’s getting late.”
Green eyes glance at her husband, whether for permission or in reprimand, you can’t tell. Either way, it gets Vision to move, a firm head nod directed towards your wife before he’s striding towards the door, pulling Wanda with him.
She’s leaving. Again.
A final memory claws its way to the surface. You know this one. It's a memory that you’ve kept hidden in the deepest part of your brain, in a place full of sticky cobwebs and scarce lighting, meant to be forgotten.
It’s inevitable.
Wanda is almost at the exit, her husband's hand possessive against the small of her back. It speaks of ownership, of pride. You despise it. It’s nothing like the soft, loving touch of your wife’s hand against your waist.
The turn of a head and soft brunette waves falling gently around delicate, hunched shoulders. Soft skin, glowing slightly in the dim, red lighting of an exit sign. Green eyes, piercing yours in the same manner that they had all those years ago.
Your breath catches, lodging itself painfully in your throat. Or maybe it's just your chest, and what lies beneath the surface. A heart, with cracks all along the surface, squeezing painfully, the tension, the agony almost too much to bear.
A single tear slides down your cheek. You hear Natasha murmuring something in your ear, a gentle hand wiping your face dry.
There’s a mask sliding into place over those perfect features that you’d memorized a decade ago. Green eyes, light in shade, sliding past you as if you’re an insignificant, forgotten trophy on the highest shelf. And then she’s gone, out the door with only the faint scent of vanilla and a permanent memory etched into your mind.
The cracks splinter, and without warning, shatter completely.
“Pick up, pick up… please just… fucking. Ah, just, goddamnit pick up the fucking phone Wanda.”
You’re drunk, the phone feeling awkward and heavy in your hands. The sound of a dial tone beeping ricochets through your mind, and you clumsily jerk the phone away from your ear. Blearily, you take in the four previous calls you’ve made to Wanda.
One more try can’t hurt. Right?
You firmly press your finger against her name, the sound of your phone dialing her number washing over you. The tiny numbers in the corner of your screen read somewhere between one or two in the morning, but you don’t care. All you need is for Wanda to pick up.
A sound, different from before. You hear quiet breathing on the other side of the line.
God, you’ve missed that sound. The feeling of her head resting against your shoulder or chest as slow measured breaths fill the four walls of your dorm room. The small puffs of air hitting your skin when she shifted, burying her face in your neck.
You say as much, the words spilling out of you. You’re not sure if Wanda is listening, but you hope she is.
“Fuck, I- I just miss you so much. It feels like I’m dying every time I see you, and I can’t take your eyes avoiding mine anymore. I mean,” you hiccup, the sound pathetic even to your own ears. It doesn’t matter.
“Don’t you miss us?” you say, your voice quiet. The soft breaths on the other end of the line hitch, and you grasp at it. “I miss the flame of what we were, I don’t even really know what we were, but… I miss the small reign we had. Even if it was just in the space of my dorm room. I would go through the pain of you every day if it meant I could be close to you. I-”
You lose the words, the regret pouring through you as quickly as a flooding river. The words can’t escape fast enough.
“Do you regret us? I know we were a secret, and I was okay with that. I would have done anything, kept anything private, secret even, just to keep you in my life. You know that Wanda.” You draw a shaky breath. You hope that you don’t imagine the same type of breath on the other end of the line.
“Do you miss it?” You ask, hating the way your voice cracks gently. You hear Wanda’s sharp, soft inhale. “Do you regret the secret of us?”
Click.
---
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