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yorsgirl · 20 hours

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A Fairytale Wedding(ova)

Gojo Satoru x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: Although you knew it would happen, never did you think it'll be this soon. Now standing amidst a labyrinth of heartbreak and betrayals there's only so much one can choose. Unfortunately, for you and Satoru right choices had never been the forte.

Tropes: Drama, Angst, smut

Warnings: Cheating, smut, smoking, drinking, strong language, overall toxic relationships, mild hurt/no comfort, insecurities, OOC, slight Gojo x OC, usage of nicknames, no mentions of y/n.

Word count: 11.3k (bye it's longer than actual chapters lmao)

A/N: set before AFW1 + writing this to tie up some loose ends and I had to delete so many scenes but it still came out so long :,) afw3 will be posted next I swear, just be patient + this would have been posted two days ago if my school didn't just decide to be a pain in the ass. Anyways enjoy!!

Divider credits: @cafekitsune

Kazumi proclaimed you as her best friend.

Ever since you met her in high school, she had stuck by you. All of it was strange. Why would she – one of the elites ever decide to tag along with nobody like you? Well, things were already strange enough when you got to attend a private school in the first place. Though scholarship grants existed, this particular one didn't have that exact facility. However, what it did have was a RTE form which chose ten students in a lottery based system every year and they got to study there in a tuition fee lower than the traditional. You could've been grateful to your lucky stars but you were more grateful towards your parents who just worked those extra hours to pay the over-the-top fee. That was the year you decided that you'd return the favour tenfold when you start earning as well.

Friendships don't see price tags. That statement was proved wrong in the first week. No, never were you discriminated against neither were you ever bullied. Your classmates were nice. Not good. Not bad. Just nice. However, the distance that did set in didn't elude you. Maybe it started when one of the girls asked you if you'd like to join them. Never were you ashamed of your social class so you answered truthfully that you couldn't for you had to run to your part time job in the departmental store. Despite receiving understanding statements, you knew your refusal was met with a tinge of disdain. You could understand, it must be hard to be friends with someone who was busy even on Friday nights. Being a firm believer of the proverb – birds of a feather flock together – and you weren't a bird like them so you paid little heed to the bridge that was slowly setting in between you and your classmates. Besides, only six hours of school, out of which you'd be busy in classes for five hours; all of that didn't matter as much.

You could only be grateful that you weren't treated poorly for all your perturbation was served from all the high school dramas you had watched. The protagonist being bullied for obvious reasons until the handsome love interest starts to take interest in her and she seemingly gains her confidence finally ending the tale with a happy note.

But this was no cinematic drama. If anything prevailed, it was the potential for bullying that mercifully never materialized, thanks to your decent classmates. Yet, wasn't that the bare minimum? In times of need, even the bare minimum can feel like a privilege.

However, all of it changed in the second year.

You had to give the practical computer science exam where the students had to code a particular program in an hour. You were going pretty smoothly and even the intimidating gaze of the invigilator did little to bother you.

All of a sudden, you felt a nudge on your shoulder, causing you to crane your neck to the side. A girl sat beside you–you recognized her vaguely. Chestnut brown eyes stared back at you with an expectant gaze, some fringes from her hair tied in a ponytail, cascaded aside her face.

You marked how the invigilator was on the other side of the classroom. Raising an eyebrow, you asked the silent question.

"How did you code the program?"

Alright. There were two ways that could've turned out. First, you tell her the answer but risk getting a below average grade if you get caught. Second, you tell her you don't know the answer and end this once and for all.

This was an obvious choice. It didn't even need anyone to give it a second thought. Yet, you weighed the pros and cons and came to the conclusion...

"Where are you stuck?"

The next thirty minutes were a frenzy of hushed whispers as you gave her a walkthrough on the program. Some new variables, altering the conditions of the two while loops and correcting some syntax errors; she was good to go.

However, every action has an equal and opposite reaction. So in the process of helping the girl, you lost your time and had to submit your assignment without attempting a dry run.

Seemingly bumped out with the situation, you were ready to call it a day until you were stopped by the same girl before the main entrance.

"Hello," She grinned, extending her hand. "I am Yamaguchi Kazumi."

You gave her an once over before accepting her hand. "Nice to meet you."

"First of all, thank you. Thank you so much for helping me out there," Her visage didn't hide her delight as her amber eyes glowed under the setting sun, skin tinted with the hue of orange as the light poured down on her figure from the windows. A board smile played on her lips as she engulfed you in a hug before stepping back. "I can't tell you in words how much grateful I am."

You slightly nodded, "Oh well, that? It’s okay, you are welcome. I uh– I get your sentiment."

"Say, you free today? I was going to the ice skating rink with my friends. Come join us."

A pang bubbled in your chest when you thought of turning her down. Despite the idea tempting you to agree, you knew better than to neglect your responsibilities.

"Thanks for the offer but–" A offered her a weary smile, "I have to go to my job now or I will be late."

"Oh?" She blinked, mouth contorting into an O. Just when you thought this conversation was over, she hooked her arm with your elbow and dragged you out of the classroom.

"Hey–"

"Let me drop you there."

"You don't have to–"

"But I want to."

"Yamaguchi–"

"Call me Kazumi."

You struggled to keep up with her strides at the beginning but soon fell in step. "Yeah, Kazumi– as I was saying, I can walk there alone."

"Of course, you can." She turned a corner and you followed suit. "But I insist, come on. Where do you work?"

Getting the hint that your chances of winning against her is slim to none. You just accepted the offer. "South city mall."

"Cool," She whistled. "How long?"

"Three to seven."

"Got any plans for dinner?"

"Dinner?" You tilted your head. "I will just go home and make something."

"Cancel it," She declared and you raised an eyebrow. "I am treating you to dinner in my favourite restaurant. Take it as my way of saying thank you."

"No, its fine. I told you it’s okay besides you are dropping me off. It's enough." You quickly shook your head, digging your heels on the ground and halting there.

"Come on," Kazumi rolled her eyes, walking off again causing you to follow. "Don't be a buzz kill now, just think of it as a friend taking you out."

"Friend?" You muttered, peaking at her with suspicion while she looked ahead.

"Duh, friends. We can be the best of friends."

For reasons unknown, you found yourself under a spell; you silently complied to her wish. The sound of making a friend was tempting and a year of solitude wasn't as easy to go through as you thought it was. Hence, given one chance at friendship, you seized it.

Just how naive of you...

A few years later

"Why am I here again?"

"This is the fourth time you are asking that."

Your eye twitched, "That should give you the hint that I'd rather be anywhere but here."

Kazumi whined, slumping her shoulders in dramatic resignation. You only responded with a bored gaze, resting your chin on the heel of your palm. Your nonchalance caused her to straighten up, "C'mon, its Sunday. Not like you were going to do anything useful sitting all alone at home either."

"I had plans."

"Like?"

"Like preparing for that damn interview this Friday." You confessed, pressing your lips into a thin line as you leaned back on your chair. "I am just so fucking nervous. Can't help but think what if they find the research papers to be too long? Or no, what if it's too short? I could just forget everything on the crucial moment or no– the worst what if they ask questions from topics which I have never heard?" You exhaled heavily. "The last thing I want is to sit there like a damn clown."

As you rambled on, a waiter appeared setting down your cup of Latte and Kazumi's cappuccino on the table. Both of you muttered a quick thank you before he walked away. However, your vent caught your friend's attention, she raised an eyebrow, “You are still stuck on that?"

Why do you even bother? A bitter taste filled your mouth and you suppressed all the profanities falling on the tip of your tongue; ready to be spat out. Conversations alike had prevailed previously so. You speaking about your aspirations and her shutting you out. The first instance should've been a lesson yet you seemed to never learn.

Observing your lack of response, she continued, "You already have a decent enough job–"

"A Job, I hate," You replied tersely, almost failing to hide the resentment in your tone. Feigning a cough, you added, "I don't just want to pay bills my entire life."

"You can’t have everything.'

There's that statement again. You decided to tune out her words for the time being and indulge in your coffee.

It wasn't exactly cold, only the mid of November and winter was yet to set in. Though the temperatures marked in Tokyo ranged from 17 to 24°C, you could still feel the slight chill in the air persuading you to snug your coat tighter against your body. The café's ambiance provided a respite from the bustling streets outside where people and vehicles alike rushed down the road. Soft jazz played in the background, mingling with the hushed conversations and occasional clink of coffee cups.

"The last time was an disaster." She stirred her coffee as before she picked it up as well, bringing it to her lips. "Your odds are even worse this time."

Always had it astounded you that how could someone just hold such a nonchalant tone of voice tinged with the innocence of her visage while spewing words filled with degeneracy? That was a talent one doesn't see every day.

"Its for your own benefit. Let it-"

"Are you the fucking interviewer?" That came out harsher than it should have yet the flickering frustration was something you couldn't ignore. You were pretty patient but you had your limits too, "On what basis are you making that conclusion?"

"Just giving you a reality check." Copper eyes settled on your frame, she ran a finger through her hair feigning her absolute indifference to the situation "And not the interviewer but if I had to choose, I'd opt for someone younger with who has recently graduated."

This irksome conversation wasn't going anywhere and you were running out of energy to argue further. Hence, you just let your lips curl up into an obvious sarcastic smile and stated, "Thanks for the support."

"I am just trying to help you."

"Never asked for it."

"Why you–" Kazumi cut herself off, her eyes falling on something behind you, "Oh he's there!" Or rather someone.

At that moment, the café door swung open with a soft jingle, interrupting your escalating exchange which would've turned into something heated if not for the newcomer who caught Kazumi's eye. Arctic-white hair ruffled by the wind and icy blue eyes caught your attention. Clad in a sleek black charcoal coat—you recognized Gojo Satoru.

His presence seemed to have levelled the tension in the room like a gust of wind dispersing clouds for the brunette didn't spent a second before sauntering up to the aforementioned man and engulfing him in a hug. Despite the exchange being seemingly sweet, the metaphorical irony of the situation had an inaudible snort escape from you.

Although the woman in his grasp was his supposed girlfriend, his chilling gaze was fixated on you. You refrained from giving him a reaction - better safe than sorry - and rotated back on your chair, bringing all your attention back to your coffee. Sooner than later did the couple join the table - Kazumi sitting on her previous seat with Satoru beside her. However, properly registering your presence prompted Satoru to speak, "Well, well, fancy seeing you as well, star."

You presented him with a tight-lipped smile, setting your cup down. "Why, yes? Can't say the same about you Satoru."

"Touché," The ivory-haired man feigned offence, placing his hand over his heart. "That hurt, sweetheart."

"Well deserved."

This instance, it wasn't you who commented that, instead it was delivered from the male who took a seat beside you.

"Suguru," Satoru grumbled in annoyance and the mentioned man raised his hand in mock surrender.

Oh.

"Truth stings a little," A ghost of a sly grin appeared on his lips before his gaze shifted to you.

Despite the indistinct rambling of Satoru and Kazumi's attempt at consoling him reached your ears, you found yourself momentarily enamoured by the new man's presence. His smooth, ebony hair was artfully styled and secured in a man bun. Thin, obsidian eyes peered out beneath the fringe of bangs that veiled his left eye. Clad in a beige coat with a black turtleneck was a stark contrast against his olive skin, adding the touch of enigmatic allure to his demeanour.

"You must be-"

“Meet star,” Kazumi chimed in. “The one I told you about.”

Broken out of your momentary stupor, you compose your frame. Forcing yourself not to shoot a glare her way.

“Star?” He blinked.

“A nickname-”

“A good nickname.” She interrupted you, squaring her shoulders in a prideful manner.

Seriously.

However, you clear your throat before exchanging pleasantries and introducing yourself with your real name.

“Do you prefer it?” He asks, raising an eyebrow. “Over your real name?”

Absolutely not.

“Anything works for me.” You enforced an awkward smile and he nodded in return.

“Geto Suguru,” He extended his hand which you accepted gratefully. “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you as well.” You answered, letting go of his hand.

"Star and I have already ordered our drinks, you guys can go on." Kazumi chimed in, pushing the menu card to her boyfriend as she inched closer to him, peering over to add her suggestions.

Though the other couple on the table across the table filled in their atmosphere with jokes and giggles, the same couldn't have been said for you or Suguru. After a minute or so of deciding which coffee the men would get, your friend walked off with Satoru towards the counter to place the orders. If the situation wasn't inept enough previously, it was certainly now with both of the extroverts gone and the silence settling on around you being louder than ever.

You twisted your lips, throwing a profanity or two at the girl under whose endless persistence you ended up here. Eyes briefly falling on Kazumi who was near the counter and she returned you a thumbs up; your eye twitched. It was her idea that you were stuck here in the first place. In her words, you had been locked up in your apartment and you needed a breath of fresh air. And when the opportunity arrived, more so when a date with her boyfriend - she insisted that you tag along. Her reasoning - Satoru had a friend as well and she could ask him to bring him along. Hence, having a double date.

"What are we? Teenagers?" You were quick to retort, the cringe in your visage and voice was evident just by thinking about the idea. Even pulling up all your excuses as to why this was a bad idea and how much you'd prefer to stay at home.

Your presence in the café currently was a blatant proof of you losing the war. You sighed heavily, pushing back the tendrils of your hair that brushed your face.

"She dragged you here?" He questioned all of a sudden.

A corner of your lip curled up in a wry smile, "That obvious?"

"Yeah," He affirmed, "Same goes for Satoru."

"Can't say I am surprised."

There was just something about Suguru... you couldn't even put a finger on it. A mysterious allure that see seemed to have surround him, an intimidation radiating from him yet you found yourself comfortable in his presence. However, you did mark how much of a stark contrast he had in personality with his best friend. You could strike up a conversation on how he met the other man but that could be you being perceived as a meddler. As a result of which, you kept your mouth shut.

But Suguru spoke up again, "So, star?"

"Hmm, yeah?"

For a second, he glimpsed at both of your friends - they had just got the coffees but seem to be rather busy in a serious conversation. Weird. The next, shifting his attention back to you, "I have a question for you."

You nodded, resting your back against the chair, "Go on."

"Since how long are you sleeping with Satoru?"

You returned to your apartment at sharp 6 PM.

The day wasn't inherently bad as you thought it would. Though the presence of Kazumi remained a constant annoyance, you were successful in not letting her or her words get to you as much. Taking off your shoes and coat near the doorway, you placed them in the rack and stand respectively before walking off and settling down on the couch.

The short vibration of your phone, prompted you to check it. You still had a number of unread messages, some from your colleagues, one from Kazumi asking if you had reached home safely or not and the last(and recent) one which you decided to check.

Enjoyed your little date? (18:03)

You couldn't help the smirk from falling out on your lips as you read the text message on your phone.

---

Yeah(18:05)

Had a lot of fun (18:05)

Fun without me? (18:05)

Doesn't sound so right, princess (18:06)

What can I say (18:06)

Suguru is so much better than you (18:06)

---

The text was seen but you didn't receive any text from Satoru. Was that offensive? You spared only a second to ponder your head over that thought before you decide to walk over to the bathroom and get freshened up.

A sharp fifteen minutes later while you are reading a book, you received another text.

Open the door. (18:21)

On cue, you heard a knock from the doorway.

Although you knew it would happen, never did you think it'd be this soon.

"Will you marry me?" Satoru knelt before Kazumi, holding a velvet box a containing a diamond ring.

Each syllable uttered was an unintentional (or intentional) jab to your wretched heart which thumped in your ribcage akin a starved, wild animal. Your fingers trembled and for a second, you felt your knees weakening prompting you to lose balance. If not for leaning against the table, you might've caused a commotion. Your gut churned with the inevitable outcome and there was little you could do to conceal the whirlwind of emotional storm arising within you.

Kazumi's slapped a hand over her mouth at the miraculous surprise, doe eyes shimmering with delight. First, she glanced at Satoru. Azure blue irises held nothing except the sincerest of sentiments which only promised indefinite love. She didn't even look at the ring before answering.

"Yes."

And just like that, you heard something shattering.

Satoru slid the ring on her finger as he stood up, wrapping his hands around her waist, he leaned down and pressed his lips to hers.

Though the kiss shared was between your best friend and her lover, your lips quivered for you knew how that exact touch felt. Alike molten lava was poured onto your skin when he angled her head for deepening the kiss. It was you, clutching your outfit tighter when she wrapped her hand around his neck. And inadvertently, it was you whose heart was clawed out in the most gruesome way - blood spilling from your chest like a putrid pudding as your beating heart was trampled then shoved in before your skin was sewn back. A thousand voices screamed that it was just a nightmare and you'd wake up soon, but you knew better. You knew that the referenced reality was too good to be true and this nightmare was the true reality.

If you knew this would happen, you’d have never agreed to accompany her to this event. You vaguely recalled how Kazumi called you a day ago, speaking about some occasion Satoru had invited her.

-- > < --

“Please come with me.”

Her voice rung from your phone while you pressed the object to your ear. You groaned softly, “Why? Just go on your own.”

“I will be so bored there plus I need you as my moral compass if something goes wrong.”

“Nothing will happen, go on your own,” You pressed your thumb and forefinger over your eyelids – wiping the sleep off yourself. “I’ll be out of place there besides I am not even invited.”

“I am inviting you.”

“Yeah, no.” You couldn’t suppress the yawn the escaped you. “Leave me out.”

“Please star, even Suguru will be there.”

“Good for him.” You rolled your eyes. “I am hanging up.”

“Wait- don’t hang up just yet. You are coming with me tomorrow!”

“No.”

“Please,” The annoying whine caused your eye to twitch. “Just one time. I will never force you into anything anymore. Please, please, please-“

“Oh my fucking God!” Your curse was muffled by the pillow as you gripped the device tighter. Bringing it up to your ear, you muttered, “Fine, I am coming.”

-- > < --

The jovial laughter accompanied by claps of the guests were like a slap to your face.

"Finally, its happening."

"They look so good together."

"About time Satoru put the ring on her finger."

"Oh my God, take a picture."

If this was some cruel joke from fate then it was doing a damn good job from making a clown out of you. The same fate which let you stay in the illusion of yielding supreme power before snatching it all away.

The dagger twisted and turned inside you in ways you couldn't comprehend. Watching them engage in the passionate make out session was like a bucket of cold water spurted on you. A torturous reminder that no matter how much hope you clung onto, you'd always be the side character in their story. A villain, more appropriate.

You wanted to run. Run away, as far as you can just to make a escapade from this cruel tale which held you hostage.

You couldn't. Not now not ever.

For if you run now, it will arise questions, arise more accusations, rumours or whatever. You couldn't run cause it's a crucial moment for your friend and you were supposed to stay.

"You okay?"

Instantly you straightened yourself, swallowing a lump in your throat as you composed your shoulders. Rotating on your heels, you were met with the concerned mien of Suguru Geto.

Oh well, trouble.

Conjuring the best smile, you answer, "Why, yes? What will happen to me?"

"You look like you just saw a ghost."

In a way, you sure feel so that you are placed in a horror story.

"Me? No, absolutely not. I am fine," You chuckled. "All fine."

He raised a sceptical brow, clearly not convinced with your answer, “You don’t look fine.” He paused, “Do you want to get out of here?”

Yes.

“No, I told you I am fine,” Damn- it’s harder than it seemed to hide the quiver in your voice. “I’d like to congratulate our favourite couple first.”

Doubt was evident in this expression yet he didn’t probe further – something you were grateful for. Over the span of six months you had met Suguru, you were keenly aware of the fact that beneath the seraphic visage, he held a lot of secrets. From knowing about your affair with Satoru to getting the hint that affections for the same man had arose in you; he knew more than he let on.

The lights turned up as the couple separated, a flurry of congratulations were thrown their way which was received by them with a grateful smile. You couldn’t really recall, what transpired in the next few minutes for your gaze was fixed on the ring on Kazumi’s finger. Yet, the weight on your shoulders wasn’t for the fact that the woman was the bearer of the stone rather it was from the sight that how she had Satoru’s fingers intertwined with her own.

You knew you had no right to wallow in misery like this. But- But did it just not hurt to have him look at her like she was the only woman in the world?

Pushing aside your despair from the gravity of the situation, you did step up to the couple in mention and speak of your well wishes. Was it evident that you inherently avoided gazing at Satoru all throughout the conversation? Even though the glowing visage of the Kazumi was a constant reminder that all of what you had been through was only an illusion hiding the reality, causing the bile to rise up your throat. You had contorted your lips in the best smile possible when she pulled you aside and rambled on how much this was not expected and how glad she was to finally start a married life with the love of her life.

“I am being completely honest,” Her eyes sparkled with an infectious blend of surprise and joy. The rush of emotions that filled her heart, the flutter of anticipation and overwhelming happiness – her brightened mien was a mirror to all of it. “I never saw it coming. It- It was such a surprise- not a bad surprise of course, a good one as you can see like he was just holding my hand and all of a sudden-” Even the exhale held the promise of elation, of all the dreams she saw finally taking their shape. “The spotlight fell on us and he just kneeled down and ah- all of it is like a fever dream.”

Not a sound reached your ear, neither did you register a word – you could only see her lips moving for the voices inside which taunted you for creating this fantasy for yourself was louder than ever. As Kazumi recounted the moments of the proposal, animatedly describing all the details to you as if you weren’t present; you couldn’t help the bitterness filling in your chest.

You forced a gleeful laugh out of your throat, placing your hand on her shoulder, “Hey- it’s not a dream, you know.” How much you wished all of it were just a dream, that you were still sleeping and you’d wake up the next day and you’d accompany her in another event where- where- “It has happened, for real and- and you deserve it. Y-You always wanted this, right?”

The gesture must have calmed her down yet the joy dancing on her face didn’t reduce one bit. She held that hand of yours which was on her shoulder, bringing in down, she gave it a light squeeze. “Honestly, yeah but even now, it- all of this is just so surreal like-”

“I know, I get it.” Keeping up the cheerful act was getting more difficult each second. “Congratulations, Kazumi.”

The hollowness of your words weighed heavy on you and for once, the guilt of your own betrayal did stung. She didn’t deserve that.

“Zumi,”

Satoru’s voice reached you again, calling for his fiancé and you could only be grateful that your back was turned to him.

“Wait a minute,” She replied before briefly shifting her gaze at you, “I will talk to you later okay?”

You managed a nod and she was gone. The receding footsteps of the couple could only evoke the sense of defeat in you. You pivoted around, leaning against the wall and soon enough, a waiter offered you a cold drink. You accepted your favourite – unknowingly, the cool liquid soothed some of the ache inside you. However, it did return as soon as possible when your eyes fell on the ivory haired man with sky blue eyes while he introduced his fiancé to what you assumed were business associates. The delight painted on his face had you grip your glass tighter as you grinded your teeth. He made such a big decision and he didn’t even had the decency to let you know. Who the hell does he think he was? To go around and propose his supposed girlfriend after fooling around with you. To act like a gentleman and have his arm around her waist while he fed her sweet lies due to his charming persona. Satoru was such an asshole.

Then, your eyes fell on Kazumi. Despite her being the sole reason of your wrecked self, for once you did feel – ignorance was blissful.

You weren’t truly confrontational but you just couldn’t sit back and let things play out as they did.

So once the perfect time arrived, you were stealthy enough to slip out of the venue and into the corridors. Your feet took you exactly where you needed to go and once you were in the vicinity of your required person, you halted.

“You’re really marrying her?”

Satoru spared you a glance before turning back to the mirror, he ran his fingers through his hair – smoothening the dishevelled strands. “I think you are smart enough to know what a proposal means.”

This guy… Your eye twitched, a corner of your lip curled down into a frown, “And you didn’t even have the decency to let me know?”

From his reflection you could see the arrogance dripping off his features which only served to fuel the fire inside you. “You knew the rules of the game, princess. No strings attached, remember?”

Never were you cursing yourself as much as you were in this very second. How stupid of you to think something mutual might’ve evolved in between clandestine meetings and stolen moments. Despite the tumult of hurt and anger coursing through your veins, you didn’t let it show on your face.

“No strings attached? Yeah, right,” Mirth curved into your lips as you lean against the doorway, “Is that what you tell yourself after sleeping with me almost every day?”

“Don’t turn this on me,” He pivoted around on his heels, resting his back against the basin, “That was the past.”

“Two weeks isn’t that far in the past.” Blue eyes flickered with frustration and you smirked, “What’s changed all of a sudden?”

“Things change, people too.”

“Change and Satoru Gojo, how laughable.”

Satoru, however, was hell bent on letting your words get to him. So even with the taunting remarks, the reaction- or any reaction was seized from your platter. Shrugging in shoulders in nonchalance, he remarked, “Think of it however you want oh and- you’re invited to the wedding.”

“Thanks, I was dying to get invited,” The sarcasm coating your voice didn’t elude him for sure. Heaving a low sigh, you pushed yourself away from the door, “What do you want to do now?”

That prompted him to raise an eyebrow, “What do you mean by what do I want to do? I am marrying her.”

“Congratulations.”

“So it’s better if we stop seeing each other.”

Oh.

“Your sudden attempt at loyalty is pathetic.” You knew you were treading a steep slope anymore taunting remarks would not really play into your favour. Perhaps, it was a good time to just shut your mouth and walk away but right decisions were never your forte.

For a minute, there was complete silence. Not duly stained with awkwardness neither was it loud, just the quietude of the room felt heavy. Disbelief was still etched onto your mind, Satoru could never be devoted to Kazumi. No matter the tactics he uses, he just couldn’t. Once a cheater, always a cheater. You knew you aren’t any saint in this situation but if there was just something you could do from deviating his aim, you would do it.

“Why are you doing this?” You asked.

He breathed out wearily, folding his hands over his chest as he briskly avoided eye contact – gazing at the wall to his left. “It’s not like what we did was something serious either. It’s always been her.”

So you were just that; a fleeting escape in his otherwise committed world.

“So you are choosing her in the end.” The bitter taste in your mouth mirrored the smile which you painted unto your lips. “It’s her after everything you’ve done with me.”

This time, it was his chance to smirk at you; he met your eyes, “Got it in one, princess. You’ve always been great at reading between the lines, haven’t you?”

“Had to pick up some skills while dealing with someone as cryptic as you.”

“Skill’s honed well.” He replied casually, checking his cuticles.

His nonchalance was grated on your nerves, you had hide your clenched fists and supress the urge to grind your teeth. If you couldn’t get a reaction out of him, he couldn’t get one either. However, your resolve was far from crumbling down, only the blend of wound and despair consumed you.

“Be grateful that your girlfriend- sorry fiancé doesn’t harbour this skill,” You sneered, a tight grin curving onto your mouth and damn- was that all it took? The darkened look in his eyes though warned you of the impending danger. A threat to keep your mouth shut but you couldn’t let this chance go. Besides, it was pure entertainment on your side. “Must be nice living in her own little bubble while the proclaimed love of her life is sleeping around.”

That was it.

Satoru straightened up and only a few strides later, he was standing right before you. Without wasting a second, he grabbed your jaw, tilting it up; you were met with the sapphire irises burning with riotous rage. For anyone, it’d had them cowering back in fear and muttering an apology but you weren’t just anyone and neither were you going to back down, so you held his gaze with your own; malice dripping from it.

“Mind your words, star.” His fingers dug into your skin. “Just because I fucked you once or twice does not mean you can get away by just saying anything.”

“Oh my my- what happened, Satoru Gojo?” You pressed on, gripping his wrist as it yanked it away from your jaw. “Does the truth fucking hurt?”

"Careful, princess," he murmured, a semblance of pure insanity spread across his visage when he grinned. "You just might end up provoking me into doing something I don’t want to."

“What if I just want to do that, you two-timing scoundrel?” Venom leaked out of every word you uttered, your usual composed façade was crumbling – shattering to pieces and there was little restraint to keep it steady. “You think you can just turn loyal overnight? That you can just forget me with a blink of an eye?”

A humourless chuckle escaped him, “Overnight? Putting yourself on a pedestal, aren’t you?” His grin bespoke utter depravity while words were a gateway to his twisted mind. “Get out of your fantastical world, star. Not everything I do is about you.”

“The same can be said for you, Gojo Satoru.” Sheer wickedness was concocted in your frame. Although his words were hitting the right nail, you knew yours were as well. Game, right? He mentioned it to be a game. Always was. Always will be. You were more than eager to participate in this game, now. “Don’t forget how many times before you did try to play the part of a devoted partner. The number of times, you mentioned ending things with me- do I need to fucking remind you what you said every time?” You gulped down largely, the close proximity suffocating you to the bones. “And don’t forget how each damn time you returned. This... is no different. You will return.”

“You sound too sure.”

“Have to be when you’re so god damn predictable.”

Whether it was rationality or simple frustration – you couldn’t decipher, what you could was you were done with this conversation. Thus, without sparing him another glance you were marching away from his vicinity.

Satoru didn’t follow you.

Although the shards of a shattered heart pricked at all the delicate corners, you were grateful that he didn’t. Only in the solitude of the women’s restrooms did you finally let out the breath of weakness and resignation. Your fingers trembled and the tears pricked your eyes, instead of breaking down your barriers, you were scared. Scared to let out any noise. For you didn’t know how much your sobs would echo. For you didn’t want to witness yourself crying over a wretched man.

It’s not like what we did was something serious either. It’s always been her.

The anguish settled itself onto you but the envy towards your best friend was far stronger. Far too much and far too bitter. Why her? What was so good about her anyway? What did that entitled bitch possess that you didn’t? The throbbing pain in your chest was something no amount of tears could ever soothe.

Desperately, you wished for any distraction. Something. Someone. Just anything to numb this pain. For once, luck must be on your side – your phone vibrated in your clutch, picking it you were graced with Kazumi’s name flashing on the screen – yet, fate played its cruel joke.

Instead of answering it, you let the call hang up on its own. Then only, you typed in the text.

Fell sick all of a sudden (16:17)

So returned home (16:17)

what happened? (16:20)

I can come over if you want (16:20)

don’t worry abt me (16:20)

just some headache(16:21)

enjoy your day (16:21)

You turned off the device without waiting for her reply. Honestly, you didn’t have any energy left in you to put up another façade and act like everything was fine. You were going home.

When you got out of the restroom stalls, your eyes fell on the mirror. Your reflection stared back at you with the puffy crimson eyes and quivering lips. Starkly, you were met with the answer of why it was her and not you.

It’s funny how fast time flies.

Only six months ago, Kazumi got proposed and tonight she was holding her bachelorette in Midnight Orchid, Tokyo. Although bachelorettes were held a day before wedding, in Kazumi’s case it were a week before. For her wedding venue – Niseko region on the island of Hokkaido – with its picturesque winter landscapes and snowy resorts will have everyone captivated. Even though you had never been to that area, the template provided by Kazumi unfortunately did lure you towards it. Hence, while you initially didn’t accept her invitation, making up all the excuses you could get; once, your eyes fell on the snowy quaint scenery, you just couldn’t refuse her. Fortunately, or unfortunately, your application for a three day leave was granted.

The posh bar was adorned with minimalistic singage that hinted exclusivity, high table tops and velvet sofas were intricately arranged in hues of blush and ivory. You sat on the other side of the long bar counter where the impeccably dressed bartenders crafted cocktails and liquor. From the arrangements, you could vehemently conclude that all of it was organized under the guidance of Kazumi, herself. The room was filled with her friends, cousins and acquaintances. A few faces which you recognized, most you didn’t. Although you had been her friend for over a few years now, you wouldn’t count yourself as mutual with her other girlfriends. Not any specific reason. You just preferred to keep your social circle to a minimum.

Intoxication often led many to make regrettable choices.

You could count yourself out of that crowd. Despite having an above average alcohol tolerance, you were sensible enough to not drink till your limit. Besides, the last thing you need was to get lost on your way home and end up in a sketchy area with sleazy men around. Yeah no, you’d rather miss out all the parties.

Kazumi, however, didn’t catch sight of your reasoning.

“Aw c’mon, let loose,” She almost slurred her words, giggling by the end of the sentence. Her pale cheeks were flushed with red causing you to wonder just how much liquor she had downed this time round. “At least get a margarita.”

Silently, you pushed away the offered drink with your palm, conjuring a polite smile onto your lips. “No thanks, I am good with this.” You swirl the non-alcoholic cocktail in your glass, taking a generous amount of sip from it.

“Get something a little stronger.”

You barely shrugged, “Someone has to be responsible for y’all here.”

She merely pouted before bringing the shot glass up to her lips and gulping it down in a go. Her eyebrows furrowed in unease before reverting back to their natural self, she exhaled loudly – the sweet yet strong liquid burning her throat. “Hah! It’s so good.”

“Nice.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing out.”

“I’d rather miss a drink or two than miss my station.” You quipped back, setting your, now empty glass, down on the counter. “Plus, I still got to work half day tomorrow and working with a bad hangover sucks.”

“Call off a day.”

This entitled woman… You shook your head, “If I apply for anymore leaves then my boss will kick me out for sure.” She jutted out her lower lip in mock but refrained from pushing you any further.

“Zumi, hey- what are you sitting there? Join us.”

“Its your favourite song, c’mere.”

Soon the voices of Kazumi’s other girlfriends reached both of your ears and they were on her tail, pulling her to the dance floor where the flickering neon lights sparkled on each of their frames. You merely raised a hand to gesture farewell.

“Won’t you join us?”

Craning your neck aside, you were met with Utahime whose visage bespoke utter neutrality. “Ah- no, I’d rather be in the side-lines today. Y’all enjoy without me.”

“If you say so…” The woman didn’t push further before walking off towards the direction where they had pulled the star for tonight. Despite being taken as a stranger in Kazumi’s friend circle, you have had forged a decent relationship with the dark blue haired woman who happened to be the former’s distant cousin. Courtesy to the handful of times you crossed paths with her while visiting your friend’s home.

You watch them from a distance, resting frown etched upon your features. The girls twirled their hips with the beat of the music. From the crowd, the bride-to-be stood out the most as expected. While her presence had always caught everyone’s attention, since the time of her engagement an enticing aura exuded off of her, no matter the place. At least, someone’s happy. Bile rising up your throat, you rotate your body to the counter. “Can I have another one of this?”

The bartender merely nodded, strolling to get your desired drink. Once, he did return you were quick to take a generous sip and shit- you might just need to make yourself a good drink back home.

“Oh my God! Seriously- this is a surprise.”

The annoying squeal of Kazumi reached your ears this time round and you gave yourself the freedom to roll your eyes. You didn’t bother to turn and see her surprise. Least interested. Your hatred for her didn’t just stem from nothing. It’s fucking unfair how she could just go around trampling over your aspirations and blatantly disrespecting you without any consequences; while you’re left in the dust. Now? She’s on her way to get the perfect happy ending by marrying her ever handsome fiancé. Fucking great.

True to his words. Satoru didn’t contact you after that riffraff on the day of his engagement. Honestly, you found it hard to believe how someone could just go from sleeping around to a lovesick puppy wagging its tail for a bit of affection. Is change that easy? No, that wasn’t possible. You were sure he was still cheating on her with multiple woman while she is lost in her wonderland. Yet, when that certain thought conjured into your mind, the bitterness towards the brunette simmered down; rather anguish clenched your heart.

You twisted your lips, drumming your fingers non-uniformly on top of the counter. You swallowed the remainder of your drink just like you swallowed your hopes; the aftertaste lingered on your tongue much akin to the weight of distant memories. If-

“Go on. Do it! Do it!”

Alright, who the fuck-

Oh.

Of course.

Of course. What else did you even expect?

It wasn’t a surprise that you were met with azure irises belonging to the one and only Gojo Satoru, across the bar. It wasn’t a surprise when you saw him wrap his arm around his fiancé. And it surely wasn’t a surprise, when he leaned to press his lips on her in a passionate kiss.

You didn’t watch anymore. You couldn’t. For tonight, you let a piece of your façade break down when you marched out of the bar.

You were done.

Satoru knew he can be a jerk, sometimes.

Fine, most of the times.

Truthfully, there were very few points which played into his favour when it came to maintaining relationships. Throughout high school and the end of college, he did have a reputation of being a playboy. One can’t blame him for colleges were the rabbit hole of casual relationships and hook-ups. Although, he never took any of that seriously for he wasn’t the type to commit and if his looks were enough to have the attention of ladies who were more than ready to spread their legs for him then who was he to turn down the opportunity?

However, then Yamaguchi Kazumi came in. His childhood friend with whom he had lost contact for a few years before crossing roads in the third year of college. Call it attraction or whatever, something about her lured her in. While he had enough women wanting his attention, he only wanted hers. Thus, he laid off his usual habits, only courting her as a proper gentleman and damn- didn’t it pay off? Sooner than later, they were putting labels on their relationship.

Even then - old habits die hard and Gojo Satoru was a damn playboy at heart.

Don’t get him wrong, he tried. He did try to remain loyal to his girl over the expanse of their relationship. Knowing Kazumi, she was the society’s ideal girl – beautiful, sweet and kind and with her, he could see a future. Then, you arrived – the proclaimed best friend of his girlfriend and for the first time in a long time he found his old ways resurfacing. As much as he loved Kazumi, even he couldn’t deny that she was damn oblivious to her surroundings.

Was it so wrong to let himself loose just for one night? It wasn’t like she’d come to know anything. Besides, it was only a one time thing. Only one night where he went behind her back and slept with you even you were eager. It wasn’t inherently wrong in anyway when it was Kazumi who he’ll always return to.

That must be his first mistake cause what was supposed to be a one time thing turned into twice, thrice and sooner than he could realize, he was craving you a lot more than he let on. He knew it was wrong, he knew that cheating on his girlfriend was unforgivable and he knew he should confess everything to her. But- But one look at the innocuous mien of Kazumi and it had him recoiling, confessing the truth meant losing her and he couldn’t lose her. As much he wouldn’t tell it to your face, you were not someone he could build a future with in the long run. Just a temporary entertainment, a thrill in his otherwise monotonous life. So when the time came where he was ready to take things to the next level in his relationship with Kazumi, he didn’t even bother letting you know. Why should he? You should’ve known your place. And you’ve no place in his life.

Satoru came to the painful conclusion that the past couldn’t ever be changed and he could never bring himself to tell the truth to Kazumi. Therefore, only way remained – he’d just keep that as a dirty secret and continue on a married life with Kazumi. And he was improving himself, after his engagement he never once cheated on her, never contacted you and never did pour his attention on another woman.

He believed that seeing you in flesh and person wouldn’t incite and remaining desires either. Besides, it was only supposed to be a surprise for his girl. You didn’t matter. Wrong choice.

While pressing his lips to Kazumi’s he knew there was no reason for any guilt to gnaw at him. But it did. It fucking did when you watched you walk away right in front of his eyes. The guilt gnawed when you didn’t even spare him a glance. The guilt gnawed for the next fifteen minutes he spent with his future wife while you remained absent?

Did you go home already? With whom? Would you even get a cab at this hour? More so, would that be safe? Walking to the station would be another hassle considering you sleazy drunkards might be sauntering the streets now. They could pose another threat.

He cleared his throat, catching Kazumi’s attention, “I- babe, I would take my leave then. Enjoy your night.”

“Mhm, so fast?” She questioned, pinching her lips. “You know, I wouldn’t mind it if you stay back.”

A choked chuckle escaped him, he avoided eye contact, “I know… but its your day and-” He rubbed circles over her hand, thumb barely grazing her ring. “I would soon have you all to myself.”

Involuntarily, a blush dusted her cheeks but she shook her head, concealing the beating of her heart with a graceful smile as she pressed a chaste kiss on his cheek. “Drive safely.”

Heavens, he had the finest woman by his side. He shouldn’t walk away.

Satoru forced a tight lipped smile and walked away.

Honestly, Satoru didn’t know what he was expecting to find outside in the cold parking lot. The cold December wind slapped across his face, ruffling his hair as it fanned over his eyes. The evening sky was casted with dark clouds – the moon peeking just a bit to illuminate the otherwise murky driveway. Just the first week, it wouldn’t snow anytime soon. As likely as it can be, the area was devoid of human life.

Of course, you have had left by now.

Satoru pretended to hide his disappointment by a scornful roll of his eyes. Only slightly did he pivot on his heels that he caught sight of someone.

There you were – leaning against the wall of the complex. Clad in a sleek black dress with an asymmetrical skirt and V neckline bodice, hair left open which fluttered with the wind; surely, you had put effort into your appearance and it showed. Your immaculate beauty had always exceeded his expectations, tonight was no different. However, what he didn’t expect was to find the lit cigar held in between your fingers as you blew out a plume of smoke from your lips.

The sound of his trudging footsteps caught your attention; slightly you turned your neck towards him registering his presence. Not only did you look at him like he was a stranger but also you didn’t any effort to speak up.

That hit the wrong place so Satoru spoke first.

“Didn’t know you smoked.”

You hummed, “There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me, Gojo.”

That prompted him to raise an eyebrow, yet he didn’t comment on it. Instead, he just quipped back, “Is that right? There’s a lot of things only I know about you like how you taste-”

“What do you want?”

What did he want? He didn’t know that either. For God’s sake, call him diabolical or whatever but restlessness just happened to settle on him when he watched you walk away. And he was… just here.

“Looking at the moon again?” He mentally cursed himself – great way to make the situation way more awkward. Even you don’t make the effort to give him a verbal response; just a hum. He sighed, “You should be inside.”

“So should you,” You placed the cigar between your lips, you inhaled a generously before blowing out a chunk of smoke. “If you don’t have anything useful to say then I suggest that you leave.”

For a minute, only silence prevailed. Satoru didn’t walk away neither did you try to keep the conversation going on. Certainly, both of you could’ve spoken about everything that lingered your minds for the past months. The cool atmosphere was here, and both of you weren’t blowing off. This was the perfect chance.

None of you seize it.

The cigar between your fingers almost reached the end, taking a final puff, you tossed it away. Straightening yourself, you take a step in his opposite direction.

On instinct it was, Satoru grasped your wrist. You turn your head to just glance at him, eyebrows furrowed and the obvious – what – etched upon your mien. “Where are you going?”

You shoot a questioning glare, “Home?”

“How?”

“Why?”

“That’s not an answer.” He pressed on, narrowing his eyes.

“Neither do I want to give you one,” You retort back, irises trailing down to his hand around your wrist. “Let go.”

His fingers twitched, a corner of his lip curling down. “Don’t be ridiculous. I am taking you home.”

“No, thanks,” You didn’t try to hide the bitter scoff. “I can go alone.”

For a second, he stared back at you wordlessly. The next, he was tugging your wrist as he pulled you to the way of his car. “I wasn’t asking, come.”

Satoru could feel your incoming protest but then you fall in step with him. He hid the smirk while walking ahead of you.

The silence was uncomfortable.

The only sound that prevailed in the vehicle was of the revving engine. External noises faded due to the shut windows as Satoru drove on the metropolitan Expressway. The city shimmered with a myriad of light, the back drop of the dark sky providing a rather refined view of the skyline. The elevated bridge above the bustling streets proved to be a kaleidoscope of colors, drawing eyes to the iconic landmarks.

Those very landmarks had your attention.

Satoru stole occasional glances of you while you kept you were solely focused on the panoramic view outside. Unknowingly, a scowl formed over his features. It wasn’t like he was doing anything wrong, he was just dropping you to your apartment. Nothing more. Nothing less. Still, why was it that you didn’t bother to strike up any conversation with him? Were you still affected by what happened literal months ago? Well, you should’ve known better. It wasn’t like you were anything more to him in the first place. When he told you that you should stop seeing each other, he meant it wholeheartedly. Now here you were, giving him the cold shoulder, something which he did want.

Yet, he doesn’t like it. Not one bit.

Clearing his throat, Satoru took it on him to break the silence. “How have you been?”

You didn’t bother to look back. “Fine.”

“Just fine?” He paused and you hummed. “Nothing notable happening in your life?”

“No.”

“Work life? How was that interview you were so anxious about?”

“Good.”

He rotated the steering wheel, taking a right turn. “Good? Did you get it or not?”

“Did.”

His eyes partially widened, “And you didn’t even tell me?”

“No.”

“Why?” His voice was exasperated.

You shrugged, “My wish.”

A irk settled on his forehead, mood turning sour by the second. All he wanted was to disperse the tension looming over the both of you but you and your nonchalant responses were making this difficult. Fine, he would not speak so either.

Easier said than done.

Why was the drive to your home taking longer than it was? And why would you not even look at him? Like hell, the cramped space of the car was suffocating him in and out. The air conditioner didn’t help one bit. It was evident that the underlying issues on both of your sides was causing this damn tensed atmosphere. If only you could start talking then it wouldn’t be as hard. Why did you just had to be as stubborn as a rock?

For once, Satoru chose to be the mature one amongst you two.

“You’ve something on you mind.” More than a question it came out as a statement but even if it was for a second, he observed how you went stiff. “Say it.”

You didn’t. Satoru was on the verge of giving up. Then you did.

“Why her?”

He briefly shifted all his attention towards you, finding you staring back at him with an expression which he couldn’t decipher. He moved his eyes back to the road, rotating the steering wheel in 360 degrees.

“You know,” He started, a frown forming on his forehead. “I love her.”

“Sure.”

“I won’t ask you to believe me but when I say it will always be her. I mean it.” Conviction laced his tone, he refused to even take a peek at the look you might be shooting him. “I’ve known her since we were kids and it’s easier to live with someone whom I know all my life than…” He trailed off but you seemed to catch on the meaning, a scoff erupting only a second later. “We are even getting married-”

“You’re choosing her cause what? Easier?” You shot him a derisive glare, “What the fuck does that even mean, Satoru?”

He sighed, “You won’t understand-”

“Right, I don’t.” A disdainful smile curved up your lips. “I fucking don’t understand what goes in your damn head. What kind of fucked up excuses you’re telling yourself from day one? Trying to convince yourself that you love her when you clearly don’t.”

Just how many times would the same argument persist? It was honestly getting so tiring right now. “I won’t reason with you.”

“You don’t have any to begin with.”

“Star-”

“What?” You were on the brink of screaming. “What do you even want to say? That you love her? Sure. She’s going to be your wife? Fucking congratulations. Like that affects me a bit. I just- I just-” You stumbled over your words. “I just don’t fucking understand what was my role in all of this, Satoru? Was I always just a side piece to you?”

Involuntarily, his grip tightened on the steering wheel. “No but-” His voice quivered, the view of your apartment getting closer by the ticking seconds. “You’re, well… You-”

“Yes, me? C’mon just spit it out.”

The car screeched to a halt before you apartment.

Satoru ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the tangled strands. You have your expectant gaze settled on him and it’s almost pricking him in the wrong way to shatter that look. “Nothing… See, whatever you do it will never turn you into her and it’s her that I want. Not you.”

Neutrality concealed the storm inside your head. Then, a choked laugh evoked from you. “Of course.”

“I am sor-”

“Save it.” You took off the seatbelt, opening the door wide as you stepped down. “Hope you have a good married life, Satoru. Keep her happy.” With that said, you were out of his line of sight.

With you gone, he should had left as well. He doesn’t.

Unbeknownst to you, a similar storm but with different reasons was unfolding in his mind. Just so his fingers trembled, his feet tapping against the floor mat in a staccato and eyes trained on the seat where you were sitting only seconds ago. He reached for the steering wheel, hands heavy when he gripped the object. So he let go.

Just what have you done to him? The expressionless look after his confession wasn’t something he expected. Besides, your venom filled last words still rung in his ears. His arm barely grazed the car door.

He glanced at that first then at your apartment.

For reasons unknown, Satoru made the worst decision known to humanity.

All of it was your fucking fault.

See, whatever you do it will never turn you into her and it’s her that I want. Not you.

Of course. Of course, it will be her. It’s always her.

Satoru’s words were a stark reminder to Kazumi’s. One which told you - you can’t have everything. While she could. How utterly pathetic… Yet, for once, you cursed yourself for not taking her advice. If only- If only you did then you wouldn’t have hoped as much.

No hopes meant no expectations and no expectations meant no disappointments.

Was it so wrong that you were trudging to your flat? Was it so wrong for your fingers to tremble when you were typing the passcode? Was it so wrong for your eyes to burn when you opened the door?

And then it happened.

You were abruptly spun around by your elbow, calloused fingers grazed your nape as your head was tilted back and a pair of lips fell on yours.

From the frosty hair you could recognize it was Satoru and he was kissing you.

Sooner than you could realize, he was walking you backwards into your apartment, shutting the door all while his lips were pressed to you. He pushed your back against the wall, arm wrapping around your waist as his fingertips threaded into your hair. When he left your mouth, you could finally register his wrecked mien. Dishevelled hair and sweat beads marring his forehead – he might just have ran up the stairs.

“Satoru-” Your voice trembled and he pressed his lips on yours again. No, it wasn’t right. Yet, instead of pushing him away you tugged him closer. Why was he here? Didn’t he just tell you that he wanted her? Still, why was it that he was kissing you?

You let out a choked sob into his mouth, bunching the fabric of his shirt in your grasp. Satoru stilled for a second, thumb rubbing circles over the garment on your waist. He parted a hair’s breath away, lips glistening from the passionate kiss shared. You recognized the look in his eyes, the half lidded stare which only bespoke of desires.

“What are you doing here?”

“I am sorry,” He murmured near your ear, pressing his lips beneath its lobe. “I am sorry,” He repeated, pulling at your hair strands as he placed his lips over the rhythmic pulse point of your neck. “Just so sorry,” His lips were on yours again, sucking on your lower lip seeking entrance. One which you granted almost instinctively, his tongue mingled in a heated dance with yours, prodding at all points.

He absolutely didn’t have any reason to be sorry for. Even you knew it. You’d never be her. She will always be a step ahead of you, no matter the circumstances, no matter the changes.

With another trembling hand, you held Satoru’s shoulder. His nose grazed over your cheekbone while he trailed feather-light kisses down your jaw to the juncture of your shoulder and neck. “I didn’t want to say that.” As if. Thumb hooking on the sleeve of your dress, he slid it down. “You look so beautiful today.”

You asked breathily, “Today?”

He stared down at you. “Everyday.” Thus, his lips found yours again.

Was it so wrong to lose yourself for tonight?

Despite your mind telling that he was only with you till the dark, that as soon as the sun rises he would leave, you found yourself crumbling. Even with all the obvious signs, all the hints, all the words all you wanted was assurance. All you wanted was to be told that you were enough. That he craved you as much as you did.

Hence, you gave in.

Sooner than you could realize, the soft cotton sheets of your bedroom welcomed you. Satoru hovered over you, squeezing your breast over your dress, his mouth over your collarbone – leaving a trail of hot kisses in its wake. The heat pooled between your legs as Satoru reached to cup your core over your panties. The familiarity of his touch was enough to send a shiver down your spine. You essentially hated how the musky smell of his cologne mixed with the smell of your arousal. Six long months, and here you were again on your bed with him. Was it the longing or your crave for comfort that made you lose sight of reality? Maybe it was a dream, maybe what you thought would only ever be real in the fantastical delusions you’ve created for yourself. Yet, now, here, tonight, you wanted to live those very tales.

“Sa-Satoru, please… I n-need you.”

All of a sudden, it was a departure from the passionate Satoru whose sensual touch lingered on your skin. The Satoru above you seemed ravenous when he smashed his lips against yours, bruising the delicate flesh. He slid up your dress, pulling down the garment covering your core and before you could register he was entering you.

Velvet walls clamped down his cock almost greedily, his fingers intertwining with yours as he started to thrust himself in and out of you. Neither of you are completely undressed, just the discard of fabrics needed to be removed. The room felt too hot, even more when his heated breath fanned against your ear. He was speaking something but you barely register it over your lust-drunk self. Sinfully, loud moans left your mouth as you clutched the bedsheet tighter. The rhythm he followed was something new, pulling out just enough but never completely leaving you before he shoved in again. He filled you in too good and too much so when the pleasure started to built up, tears prickled your eyes. The overwhelming sensation of lust and heartache rendered you from picking on memories.

The next few hours of the passionate night was a blur as he jostled your body from position to another and you let him. For Satoru, it might just be sex, for you it was intimacy and you’ll hold onto it as long as fate allowed. On the brink of cascading ecstasy, Kazumi’s words rung into your ears – You can’t have everything you want. For once, you did agree. You couldn’t. Hence, you’d just be glad with whatever parts you could get.

As the crashing tide of pleasure washed over you, you found your head nestled on your soft pillows. The exhaustion held you hostage, forcing the sleep to clamp your eyelids shut. You heard the rustling of duvet as the comforter was laid over your body. However, this wasn’t the comfort you craved.

It’s true when they say heartbreaks led to the worst of choices.

You grasped Satoru’s hand, “Don’t leave.”

Although your eyes were shut, you did feel it when with deliberate care Satoru pried off your fingers.

“I am sorry.”

Therefore, you heard the faint sound of the main door shutting close.

Taglist: @sadmonke @creolequeen11210 @yuuuumii @allofffmypeaches @srtacchanandlerbong @erencvlt @r0ckst4rjk @pookiea @an-ever-angry-bi @milkm4nz @st0nedbitch @odessamoari @rori-ol @ae-mius @haitanibros0007 @aishies-stuff

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wmarximoff · 2 years

Text

save your tears for another day | w. maximoff

summary: you and Wanda had a troubled relationship to say the least, which from the beginning was doomed to end. but all it takes is one mission that leads to a little girl with her eyes and your nose for your life and hers to change completely.

warnings: angst, mentions of smoking, parental abandonment, trauma.

pairing: Wanda x fem!reader

word count: 17k

A/N: this is, like, huge. it took a long time to write. i don't think i've ever genuinely tried so hard for something kjfskdfhsdk

anyways, enjoy!

|masterlist|

༺ᱬ༻

It's late in the night, one-o'clock or so (maybe more, by no means less than that). It's eerily quiet in the alleys of Lower Manhattan, as if the whole region was in anticipation for this night, its shrewd eyes looking into your loft, into you.

It's that late dawn when you find yourself deep into the night to sit comfortable in a high swivel chair placed on the wide balcony of your loft, so many feet above the sidewalk, the people’s heads and the streetlights, to smoke a sturdy cigarette which in nothing you like to taste (the sensation that slides across the face of your tongue is bitter and rough, like chewing on a sandy stone).

It's a shamefully commonplace bad habit in your actions, adopted here and there, that usually accompanies you in puffs of swirling smoke throughout your lonely reveries taken at moments like this, grounded in darkness and an emptiness that tends to be purely melancholy, all enveloped in an air of taciturnity – you feel shimmers of icy wind passing through the bristly skin of your bare shins, devoid of any clothes, because you wear only a pair of shorts and an old hoodie of a dull, red and faded color that is not really yours over a thin plain tank top.

The hoodie doesn't smell like cigarettes, and it doesn't smell like you also. The scent that exudes from the fabric, after all, is hers, purely hers – like a memory that touches your skin, your bones.

This isn’t one of those nights that are too hot and not too cold, however, something that is reflected in your clothing choices; the comfortable and appreciative mood that blankets the entire dark city of New York is just inviting, you dare to think to yourself in your trains of thought that never stop. It's not very windy against your ankles or your weather-frozen cheekbones, but even so, your hair sways calmly, rustling behind your ears like a flag hoisted on a pole.

You just can't rest your head on the pillow to let yourself be carried away by the blandishments of sleep. So, after minutes or hours of staring at the boring monochrome ceiling above your bed with a restless agitation girdling the inside of your contrite chest, your time it is all spent on blunt remarks and mental notes made in your native language that at this point in life, might even sound like an alien to you – you get some of the word ordering wrong, while some elocution of others just sounds odd to your ears.

“Будь что будет.”

There is a slurred pause in your nasal speech, as if your tongue is catching between your teeth in the act of dancing against the roof of your mouth as you emulate the words that make up an ancient proverb, whose meaning you no longer quite remember correctly. And that prickly popular Sokovian dialect, colloquial in the most acute sense of the word and with a slightly less elaborate pronunciation and worthy of the lower classes, disappears little by little from your daily life like a healed and bleached scar, to which you cling like a grown child who carries with you a secure infantile memory, still so reluctant or even unable to let go of something that is no longer yours to hold on to.

You don't really have pleasant memories of your old Sokovian life in fact, so it even surprises you that something in you wants so much to keep a last shred of your cultural identity with you, that you don't want to let the world rob you of even that. Maybe, you think, maybe if you let the Sokovian go, you won't exist anymore. Something in you will change, and you will no longer be the person you know you are. And you also know that you're the stuck-up type of person, who doesn't handle change very well.

And then you talk again, again and again, like a broken record player. After all, you don't want to change.

Silence gives you permission to think calmly, like a bar company that eventually leaves you alone to drink your grievances from low-cut glasses. The view gives you a feeling of a fragile welcome; belonging to a collective kind of brings doses of contentment to your life. Although a lonely night is the inescapable epilogue to your existence according to the consequences of the actions that guided you in life, you like the vague idea of being a sociable animal, as the ancient philosophers would say.

From above, as if you were really omniscient or just an intangible deific figure, the big city is actually small and fragile, like a cornered sick person in dire need of protection – New York is just a black backdrop with tiny little lights encrusted along its entire length, like a long patchwork quilt rolled up in Christmas lights.

At this time of day, there are almost no good people to meet on the streets and you can hear a car horn and the screeching of tires running along the asphalt in the distance. Well, you think, what the hell.

Having retired the black outfit with indigo-detailed side stripes to the back of your wardrobe a while ago, inside a big dark bag, you just know that this is no longer a problem you have to solve. There's another range of masked and well-educated people hanging around, several of them younger and maybe a lot more willing, and you're no longer required to preserve the well-being of the life of the average New York citizen.

You then just snatch a thin cigarette with your right fingers from the half-crumpled wad of paper that was in the back pocket of your shorts and fit it through the gap between your lips, moving with the same expectant hand to the inside the single pocket of your hoodie, searching for the silver lighter in a dull action that already gives you a certain muscle memory when doing it.

Moving with your elbow, you bring the small metal accessory closer to your face, at the height of your chin, and sliding the cheek of your thumb across the stone you attempt to ignite a spark, but the attempt fails and you just grunt in discontent. The lighter clicks again, but one more time, there is no flicker to light your cigarette hanging from the middle of your mouth. The length of your fingers surrounded by a number of silver rings press tight against the metal of the tool.

“Dammit...”

There's a second frustrating attempt, and another one after that, and the third time is equally unsuccessful until you hear the doorbell chirp softly into the glass-and-concrete interior of the loft behind you, which is lit by low-yellow lighting that comes from a shy glowing globular lamp next to a spacious dark sofa. Your eyes leave the city to focus on the sound germ behind your back, turning with your chin over your right shoulder.

And you raise an eyebrow to the middle of your forehead, creasing the skin beam of your brow in disagreement because it's one-o'clock in the morning and someone's at your door, waiting for you – the cigarette blistered to your lips, so long ago forgotten; the lighter now lowered in your right hand in unconscious defeat.

The ethereal silence haunts the corners of the night, broken by the colorful phantasmagoric neon lights beamed from the tall imposing signs of Times Square. Your ears are as attentive as those of a guard dog, but at such a distance, no sound is picked up by your hearing ability, which is not one of your singular aptitudes, and, therefore, is restricted to the common and ordinary. And then, you aim your attentive gaze towards the front door. Something unsettling grips the walls of your stomach.

It doesn't take a considerable effort for the atoms that make up your body mass to become auspicious, changing and charging, and a spontaneous lapse that leaves a trail of blueish light in the physical space around you causes your molecules to reconstitute themselves in front of the light wooden door of the entrance of your house, in a usual teleportation that, thanks to your skills of a genetically altered human being, becomes customary in your daily reality.

In a heartbeat, without giving it much thought in a window of time as slim as the speed of the hands of a clock that exclusively ticks the seconds that pass, you disappear from the balcony in a kind of vortex, a crease in physical reality, only to reappear inside the loft, feeling the heated floor against your bare feet.

A distressing hesitation runs through the palm of your right hand as you lift it to thread your fingers around the cold metal of the knob, hovering it through the air before completing the act, open, as if waiting for the knob to come to your fingers. But your powers have honed in you a somewhat reckless nature that is already rooted within you, and the hardened life of a crime fighter has left you just a little bit tired for small, impassive combat.

After all, if you had to sum up the purposeful range of your abilities, you'd say your specialty lies in the act of running away. It only takes one thought for you to flee, for your body to dematerialize in one place only to consubstantiate in any remote location that your brain can imagine; from Siberia to Kazakhstan, from Patagonia to China, across the entire globe if necessary. Just an idea, a measly lucid thought, and the action will be done before you can even bat with your eyes.

So there's no real reason for the person behind the door to be a cause for concern on your part. Even if you still have to remind yourself of that fact again, again and again, hammering inside your skull before taking care of your unexpected visitor.

With your fingers now hooked around the doorknob, you turn the knuckle of your wrist to the side so that you are able to open the door which, once flung open, gives you the familiar sight of the apartment's dark hallway, greeting you with a blank look and darkened walls. And it's fuzzy for half a second until you reflexively bring your field of view down to your ribs, about the end of the hoodie laces that dangle across your chest.

And then a pair of emerald eyes stares back at you, so expectant and full of the glow of a life still so exciting to live, as if that piercing green wants to rip your soul out of your chest; it is a familiar shade of green that stands out in the eyes of a small child with profuse brown hair that falls in a fluid movement over her scrawny shoulders, the tip of her nose so similar to your own that it is even astonishing to see it elsewhere other than in your own bathroom mirror, early in the morning.

Greenish eyes, but then, your nose structure. You blink once. She wears tiny, unlaced red shoes that were a birthday present from her mother on her feet.

“Miss Y/l/n…”

A childish, hesitant voice greets you, which just doesn't sound all that comfortable in your presence – after all, to her you were never the warm and welcoming auntie Y/n, like the relationship she has with Natasha Romanoff or even Laura Barton, or any other title that she might link to your vague existence in her life. It was always just the cold, distant Ms. Y/l/n, lurking around corners like an ethereal shadow, avoiding her as if to ward off a contagious and deadly disease.

Timidly, her gaze strays to the side, behind thick, dark eyelashes, to the doorframe or the floor beneath your feet. Her small shoulders look hardened into the jacket she wears, as if her age-limited cognition isn't capable of crafting a conversation with you once the goal of finding you has been accomplished. And you recognize this little girl right away, like an animal of the same species that recognizes the other just by smell, just testing, trying to understand its fellow.

“Talia...?”

Her little freckled nose was certainly not an image that crossed your mind when you started to question who your mysterious night visitor behind that door might be. But you just know you need to call her mother right away.

ᗢ

The dull forest air, damp and suffocating, flooded your blunt lungs as if you were standing under the dark water of a deep, muddy river, your nose channel icy and blunt through the interior, causing you in the middle of your skull a mild annoying, clumsy migraine that was the harbinger of a coming illness – it came in warm through your mouth and came out cold through your nose, an exasperated sip of oxygen, with no purpose but to make you sick in the future.

Ahead of you ran a blur of green rows of brownish dark pine, a sickly greenish tinge like a wall of moss, transformed into huge demonic titans by the obscurity of dawn, passing so tediously fast through your eyes when your forearms were outlined around the athletic torso of Natasha Romanoff, the notorious figure who went by the name of Black Widow, in a sublimely shrewd vibe as you sailed through the mud; both of you stilted atop her bland motorcycle into the forest of Gloucastershire, remote in English lands.

Ahead of you, on the road of dust, dirt and dark stone that seemed to swallow up even the smallest remnant of a source of light and heat, glowed in cherry-red neon from the taillights of the other motorcycle that carried Steve Rogers, Captain America, resembling the shimmering eyes of a creature that would guide you through the pitch of the night in pursuit of your goal—the prominent shield on his back reflecting hues of red, white, and blue toward you, twinkling with the star honorably encrusted in the right middle of the polychromatic circle molded in pure vibranium.

And growing on the horizon, at the top of a green hill with airs of mystery, a castle of an immemorial Victorian structure that, being owned by members of the HYDRA institution, was the base that contained in itself, well protected inside its stone walls and high monumental towers like a paranoid medieval king, a recent scientific invention that was allegedly capable of ruining your entire team and subordinating any form of government, coercing the geopolitical map in favor of those who held a monopoly on it. And just the thought of an instrument of that scale (Project Nocturne, as Black Widow told you) made a knot in the pit of your stomach.

The consensus was unanimous and indisputable, when Natasha came from those British lands having succeeded in usurping the information after a long month all devoted to her undercover work; a weapon with such a range of power should be taken out of the jurisdiction of an organization as oblivious to the rest of humanity as HYDRA was, which is why Nick Fury had assigned you and your colleagues (an elite team, sure, the Avengers) to extract the device from inside the castle and destroy it as soon as possible.

So, all you had to do was teleport and, with such an object in hand, your team would leave in retreat. Whatever this dreaded object was.

“Are you ready for action, teleport girl?” Natasha craned her neck towards you, speaking over her curious shoulder, a short-cropped beam of windblown red hair streaming through her speech.

And she saw that, in your features, a greedy, ill-tempered discontent rose and grew.

“T-that's not my name…”

But Agent Romanoff only laughed softly, her leather-gloved hands screwed tightly to the dark rubber-covered motorcycle handlebars, fire-colored hair bouncing in the crisp wind like the crackling flames of a bonfire.

The bike tore through the tall, vast forest for a few more miles and seconds before a guttural roar rumbled through the leaves and branches, loud as an explosion, and the notion descended upon you that Bruce had gone off to some dark corner inside the his own mind, and his alter ego was now the one who took possession of the one body that was circumscribed between two opposite mentalities; the sapient Doctor Banner and the neanderthal green Hulk creature, in a discrepant duality, a dynamic similar to the strange case of Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

And that was the signal (or you thought so, anyway).

And then, closing your eyelids, you teleported into a blue streak of reality melting away, leaving Natasha to be the only one on the motorcycle. And inside the castle where you jumped smelled of dewy earth, dust, and polished stone. You snorted once, taking in a huge gulp of dusty air; polluted oxygen crammed the pathways into your lungs, also smelling the still-fresh aroma of hot gunpowder wafting through the air.

But something hit you squarely in the middle of your black-and-blue rubber-covered chest half a second later, not even giving you any thought as your ribcage sank inward in a dangerous tingle, pushing all the air out of your chest, lungs flattened against your back like two balloons. It hurt like getting a cannonball shot in the ribs, the weight of invisible lead crushing into your upper bones.

A shimmering scarlet nebula was what that coaxed your body away, propelling you at violent speed across the room, where the muscles of your back met the frame of a splintered wooden table in a thudding collision – a cloud of dust rose from the plaster on the wall as you and the table slammed into the polished stone.

A pained growl escaped your throat as the sting from the blow started a rumbling pain at the top of your neck in a fiery whiplash. Inside your eardrums there was a horrible humming sound and, for a second, a faint seemed to be an imminent reality for you.

“B-but—” you huffed in a tiny voice on a breath coming from behind your tongue, huddled on the floor amidst table debris and dust pellets like a dirty old rag, “What the fuck was that?!”

And the figure set before you, your attacker, of course, could be none other than Wanda Maximoff, who had both hands raised in a solid lunging pose, forearms straight and precise in your direction, while a splash of piercing red color circled the moss green of her irises. It was like a swamp on fire inside her eye sockets, a will-o'-the-wisp that wanted to consume you completely. She looked serious and stern, almost as if just to prove that she had complete control over her own pulsing mystical powers.

The young woman looked prepared for the slaughter like a creature out of a nightmare, for a moment seeming to have awakened a slumbering ruffian nature within her, still with dancing crimson mist tracing the length of her upraised fingers, clad in a fistful of silver rings of the most diverse shapes and sizes, as if prepared to unleash a new burst of throbbing energy at any given moment.

But she let her shoulders sag as she realized that the target of her attack had only been you, a teammate of hers poorly mistaken for a malefactor in the heat of the moment; her hands hanging to the sides of the dark red coat that wore the length of her arms, spilling even towards the crook of her knees tucked into tight dark pants that allowed greater mobility when on the front lines of the battlefield.

And what was once concern writing its way down the length of Wanda's pretty face, with solid, sharp, even half-feline features, took on airs of crimson ferocity as she creased her dark brows in the middle of her forehead, watching you barely set standing, covered in a layer of dust and, well, a shameful defeat.

“What the hell, Y/n, what do you think you're doing?!” she scolded, stomping towards you with the combat boots she was wearing, “I could have killed you!”

“I know, dammit! That's why I asked what the fuck was that!” You gestured angrily with your hands raised towards her, who stopped right next to you.

“You knew I was going to jump in here! That's literally the damn plan, Wanda! Stick to the damn plan!”

But she just tilted her chin to the side of her left shoulder and sipped at a smoldering impetuosity that vibrated red inside her, as if buying the conflict you were selling. If at one point she had really cared about your well-being, now she just seemed capable of hitting you one more time on purpose.

“And you knew I'd have to clear the room before you jump in, Y/n!” she barked back then, in an equally irritated tone, her eyes a bright green sparkling and turbulent, “It was you who didn't wait for my signal, because everything with you is like that! You don't know how to wait for anything! You don't know how to work as a team!”

“I don't know how to work as a team?! Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know that working as a team meant I had to wait for you to feel like trying to do something to get into action on a mission that literally has to be done in the shortest possible time!” was your infuriated reply, which comes along with the flush of the skin on your cheeks.

“I’m sorry if the best I can do isn’t enough for you!” she accused, “But it’s not like anything in the world is ever enough for you, right, Y/n?!”

“Well, if you didn't just stay looking after Vision in every practice and work your ass out like the rest of the team, maybe then you'd be more agile on the field! That sure would be enough right now!”

But there was a tone of taciturnity that engulfed her fierce body language at your speech, taking on a predator's edge, and the low voice provided by her was shaped like a warm whisper, a warning and a threat blended into one amalgamation of dread that icy down the length of your spine, going even farther and, dare you say, even jabbing slightly between your legs. Your palms felt sticky against the rubber of your suit, lowering your composure a little before her.

“Don't you dare bring Vision into this.”

You, in turn, still hostile and certainly annoyed, opened and closed your mouth for a while, but there was nothing more to say once Wanda's tone ended up taking your speech, slaying it inside your throat as if her magic had suddenly ripped your tongue out. And for a brief second, the high dark collar of your uniform felt like a rope tightening around the outline of your neck.

Your rebuttal, however, didn't come because it was Tony Stark's voice that reverberated through your communicator tucked into your ear canal, and through hers as well. Your attention strayed from Wanda for half a second.

“Lovebirds, I know it's awkward to live with an ex in the workplace – trust me, you'll never want to date your secretary – but if you don't mind, let's just fulfill our mission and get out of here as soon as possible, all right? In the compound you two can fight a little longer. Geez, I’ll even make you two a coffee myself.”

You looked at her and she looked at you. And, at the same speed, the two proud looks drenched in a mutual meaning drifted away, as if dodging a common adversity that would never be resolved if what was needed to do so was an apology that would guarantee a good coexistence. You wouldn’t say she was your ex, but Wanda would say you were hers. Maybe if you were more mature, maybe if she wasn’t so rash. Maybe if you just listened to each other more.

At that time in your life you were just too presumptuous, the vigor imbued in youth bringing a certainty of self that would prove to be harmful at several later moments, and one of Wanda's most infuriating flaws was that the dark-haired young woman never liked to admit a mistake made by herself. And so, just like that, you were in a limbo, in an endless loop within a quarrel that had arisen on both sides.

The sex was good, sure, but the feelings imbued in the act were just too arduous to digest – when you wanted her she didn’t want you back, and when she wanted you, well, you just went away.

She took a step away from you, who also had no intention of being so close to her as you carried a bundle of conflicting feelings within your heart, and they were all aimed solely and exclusively at Wanda. You could kiss her and then curse her like flipping a switch.

“Let's just… go,” she muttered, rather tough into her speech, “Let's find what we came to find and just get the hell out of here. This place gives me chills…”

And began a joint search for the entire perimeter that made up the ancient castle, for what neither you nor she knew well what it was. And the notion burned within your larynx that once your unflattering esteem for one another had been withheld within you for the sake of the smooth running of teamwork, reserving lapses of discord for more propitious moments than that, you and Wanda, as in a bad joke made by fate, worked well together, like two halves that, when put together, make up a fully functioning whole.

If she attacked, you defended, and if you defended, she attacked. And together you advanced, traversing the circuit of stone and wood walls. It was like a well-planned dance, a meeting of minds, a rehearsed joining of souls; you didn't need to think to act, because she thought for you. A tune that, in the past, would have been pleasant to experience.

And she looked just so beautiful, so sumptuous, when brandishing with her bare hands to fire twirls of red energy that pumped from within her wills. Her pale face kind of shimmered with a layer of warm sweat on a bead of skin on her forehead, just beyond the roots of the dark hair that swung around the outline of her face, in a facial expression where concentration was written in scarlet lines, as her lids tightened around her soften eyes and her dark brows creased in search of a new target to hit in a fervent mystical ambition.

When she shielded you with a barrier of shimmering crimson fog that sheltered you from a hail of gunfire, turning her head over her right shoulder to check your physical well-being in a lapse of smoldering concern, you were remembered why your heartstrings had been pulled by her fingertips like a master puppeteer some time ago, not long enough to be completely forgotten, veiled and overcome.

“I can– I can handle it here!” it was a roar over the burst of machine guns springing into action, “Go ahead, Y/n!”

“N–no, no way! No!” you reiterated exasperatedly, “I'm not leaving you here by yourself, Wanda! Don’t ask me to do this!”

“Y/n,” she looked at you, armed with certainty in the deep green that bathed her irises, “I'll be fine, I promise. Now please, just go!”

The conversation that took place was without a word to be heard. But there was no hesitation; you trusted her in that moment, concurring at her with a nod of your head, just as Wanda trusted you too. And the spontaneous teleport was quick and accurate as your body mass melted in midair, like a dart hitting the red center of a target, the last sight being Wanda's dark hair cascading down the middle of her back.

And a sudden ghostly aura froze the hollow of your bones as you found yourself away from Wanda and the battalion of soldiers she promptly held off just with the willpower of her own mind. The room you jumped into was excruciating like a scream in the dark, and just as terrifying.

Melancholic as the last moments of life of a flower withering, and that brought you an ominous unruly nostalgia, referring in unhealthy memory to the moments when you found yourself lost in the deep solitude of your own cell in the HYDRA laboratory facilities – a frightening placethat accommodated you for so long that you even lost count, with stone walls and tears, martyring yourself for what you could never have (freedom or companionship, there was never absolute certainty).

Both, perhaps, you came to think later, as you stared at the ceiling as you lay down to die in your ridiculous excuse for what would be the most uncomfortable of beds.

Being there, in that dark room, for you at least, was as horrible as your teenage days, in a sultry temperature so unvarying and constant that a handful of a few strands of your hair stuck to the skin of your neck, covered by an invisible layer of icy sweat; anxiety pumping through your veins at yet another round of tests with the Mind Stone they'd stolen at the time, as your ears used to hear the footsteps pouring down the hall.

So much trial and error, so many failures and punishments, that you, at the time, believed that at some point your whole body would just completely disintegrate, vanishing from reality for good.

The strained vision of your clever eyes, beneath your eyelashes, could not discern even any direction to guide yourself through the darkness that seemed to surround you like an enigmatic augury creature, with uncertain and unpredictable attitudes – a blatant odor that seemed exhale right next to your shoulders, covering you in a cloak of rot, coming from the uncertain cylindrical stone walls that insisted on squeezing you into the mouth of hell.

The fog in the bowels of the earth just wasn't getting any worse, so deep and extemporaneous, because the presence of a unknown creature huddled against one of the corners of the four crammed walls was what caught your attention right away, just a shy silhouette in the dark, which could not be distinguished as anything other than a shadowy, shapeless mass. And you dared to approach, because if this was the fifteenth room on the seventh floor, the weapon of global domination would be there.

“What… what the...?”

As the sole of your boot took a step towards it, the thing squeaked like a harassed guinea pig, even seeming to melt and disappear into the wall it leaned against. And carefully, you approached. As you crouched on your knees, a wave of sudden nauseating vertigo ebbed down your esophagus as the light found your gaze amid the emptiness of the dark room. A small, freckled, little girl's face quivered before your gaze as the tiny chin found itself supplanted by a pair of bony sore knees, thick eyelashes hidden behind a curtain of lank, greasy, long dark hair.

But the eyes were green, like two jade stones set in a filthy receptacle that didn't match the preciousness of those irises soaked in a thin, misty layer of tears that she fought to not to shed in front of you – perhaps from fear, or perhaps from trauma, surely from both, never from less than either.

Her malnourished little body was covered only by a single piece of a damp, dirty cloth, and signs of fatigue that should never show on a child's facial expressions marred her tapered cheeks and thin, pale skin, as would be that of an ill person lying on their deathbed. You wanted to throw up all the contents of the dinner that were churning the inside of your stomach. You realized, with trembling hands, that this thing (this kid) was Project Nocturne.

“But it's a child...” was a thoughtless whisper, “It's... it's just a child...”

ᗢ

The return of a successful mission had never felt so unnerving in your guts before; why, of course, you found yourself in the strange presence of one more figure than the amount of people who had gone inside the jet hours before, a new creature to inhabit the interior of the quinjet with you and your teammates. It was as if everyone knew what it was that concerned them as a collective, but no one was bold enough to say it out loud. You just understood each other’s apprehension in silence.

The tension overwrought in the air that enveloped you could even be tangible, since all the adults present ended up peeking curious glances at the quiet little girl who was covered by a thick dark wool blanket that had been laid around her skinny shoulders, making her look like a tiny caterpillar inside a cocoon with only a pair of pea green eyes sticking out her shell, watching everyone like a suspicious radar.

Wanda was the one who assumed the position of a tutor towards the child when no one else did, even if not for lack of initiatives by people like Natasha and Steve or even Clint, who was a father himself; the girl would not allow herself to be touched by anyone other than the enchantress without bursting out shrieking, and then Wanda was the one who, between the fingers of her hand, rewarded the withered palm of her downcast left tiny hand all the way until you arrived at your required location, back in American lands.

There was a comfort in Wanda's warm welcome that promptly convinced her that she was a pleasant presence, worthy of her trust so difficult to bestow on other unfamiliar adults; by nature, the child was frightened and weepy, and for that you all didn’t bat an eyelid, since everyone understood well the situation – you, even more so. And they were indeed alike, the little girl and Wanda, in a way that would raise eyebrows in acts of wonder, for they were too similar even for your own taste.

It made you think that Wanda, who had once been a child as young as that one, must have contained facial features similar to those of the young girl with an unhealthy face dotted with a galaxy of scanty brown freckles, and from the witch she only lacked in the familiar structure of her nose, which you weren't quite sure at the time to distinguish from who it was that reminded you so much; the answer looking like it wanted to scratch out of your memory, yet too uncertain to voice your thoughts out loud.

The girl settled in the compound because it was necessary, because there was no other place for her to fit in the world; in fact, they made her settle down. But as long as she was accompanied by Wanda, looking at the adult woman in question or seeking permission and comfort with those big verdant doe eyes, she was able to cooperate with others without showing any signs of rejection.

In part, you assumed it had to do with the fact that, once inside the HYDRA labs, she hadn't been granted choices in her very modest lifetime, and that's why she didn't know empirically that she was actually able to decline what adults offered her – according to Dr. Banner, after a previous session of physical tests passed all well accompanied by Wanda's watchful gaze, the girl was an average of seven years old, despite being quite stunted and undernourished for the age.

And the more days took slashes of weeks, the more and more she became a shadow that mirrored Wanda's actions, perhaps like an insecure duckling that follows its mother around or even a tiny puppy too young for its own good, still discovering so much of what the world had to offer. She was like a magnet drawn to the figure of her assumed guardian, a shadow sneaking behind the older woman's hip.

And Wanda seemed to enjoy every moment of it, because you watched her from afar, like a specter that doesn’t let go of the past to suitably move forward, when she took the girl for a walk in the outside gardens that surrounded the perimeter that made up the massive structures of the compound, or when she carried a sleeping little body so close to her own chest as if she were going to keep the girl inside her embrace until the last day of the Earth, heading to the room they shared to get her little girl ready for bed.

Wanda stopped attending other missions after a while, putting all her spare time into raising that child. And she's also definitely stopped reaching out to you to fulfill her lonely demands, for you to kiss her out of need or reward her with an orgasm that would consume the nightly necessity inside her, as she's done so many times before. She never went back for the rings she left on your nighstand or the red hoodie she left hanging on that chair in the corner of your room.

But one day when you were slinging athletic clothes around your body still sharp after a long morning of training spent in the company of Sam and Natasha, wearing a brief layer of sweat on the greasy skin of your forehead, you found yourself making a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch in the empty kitchen, to replenish your energies. That was when a sudden magnetic sensation took hold of your state of consciousness, sweeping away from your tired muscles the prostrate fatigue that required a very welcome break.

It was as if something called you; something that went beyond the barriers of what is tangible and material. It was a psychic need that itched to be attended.

So you turned around, in a blind search for what was inviting you in your unconscious. And, there, cohabiting the same space as you, could only be seen the figure of the little girl protected by Wanda, green irises wandering over your face in front of a childish and curious look, which seemed to digest the atmosphere in search of what connected her to you.

Your eyes bonded with hers in a flicker of gaze, and for a brief lapse of a second, there was a hesitation on your part that ended up tensing the muscles in your back beneath the thin layer of clothing provided by a tank top that left a lot of your skin showing. She looked healthier in that moment, her cheeks flushed and full, her hair glossy resulting from a good affectionate treatment, so dissimilar from that day when she was nothing less than an animal backed up against a dark corner in front of you.

She was quiet and apprehensive, as if waiting for your belated initiative toward herself.

“H–hey, kid,” you mussed, probing the area around her tiny body for Wanda, who was nowhere to be seen.

“Are you... are you alone? Are you lost? I mean, the compound can be quite big, huh... I honestly never thought we needed all this space, but you know how Tony is... but hey, where’s your– where’s Wanda?”

But the girl continued to maintain an air of silence towards you, only batting her thick dark eyelashes. And it was no surprise to you, in fact, the lack of response; until then, you had never heard her voice. You barely knew if she was really capable of understanding whatever was that you emulated concerning her in your second language, as Wanda used to communicate only in her Sokovian dialect with the girl.

“Що з вами?” You tried again, questioning her need for something.

And then she looked at the sandwich laid out on the plate in front of you on the counter, which was cut into two pieces made up of golden bread stuffed with melted cheese, a certain sheet of curiosity gleaming in her eyes. Your poor interpretation of signs dismissed it as a mute request, and so you took the sandwich in your hands and held it up into her field of view.

“Do you… do you want a piece of it…? ти хочеш?” On the girl's part there was the slightest nod, “Right, here.”

You offered her a slice of your sandwich, which was welcomed by two small hands raised in your direction as if asking for a hug.

You were the first to take a bite of the bread and, closely watched by the stimulated gaze of the girl, who was a born observer, she opened her mouth and sank her teeth into the sandwich just like you previously did, before chewing and swallowing in a studying way, as if it were that a scientific experiment. And then, after the experience had made her a connoisseur of the taste of grilled cheese, there was one more bite on her part, followed by another almost exasperatedly, which elicited a silly chuckle on your part.

Faced with the sound you made, the girl looked at you like a curious puppy and “Happy?” was what she asked, to which you only raised an uncertain brow.

"What? If I’m happy?”

Again, she nodded in agreement, rocking her silky dark hair that had recently been trimmed at the ends, looking gleaming and soft to the touch. And for a second, you didn't know what to say. She was a child, and you might as well lie. But you knew you weren't really happy, and maybe that wasn't even exactly what she meant with her vague knowledge of words in another language, but the question snuck into you and crept into your brain, planting seeds there that would later come to fruition, taking root in a bad feeling inside you.

“Well, you see, I... I...” Your mouth opened, but then closed shortly after, in a piercing, dysfunctional silence. There was nothing to say, not in front of her.

“Talia!” Wanda's voice, a little worried in its tonality bordering on maternal, reached your ears before she herself did it inside the kitchen, in quick and teasing steps.

And she barely glanced at you, because she got down on her knees to crouch in front of the child (Talia), so that she could hold the outlines of the girl's face in the warm palms of her hands.

“Are you okay, sweetie? You can't just walk away like that, I was worried to death! I swear, sometimes it's like you just go from one place to another,” the tone, however, was not harsh or ferocious; it was just tender, comfortable, oozing characters of thoughtfulness to the little girl, “Please don't ever do that again. I don't want you to get lost or out of my sight, okay?”

“Mama,” Her tiny voice rang out, causing a crease of brows on your part, who watched the interaction between the pair like a distant witness. The girl waved the remains of her bitten sandwich in front of Wanda's face before turning to you.

And then two sets of equally expectant, olive green eyes were like a spotlight burning your skin, Wanda suddenly aware of your presence inside the kitchen. But soon, her attention was all on the child again. Maybe, you thought years later, maybe she just didn't want to tell you what she's kind of suspected for a while at that point, as a magical sixth sense for the connection beyond the material plane that bound your vitalities.

“Oh, did Y/n get you a sandwich?” Talia nodded, something she seemed to do a lot, and Wanda's eyes brightened a jade color filled with tenderness for the little child before her, “And did you thank her? It's important to thank people when they give you things, polite people do that. And you're a polite little girl, aren't you, baby? Скажи спасибі, Крошка.”

Again, the little girl looked at you, seeming a little doubtful with a small flash of skin creased in between her thin brows just like you did too, as if the thoughts behind her eyes didn't match the words that might slip through her rosy button lips. And you, in turn, just raised a placating palm toward her before the evident lump of anxiety forming inside her chest grew to overwhelming proportions.

“It's okay,” you shrugged casually, “No need to say it out loud, kiddo, I understand your good intention. You don't seem to be much for words at all, right? It’s okay. Все добре.”

Wanda got to her feet again, stretching her knees into the dark jeans she wore on her attractive legs, before the palm of her right hand began the act of stroking the top of Talia’s head of soft brown hair, in a placid and unconscious action, bringing the little child close to her, beside her hipbone.

“Silence is her way of dealing with things,” are the first words Wanda says to you in days, casually holding eye contact with you, “Nat said it's common for kids who've been through... you know, what she's been through, to use it as a way of coping with all that happened with them.”

In the face of the conversation, the girl took another bite of the piece of grilled bread placed between her little hands. Wanda smiled at Talia's actions.

“But we're making progress, aren't we?” and her grin seemed so beautiful, so pure and genuine when directed at the girl, as if she were her greatest achievement in life, her primary source of affection and care, “She can already say a few words in English and associate them with what is happening around her. Talia is a very smart girl.”

“Talia, huh?” you repeated the name which, in a way, sounded right in your pronunciation. Wanda nodded, bouncing with the strands of her long, dark hair.

“Yeah, I'm not calling her a project like Bruce and Tony,” the green in her eyes looked unerring as she looked at you, looking so devout in her actions, “She’s not a lab rat, she’s a child. My… my child. And her name is Talia.”

“Right,” you mussed, because there was nothing more to say beyond that, “Talia. It’s… it’s a great name.”

ᗢ

The stone-walled interior of the cell that housed you was gloomy and damp, back in the days when you found yourself captive to the will of a man whose name, to you, has never been more than something like Strucker. He was a baron, perhaps—you had once heard someone refer to him in an air of military respect for such a title, the lowest in the entire nobility hierarchy.

There were no signs of comfort that could be pinpointed in any of the scrawny compost that made up the length, width, or height of those claustrophobic walls that closed in stone against you; it was like an empty, cold coffin, buried six feet away, beneath the glow of the last ray of surface sunlight. The HYDRA base that contained your cell had a dense, compact and sawn atmosphere, being devoured by the bowels of the earth where the impure air was thick and burning, so difficult to inhale by all that dirty dust.

It was an environment so harsh that had the air of a ghost town, even though life there proliferated in an unruly way, in anguished heaps, one on top of the other as if the intention were to reach the exteriority of the surface; although the laboratories were so deep and so submerged that it became increasingly almost impossible to glimpse their true abyssal depths and the most hideous monstrosities that there, in the shadows, hid from the eyes of the world. The most grotesque experiments that a human being would be capable of performing on another similar to themselves.

You, at that time, were never quite sure how much time had passed since your addition to that circus of horrors whose master of ceremonies was Strucker himself, the mastermind and employer; of how many weeks made up the months that constituted the years since your arrival at that place – your meager notion of the passage of time, always deprived of the notions of the sun and the hands of a clock, took the form of the perception of biological changes that had taken place in your own body.

The way your hair looked lengthier and greasier, or the way the ends of your chipped nails grew longer out of the edges of your fingers. The way the thin flesh of your cheeks tapered in signs of long-term malnutrition, or how, by the cuts characteristics of age, your physical structure took on more adult bearings that moved further and further away from the extremities of the epilogues of childhood, the time of life when you were still enjoying your remote time of freedom in a war-torn country, living off the crumbs of starving poverty.

A translucent droplet of warm sweat trickled down the line of your stiff, dirty, perspiring face, slipped down the curve of your chin, and then splattered onto the filthy floor between your bare feet. Something tucked within your insides just held back the full notion that they were going to come to escort you to that bigger room, to force you to touch that damned stone one more time, only to, after you did, put you through a bunch of exhausting tests that would border on imminent death. Boundaries didn't apply to you, who was just someone else's possession.

You held your breath as the heavy cell door clicked open. If this was a day seven days after the last time it had happened, it meant they were going to screw thick leather straps into your wrists and ankles to keep you stabilized on an ice-cold stretcher, when a masked man would come to stick a large needle in the middle of your back muscles again, to extract some strange spinal fluid from inside your vertebrae. It's not just because you had already been subjected to several rounds of this same nefarious procedure that your body had become accustomed to such an invasion.

A muffled clang rang through the room, your awed squeals echoing through its stone walls – a pair of uniformed men dragged you by your bony wrists down the scrawny hallway out of the cell.

“Поспішай, блін!” A gunman yelled in your ear, causing you to cower into your thin single piece of dirty, torn clothing, before shoving your skinny shoulder out of the cell.

The oxygen supplied in your lungs, roaming between the cells, took on a rigorously cold and even hard shape, quite difficult to breathe in or aspire with full propriety, weighing the sharpness of your fearful chest when your anxious eye could distinguish, between the quick blinks that pushed away the veil of darkness that clouded your mind, the shimmering shade of vivid green in the midst of the icy spectrum of darkness that crammed every square meter that made up the long corridor; the gloom entering your pores and choking you in a pool of fear.

They were, those impious orbs turned towards you, like true beacons that stared at the core of your soul in an apathetic emerald light. A color of green that saw everything, from which nothing escaped alive, overflowing with a hatred for the world that had taken everything from her, had wrested so much from her. The eyes of that girl who looked about your age (even if as dejected as your own body was in), a volunteer you knew, who had been housed in a cell next to yours.

She was also escorted by a pair of armed guards, heading in the opposite direction to where you were forced to go as on death row – the two predatory eyes, however, luminous, fearsome and incisive, were the most pronounced feature of a pale face like wax, devoid of sun, flanked by strands of long, straight brown hair lacking the graces of vain care. Rumor had it that the stone had detached itself from Loki’s scepter and ambled towards her, that she didn't have to touch it directly like you had.

And for a brief lapse of a second, you felt magnetically drawn to the gravitational field around her like the rings of Saturn, like the very Mind Stone that had floated into her touch. The unsettling urge was electric in you who, panting in anguish, only cherished touching the chalk skin of the girl who passed you in the hallway. And she looked at you expectantly, as if she were also attracted to you. Seconds dragged by like a tortoise as eye contact was sustained between you and Wanda, whose face you only knew at the time, not the name.

Later, with the two of you freed from Strucker's clutches and her brother deceased after a blunt clash with Ultron (which cost you both your hometown and then your whole country), you learned that your connection to Wanda was in the energy of the Mind Stone contained in your genes and hers too. Maybe that's why something in you never got tired of her, that always craved more of her, for consuming her completely until the two of you were one whole. Maybe you just didn’t want to admit that you loved her on your own.

Perhaps that was why your gaze could never stray from Wanda playing afar with Talia in the company of Vision, the three of them sitting on the grass in the garden outside, in the sun like a family, while you were the ghost in the window, inside the compound – the synthezoid whose very body of green wires, yellow blood, and red bones was the embodiment of the Mind Stone receptacle that was embedded in the middle of his forehead, flashing a sickening neon yellow.

You never once failed to notice how he made her dawn on such a beautiful smile, while you only made her sad, stressed or anxious. You wanted her to smile like that for you.

“Why the long face, teleport girl?”

Natasha's voice came from behind your shoulders, when the woman older than you, who was stealing pecks from a cup full of coffee supplanted by the fingers of her right hand, come to accompany you to the huge window view.

“The little witch and her toaster boyfriend, huh? Such an unusual couple.”

“She looks happy,” you mussed, still not meeting the redhead's gaze, always watching Wanda like a security camera, “They... they seem like a happy family.”

“Well, she really got attached to that little girl. It’s cute to see, I guess. But looking happy doesn't mean being really happy,” was the Widow's reply, followed by a long swig of warm coffee, “You know that, don't you, Y/n?"

She looked at you like she wanted to say something she didn't. But it was about a few days later, inside the excruciating walls of your room one night after dinner (Tony had ordered shawarmas and fries for the entire team), when your unwary eyes darted toward the wall in front of you.

You blinked slowly, and then took a gulp of bored air, the room as quiet and dark as a crypt. The silver light of the innocuous moonlight crept between the thick curtains like a curious little animal, adorning the room in a bright, luminous color, creating a shading effect from the sparse furniture placed there, even if it wasn't these the major components of the room's decorations – the numbers “21” and “35” in neon green glittered on the dim face of your digital clock placed on the headboard just beside your bed, next to a porcelain lamp.

“Miss Y/l/n?” FRIDAY 's somewhat machine-like female voice, the artificial intelligence that governs each and every technological apparatus in the compound, entreated you, echoing into the walls of your room.

“Mr. Stark has asked to inform you that he requests your presence in the east wing laboratory right now.”

Your answer came in the form of a lame growl squeezed out of your throat.

“Tell him that tomorrow morning I’ll talk to him, please. I'm not in the mood for it right now.”

“Miss Y/l/n,” the voice repeated, in a slightly more insistent tone, “Mr. Stark has asked me to indefinitely turn off the power to your room if you refuse. He says it is a matter of the utmost importance.”

“Well shit...”

You got to your feet and lazily slipped on your half-worn shoes forgotten by the side of the bed, not going to the extra trouble of tying your loose shoelaces. The east wing was allocated away from the heroes' quarters situated in the west wing, and going with your legs there didn't seem all that attractive (although you didn't have much choice in doing so), opting to envision the room for that, like a snap of your fingers, you would teleport there without too many circumlocutions built into your apathetic actions.

This was a vast room lit by a layer of long white lamps, adorned with glass and holograms in eerie, flashing neon colors that floated at eye level, lined with shelves crammed with electronics and glass containers, tiny test tubes and Bunsen burners all with faded flames, in addition to other devices of a modern high technology that were not at all recognizable by your poor cognition about that area. To you, that place has always looked more like the interior of a spaceship than a laboratory itself.

Tony could be found there, close to Bruce and also Steve, but the presence that surprised you the most was Wanda, who wore an open dark sweater on her torso whose sleeves went beyond the limit of her wrists, partially engulfing the palms of both her hands. Illuminated by the artificial light of the room, her eyes seemed even more green and penetrating, always exuding airs of that relaxed beauty that seemed to be carved into her bones.

Her gaze caught you in silence, and you didn't say anything either before your attention turned to Tony, who came to meet you. He wore a classic rock band shirt, one of several that had always made up his playboy wardrobe.

“Ah, you're finally here teleport girl, I thought I'd have to make Cap go to your room and yank you out of bed by your ankles. I don't know how to deal with cranky teenagers, sorry.”

“I’m an adult.”

“Yeah, and I keep forgetting that,” and then he turned his back on you, heading towards Bruce, who in turn seemed so intent on the open projections running through the interface of an interactive table (rectangular in shape and flat surface), to which he conveyed all the annotations made until then.

"Well, now that you're both here, Rogers, will you do the honors of telling the two lovebirds about what we've discovered, please?"

“What you’ve… discovered…?” Wanda said then, in a puzzled, curious tone of question that was aimed at Steve, with whom she was closest of the three men in the room.

The Captain, with his sturdy arms crossed over his Herculean chest buttoned up in a pale shirt, only nodded in the slightest movement of his head toward the young brunette woman. He looked apprehensive about doing so.

“Yeah, well,” he began his speaking with typical speech tones, “It's related to the girl, Wanda. Talia. You know that our agreement with the government after Lagos is that we must give them the reports of all our missions, right?”

“Yes, I... I know.”

The answer was in a regretful thread of voice that urged you to look at her. There was something gloomy that crept like a worm through the sullen green of her eyes and, looking so small, she stared at her palms for half a second, before the tips of her right fingers reflexively brushed to fidget with the silver rings that adorned the extension of her left fingers.

For a brief lapse of a moment, you wanted to bring her into the comfort of your arms and place a warm kiss on the crown of her brown-haired head to lull her to your mainstay, and to keep your hands from doing so, you just stuck them inside the back pockets of the baggy, ripped pale jeans that buttoned at your hips. You shifted your chin to the side of your right shoulder, just so you wouldn’t see her still silhouette like a nostalgic flavor memory in your peripheral vision, in the corner of your mind.

“It turns out that our friends at the Pentagon took an interest in keeping the girl,” it was Tony's turn to say.

“They said we can't keep an underage immigrant without legal status under our jurisdiction, not without the accompaniment of a parent or a legal guardian. They want her transferred to a CBP shelter under the jurisdiction of the Department of Health and Human Services. You know, that bullshit from the Office of Refugee Resettlement, stuff like that.”

“Which means she will either be deported or fall into the system. Probably deported,” your voice doesn't sound like your own as it comes out of the back of your throat, shrugging into your old punk rock band-print shirt.

Wanda's exasperated gaze ached in an anxiety building in the pit of her stomach as she, who was standing next to your left shoulder, stared at your profile in an afflicted way. Not looking back at her felt like fuel for her dread, which felt larger and more unstable inside her chest like a red balloon filled with oxygen, about to burst with a loud pop.

“W-what...? No, they– they can’t–” and then she turned her head towards the Captain, “Steve, please, they can't– she can't be without me! Please, she’s just a child!”

“They won't, Wanda,” he assured her when her dark brows creased into an anguished facial expression.

“Because that's where things start to get interesting,” says Tony, with a diligent little smile glistening from under his neatly trimmed goatee, “Right, Banner?”

“Yes indeed,” was Dr. Banner's reply in his lethargic mannerism, who turned to you and Wanda as well, aiming the big square glasses blistered on the bridge of his nose in your direction, “It's an incredible advance in biology, I have to say.”

When Wanda glanced at you from the corner as if to study your reaction, you didn't look back, just sloping curiously towards the face of the accomplished scientist in the buttoned shirt with sleeves rolled up at the elbows and shabby cashmere shoes.

“I had to do a genetic mapping on the girl to find out what her origins were and preferably, with any luck, find her parents or any living relatives to contact. But what I found was, well... it was interesting, to say the least. The girl has no parents, not in the conventional sense of the word. She has gene donors. FRIDAY, please.”

“As you wish, Doctor Banner.”

The machine voice followed the call of the man with short dark hair, streaked with bands of gray, in an articulate fidelity, always so devout, and from the projector placed inside the interactive table's display, a brilliant hologram was produced, made in dazzling blue and opalescent white, detailed in its smallest details, to which it presented a 3D model of a DNA structureright in front of the avid emerald eyes that possessed the ingenious Wanda, who studied completely the holographic reproduction made available to her by artificial intelligence.

You weren't quite sure what the hell that in front of your eyes meant, but a flicker of curiosity that welled up in your gut allowed you to give Bruce a chance to talk more about his research.

“These, as you can see, are Talia's genotypes. Her genetic makeup,” clarified the bespectacled man, as if to lighten the glint of misunderstanding that shone in your irises.

“According to the notes we got from HYDRA's castle, Project Nocturne was a series of attempts to artificially reproduce the genetics of responsive test subjects from experiments performed with the Mind Stone a few years ago. I mean, well, you two and Pietro.”

The mention of Wanda's late older twin was sudden, something that caught her off guard – you've noticed it because you've noticed when she looks away, still so distraught over the lack of the late speedster boy, whose body lay in ancient Sokovian lands. Your hand pulsed to intertwine your fingers with hers. She used to seek your embrace to cry into the nights when the nostalgic regret of the lack that her brother caused inside her bones slipped through her.

“The initial idea of the project was to reproduce Wanda's DNA, who was the subject with the highest response rate to the experiments, as a kind of cloning procedure, but the incomplete DNA sequences they extracted from her required that the gaps in her sequences were filled with other DNA, and as it would be fruitless to do so with Pietro's because of inbreeding, they used your DNA for that, Y/n."

You blinked once at Bruce.

"What...?" it was the incredulous questioning that sprang out of you like a jet of skepticism that poured out of your larynx.

"Well, you see," he gestured with his hands in a rather flustered way, deep in his own racing thoughts.

“The girl was generated in an external pregnancy in an artificial uterus. It's a perfect blend of magic and... well, magic and science. Something we’ve only seen before with the Asgardians. We don't know exactly the extent of the Stone's powers, but we do know that it is powerful enough to spontaneously enhance and grant sentience to beings it comes in contact with, and that HYDRA has manipulated this ability to their advantage. It's–it's amazing, really! What I'm saying is that if a proper system for it ingested and absorbed some organic fluid produced by a being affected by Stone, there would be the possibility of dominant genetics looking for viable gametes for the formation of a healthy embryo–”

“Stop,” you cut him off abruptly, finishing off too much explanation from the man older than you, “Please just–just stop fucking talking about it like it's something amazing, because it's not! It's not, Bruce!"

There was a hint of silence that wafted into the lab. Something in Banner's face instantly withered. Wanda projected a hesitant glance that spilled over your profile before turning back to the trinity of men before the two of you.

“What does that mean,” she whispered, in a strained voice, “What does that mean, exactly?”

“What does that mean, little witch,” it was Tony's turn to take matters into his own hands again, “Is that the girl is a close relative of both of you. Genetically close enough to be an offspring. So congratulations, mommies, because it's a girl! Although I think now it's a little late to make a baby shower, eh...”

“Stark, that's enough!” Steve was exasperated at the man with the goatee, in a profuse tone of reprimand to Tony's shenanigans, who held back a smirk broken at the corner of his lips, an eternal keeper of childish humor that he was.

But no words would be enough to elucidate what it was that sent your thoughts from one side to the other, in a truculent whirlwind of emotions that flowed through your veins and your nerves. And, when you came to blink another time, it was with grief sprinkled in your gaze – and you knew that Wanda could hear what you thought, because it was stronger than her, and in that moment, you were just a mess of unhinged agonies in an icy sweat that evaporated from your pores.

You blinked once at the sheer smoldering confusion, furrowing your brows in a look of vagueness.

Then, with eyes of double size, you looked towards Steve, your team leader and the most approachable of the three, who with a shake of his head, acquiesced in your doubts, what had clarified your thoughts with yourself. The walls of your stomach dropped into your abdomen, and for a second, the air that filled your bronchi was icy cold like a breath of death.

And then, like the fateful epilogue to a Homeric romance novel, you dared look your way, at Wanda, because the heat in her gaze could be felt even if you were on the other side of the room. If a pen dropped to the floor at that moment, the sound would echo throughout the lab. Wanda gulped at the saliva that froze under her tongue at your silence, and with her eyes she turned to Steve, who offered her a piercing blue look in return.

“So,” she tried, hesitantly like a wounded animal, “If… if Talia is our… our daughter,” you trembled at the word and its meaning concerning you and her, “My daughter. Does that mean I can keep her?”

“Well,” sighed the blond veteran, wrinkling his thick brows congruently, “I think that makes things a lot easier, Wanda. Even more so now that you two have obtained your American citizenship.”

“My younger cousin is a lawyer,” says Bruce in sequence to Steve’s words, “It's not exactly her field, but I believe she'll be able to help however she can. I mean... she does owe me a favor.”

He kind of tried to laugh, but the ambiance was still jittery and he gave up halfway through. Wanda nodded in a closed silence that rocked her long locks of a rich shade of shimmering brown, before once again offering you a complacent look that glowed in shades of a dull green color.

“Y/n...”

But you were an empty figure beside her, distant gaze thundering like the eyes of a lifeless puppet that has had its strings cut. Her warm right fingers, which sought comfort in the outstretched palm of your left hand, were like a reality check weighed down on your soul; the slightest brush of skin on skin sent an electric current through all your muscles, and you repelled it as if her touch were burning embers, as if touching her hurt you. But the hurt look came to the expanse of her pretty face right away.

“Y/n,” whispered Wanda in a tiny voice, so small and vulnerable, her eyes flickering in stinging remorse, her lower lip quivering in a retracted wail, “Y/n, please–just, please–”

“No–no, I don't...” you tried, but it was in vain, “Don't touch me, I... I don't... I can't, I can't...”

A single teardrop crystal streamed from your left eye to your retracted chin. She’d been inside the confines of those cells before, she knew what it was like – and her stomach did somersaults at even the thought of how they’d extracted your DNA, because that’s the same way they’d extracted hers too, between needles, tears and screams. But looking at Wanda, who needed you so much at that moment, was what made the pressure inside your stomach worse.

“I'm sorry I–I can't do this. I’m sorry but I–I can’t. I can’t.”

“Y/n, wait–!”

Wanda's clouded face, a stream of tears that accentuated the green of her eyes, was the last thing you saw before a reality vortex stripped your cells of the space that made up the lab's interior. And once you teleported to the bliss of your room, you allowed yourself to slump down onto your cold mattress, sitting with your legs bent out of bed. And then you cried. In the dark of your room, you just cried into the night.

ᗢ

As the days have passed since that revelation so bitter to swallow that not even the most expensive of the bourbons on top of Tony's shelf could ease it, you, in a state of apathetic corrosive calamity, increasingly immersed in yourself and distant from your other colleagues, only avoided the girl and Wanda as if she were a small emissary of a pandemic plague, as if living in the same environment as she would make you sick to imminent death from the disease imbued in her veins, which pulsed a blood like yours.

Your attraction soon took on tinges of an irremediable aversion spread by your system towards those who, in better terms, might have been your only accessible model of family to cherish and grace. Maybe that's what wove such a nagging veil of discomfort into your ribs when Wanda brought Talia into the hangar to greet the rest of the team after a particularly long mission, and the little girl freed herself from her mother's hand to run into Vision’s open arms, who was blissfully waiting for her embrace like a father who has just returned home.

When you walked past them, still tied in a silent line of torpor, limping on one leg and nose crooked and bloody as you were, Wanda looked at you with a glint full of meaning in her eyes. Maybe she wanted you there to welcome Talia instead of the robot-man, maybe she didn't want you too close to the girl at all.

It was like a long-running game of cat and mouse played within the limits that demarcated the longitude composed by the structures of the compound, which at one time or another would corner you in a corner with no exit; if they were in a room, together as they were always meant to be (and witnessing Wanda acting like parents in Vision's company, seeing them raise together a child that was hers and unfailingly yours as well, was just an even more unpleasant bonus for your taste), you would automatically have to be somewhere else in order to breathe properly with your ached lungs.

You then took your left hand towards the handle and opened the bathroom door, a breath of warm steam coming with you as you walked serenely towards the huge bed well placed in the middle of the room that looked like a so much too big just for your enjoyment. You've never been the type to get away with luxury, anyway; it just wasn't a construct based on your simple-minded nature.

A towel crisscrossed by the damp locks played the role of extracting, from your hair, the excess of water that tarnished the curls stuck together by the outline of your face. You wore casual pajamas, a plain dark shirt, and gym shorts that adorned the skin of your inner thighs, and nothing else to cover your modesty. You therefore placed the towel around your neck, over your broad shoulders, in the course of making your way to the phone plugged into the socket placed on the bedside table just to the right of your bed.

But you couldn't do it right away, because a familiar shiver through your senses gave you an alert mode that ran hot from the nape of your neck down the length of your spine, squeezing your ribs into your chest. And, before you could even realize what was happening there, inside the four monochromatic walls of your dull room, a space-time lapse actually broke over your bed like an indigo tear, when a child's body materialized on the sheets that covered your mattress. Talia appeared there, and you froze in your position outside the bathroom door.

“What the…?” you snorted, in defensive surprise, “What the hell do you think you're doing here, girl?”

There was a momentary excruciating silence, before you blinked once in disbelief and saw the most beautiful green eyes you had ever seen in your life – those that, by the yellow color of the lamp placed by your side of the bed, had acquired an exotic emerald color, but which contained fine traces of a unique amber next to the abysmally dark pupils.

You were rueful as you brought your right hand to your sharp face and pinched the bridge of your nose between your forefinger and thumb, a strained sigh slipping through your thin lips, blinking eyes that drooped lids in lethargy towards the child. You heard her fill and empty her lungs with air, before blinking in your direction with an announcement of tears welling up in the green of her doe eyes.

“M-mama,” was a whisper of a small voice that gradually built itself into an unsettling anxiety, “Ma...mama...mama...”

It only took a mere second for her rosebud lips to part in the foreshadowing of a cry that hissed within your eardrums.

“Hey, hey, hey, wait, calm down, don't—don't cry! Don’t Cry! You don’t need to cry!" You intervened immediately, crawling down the length of the mattress until you were sitting next to the sobbing little girl, “I'm going to take you back to your mother, all right? Damn it, I'll take you to your mother!"

You didn't hesitate to touch her thin shoulder bone over her colored shirt to teleport her along with your own body mass in search of Wanda's bedroom door. And, once there in the corridor, accompanied by the child who was still shedding more tears than she seemed to have to cry in her small body, it took a meager amount of miserable seconds that dragged lazily as in the format of hours for the enchantress to open the door with a hard jolt, her maternal senses all sharp and alert when in the presence of her little girl's weeping.

“Talia!” Wanda softened, engulfing the small body with the outline of her forearms, squeezing the teary child in a warm hug against her thin dark sweater, “It's okay, sweetie, I'm here, mama's here. It's okay, shh... it's okay, крошка.”

You couldn't readily say what it was that made you hope she would calm the girl down, who ended up slumbering in a sleep bedecked with tears and a runny nose. But Wanda came to meet you in the hallway right after she did, carefully closing the door behind her body. Even though she was still a little apparently dazed at the fact that you were still standing there, her only in cotton pajama shorts and an oversized black wool sweater, she looked so appealing when lit up by the pale light from the hallway.

“I'm sorry about that, Y/n,” she blew a weary sigh across her lips, “She… she has these powers like yours, but this is all very new to her and she's been having trouble getting it under control. Sometimes I'm afraid to wake up in the morning and find out she teleported to the Himalayas in her sleep or something.”

“It's… it's okay,” you hissed in a shrunken reply, a little awkwardly, not looking her straight in the eye, “Someday she’ll learn to deal with it. Then it gets better, trust me.”

“Well,” Wanda scanned you with a cautious glance, “Maybe if you could help her with that–”

“No, Wanda,” was your unthinking response, ever so wary in your actions, “Just… no. You know I don't wanna get involved with any of this.”

“I know, of course I know,” the brown-haired young woman gave a bashful gasp of air, failing to mask the compunction evident in her bodily actions towards your presence, “You've already made that clear, Y/n. But she is our daughter, your daughter—”

“Wanda, for Christ's sake, don't start it. Not now.”

The clamor in your tone of voice was what discouraged Wanda, who even with a good number of protests popping in her throat, couldn't say anything in the face of your so teased look at her.

Despite the emotion running through your veins, you stopped yourself from continuing to gnaw at the feeling that was distressing at your insides, an acid sensation that spread through your chest like a nuisance on your airway. And as if it were a gulf of anguish, regurgitated by your stomach, you soon tried to swallow your uncontrollable greed for your own injustice; for the violation that child meant in your life.

You then looked down at your bare feet and clicked your tongue across the roof of your mouth poorly, tucking your hands into the pockets of your sweatpants. Wanda looked into your face, which was filled with volcanic and distressing emotions, and blinked for a long time, batting her thick dark lashes.

“She… this girl, she…she’s not my daughter, Wanda. She may be yours, but she's not mine. She's just a goddamn lab experiment, that's all.”

Maybe you just wanted to hurt her. Something selfish enough rooted in your immaturity grew up for you to say it to her – only intent on hurting and ruining, because like a tantrum child, you just couldn't deal with the frustration that swelled inside you like a sickening disease. Wanda, however, didn't do more than a dry movement of her dark brows, and then profuse eyes peered in your direction—two splinters of emerald staring at you like a predator in the dark, a viper and a hare.

"Don’t say that."

The look that was turned on you, even if it was choleric, rigid or perhaps even snarky, was what you keenly yearned for in your pitied core, avoiding looking at her when the bitter remorse flitted across the face of your tongue at your own words referred toward her – because then you wouldn't have to witness Wanda's mild irises as they were, tempting you with their melancholy green, immersed in a feeling of compunction, perhaps even of disappointment or anguish. The excruciating eyes of someone who no longer had the energies contained in her body to fight to get you out of the shell you've gotten yourself into.

It annoyed you in the most acute sense of the word that this was not the first time Wanda had confronted you with her dismayed eyes. And you didn't quite know why you kept hurting her like you did. But there you were, ready to break her heart all over again.

“Don't say that,” she repeated, “She's a child, she's not to blame for any of this. She didn't ask for it—”

“And I didn’t either!”

A last spark of common sense flashed and ended in your contrite interior, lifting you up immediately, screwing the sayings of the fingers of both your hands into a pair of clenched fists with joints so pressed that, due to the lack of blood circulation, became become white and dull.

“I didn't ask for any of this, Wanda! And this girl, she–she's just a constant reminder of everything that happened to me inside that shitty lab! I look at her and all I can see is it happening to me again and again and again! Damn, I can't fucking stand being around her!”

“I went through it too, Y/n!” Wanda's tone shifted an octave, though not enough to cause a flashy scandal, “I was in that fucking lab too!”

She took an irate step toward you.

“And yet I don’t treat her like she's contagious or some shit like that! What the fuck, Y/n, you treat her like a fucking criminal! She's seven, for Christ's sake! And she is my daughter and whether you like it or not, she is yours too! So stop acting like a fucking child and for once in your life, even if it must be really hard for someone like you, be an adult and fucking act like it, dammit!”

“Oh yeah, you were in those labs too, how could I forget,” your tone dripped with acid cynicism, consolidating with your jawbone until it resembled a wire as sharp as a razor blade, “You volunteered to change the world, didn't you? Wow Wanda, such a smart move! What a fucking difference you’ve made, really!”

She, in turn, frowned, her inner woes hastily taking the form of anger at you. A thin layer of red rage carpeted the profuse moss green that grew darker in her enraged gaze.

“Turns out I never told you how I ended up in that shithole, did I? Well, the drunk asshole that I had as a father was a bastard who didn't want to feed four more mouths after my mom died, so at the first chance he got to get rid of me and my siblings, he did it without even batting an eye,” and the smile that appeared on your lips was in no way in keeping with the tears about to burst from your eyes.

“And he said I should be happy, because I was lucky I wasn't pretty enough to end up in a fucking brothel like my little sister! I was fourteen, Wanda!”

Wanda's face fell, but you just bit your lower lip, clasping the pit of your stomach in an excruciating grip – for that bad feeling which resonated in your head before the drowsiness of sleep, terrifying you through the empty darkness that comprised space stripped like a scream in the silence, just alone, like a desolate tear. It hurt you to the core of your chest as much as the shot of a projectile would hurt any other fragile human being.

You squinted your eyes and shook your head. Wanda's red anger faded into thin air, giving way to the pitying looks you so hated getting from someone. She took a gulp of air and opened her mouth to say anything, but you stopped her before she even started.

“So yeah, I'm sorry if I don't want to be in the same place as someone who reminds me of this shitty time. Whose miserable existence is nothing but a reminder of all they took away from me, of how much they violated me over and over again, of how much they stole from my entire life!”

You sobbed, because you the notion of what was happening there fell like a bucket of ice water down the length of your back. You were losing her, and she was losing you too.

“Y/n,” she mussed, gracelessly, as if you really were such a small child as Talia, “Y/n, I'm so sorry, I–I didn't know–I didn't know that–”

“Don't talk to me anymore,” you breathed, your vision blurred and clouded, “Don't ever fucking talk to me again, Wanda.”

Wanda didn't try to stop you when you left in a heartbeat. Just like you didn't try to stop her tears, and she didn't try to make you stay.

ᗢ

“Am I a bad daughter?”

"What...?"

Five more autumns had been later than the one you find yourself in. Wanda has been living in New Jersey with Vision and Talia for a few years now, being an ever so helpful mother to her little daughter, the best that has ever happened to her and the worst that has ever happened to you.

But the girl born to you is still there, perched on a sofa opposite the one you're cuddling in at your own home, and with the aging enhancements to the facial features, you can't help but notice how much she is very reminiscent of Wanda in her sharp cheekbones and the shape of her eyebrows – even if, in a way, also to yourself when you were the same age (twelve years old or something). Like the seasonal change of seasons, the freckles are fading from her nose. Someday, you just know that she could be mistaken for her young mother if seen from afar.

“Am I a bad daughter?” asks Talia awkwardly after long doses of stillness, immediately following a generous sip of water from the glass curled between her fingers.

You considered offering her a sip of freshly brewed still warm coffee, but when you realized she was just a child, you decided that water was good, water was neutral ground and a safe option. And you're probably paying attention to her drinking water so you don't have to think of a worthy answer to her inferred questioning of you.

"You... you...” there’s a pause, “You don't...I don't..."

Your sentence dries up and dies for a split second, though, as you stop yourself before you say too much to the girl, who frowns at you in a custom all too familiar to your cognition – as Wanda used to do when younger. You don't want to burden her, still as young as she is, with answers and satisfactions for someone who wasn't there for her.

“Why do you think that, Talia?” the girl sways a bit at her own actions before your gaze, dragging her upper teeth over the cheek of her rosy lower lip, and for a second there's a sliver of silence that seems to break through your ear canal.

“Because you never spoke to me.”

The answer shuts you down like a deferred open fist punch to the middle of your face, though you still stare at her with both irises going on at the insipid little face so vacillating in your presence. You open your mouth, nothing comes out, and then you close it again as best you can. Then, you opened it again, but soon whatever it was that would emerge from there is canceled out. Finally, you choose to console yourself with the gaze that descends to the laminate flooring placed between your bare feet, even though you have within yourself the fullest notion that, what you need and what you so lack in your system, right after such a shock, it's a good dose of something much stronger than a simple set of coffee beans and hot water.

“Talia, I...” you hesitate for a while, “How did you...?”

“Vis told me,” says the girl, “I... I asked him if he was my father because he is married to ma, but he said he can't be my father because he's not human like me and her. And that I don't have a father because I'm made from ma and... and you, Miss Y/l/n. But I didn't understand what he meant. I think it has to do with those lab days.”

You press your lips together in a single long line, digging into statements which you do not see yourself as fully capable of expounding on the girl you only recognize, then, as your daughter (because, facts being facts, it is what she is). Maybe Vision is just a clueless douche, but you always knew that eventually she would catch on. You just didn't want to be the one to break the news to her.

At least, not without such resolutions inferring a handful of new themes and questions which you might not even be able to clarify for such a chaste child, still sprucing up to the height of her tender twelve years of life; you don’t intend to cultivate it with more seeds of doubt that, perhaps, may come to bear fruit in the form of large trees of insecurity in her future. You aim, then, as a priority, to preserve from the naivety that little Talia has before her two mother figures, who were, respectively, you and Wanda. Two extremes very different from each other.

You look at her, and for a second, the pulsing muscle in your chest aches. No longer out of remorse, or even repulsion. It only hurts because, after the years have passed and your maturity has dawned, you only see something of your own in Talia's face. In front of her you stand up, and the green gaze follows you as you come towards her as if you have something to say.

With your fingertips, however, you touch her thin chin, seeking the gaze to link with yours once more. So you give her a tender smile, showered with regretful caresses, and with your thumb you caressed her smooth-skinned jawbone. Once again, your gaze realizes that Talia has the traits of a bone structure similar to the one that Wanda also has.

“I'm sorry, kid,” you sigh at the girl, before taking the small body in your arms, leaning your cheek against the crown of the dark haired head. There, Talia snuggled in and expelled a sigh, because, for the both of you it just feels good. It feels right.

“I'm so sorry, Talia.”

When a new knock was referred to the wood of your door, the young girl had already slept lying on your sofa. For half a second you just watched over the child beside you as you never had before, her chest heaving and falling over her red jacket, while Talia snored to the blandishments of a slumber. You had long ago retained her facial features in memory (the sharp eyebrows and nose, the pearly lips), but it was inevitable to look at her once more.

You covered her small body with a thick blanket before going to tend to your new visitor.

“Y/n, is she…?” is the first thing you are told by Wanda's anguished tone, who casts glances behind your shoulder in search of her daughter inside your house.

“She slept on the couch, don't worry,” you nod, which elicits a relieved sigh from the other woman, “You… would you like some tea?”

Wanda blinks in your direction.

"Yes, please..." she whispers, "I would like to."

Wanda is still the same woman you fell in love with at some remote moment in your past memories, to whom you had committed your heart and soul – the same emerald eyes rimmed with an eerie glow, the same athletic, supple back, the same dark hair that hugs the outline of the prudent face. But she seems more centered. Like you, she's more mature, weathered by time.

She just looks so pretty sipping from a cup of tea inside your own kitchen.

During the succinct moment in which your gazes gather in a single line, one applying themselves to unveil the other, the gap in your chest is able to sip and scrutinize every measly detail of her radiant beauty, so that you can then contrast it with the countenance of the young woman you left behind so long ago, checking that your disillusioned eyes aren't mocking your feelings. However, with no room for error, she is still Wanda. Your Wanda.

“She knows,” you say then, with your forearms crossed in front of your chest, your hips snug against the icy marble counter of the sink, “About me, I mean. She knows. She says Vision told her.”

“I know,” Wanda sighs behind swirls of steam rising from the inside of the cup that she shields with a wall of her own fingers, now devoid of any rings to be seen – including the wedding ring that has always captured your suffering gaze, “That's why she ran away. Vis, he's just... he's complicated. I know I can't exactly demand some things from him because he's not human, but... lately he's just been so... so...”

“Robotic?” you try, with a teasing half smile, and Wanda allows herself to laugh grimly, shaking her head of long dark hair that now looks a little shorter than it once did.

“Yeah,” she sighs, “Robotic.”

And she looks tired, as she takes gulps of oxygen to say, “We're getting divorced. Or breaking up, I don't know, we were never really married. It’s not like he has a birth certificate.”

The woman wails in a wretched wail, and so much of the past you can see in her, so helpless and vulnerable, that your very heartstrings tighten in a grim girdling, bathed in a greedy despondency.

“This sucks, Wanda,” you say, frowning complacently, “I… I'm sorry about it.”

“It's okay, Y/n,” she whispers, “It's just… lately I can't seem to do anything right. My life is in chaos, and I'm losing control of everything and I'm just so, so tired..."

You then approach her in silent strides, crossing the kitchen to stand next to her right shoulder, who is leaning against the dark marble of the island. And she doesn't seem to repel you at all; on the contrary, she comes even closer to you, to the point that your elbows almost rub under the clothes you wear – she in an open cashmere cardigan that exudes cozy airs of domestic comfort, so different from the clothes with those dark colors from before, and you in an old red hoodie that once belonged to her.

“And then, Vision went over there and told Talia about you,” her grip presses against the pale porcelain of the cup, “And now I'm sure she hates me for keeping it from her for so long. I was just trying to protect her, and now I'm… I'm just a bad mom, I guess.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” you cry out immediately, searching for her lowered gaze, “No, don't say that, Wanda, that's not true and you know it's not. Damn, you are an amazing mother to that girl, from day one you always were! And it's noticeable how much you love her and how much she loves you too. You've always tried so hard, you've always given so much of yourself… seriously, Wanda, you're amazing!”

And she blinks, her lashes thick and dark, a pre-announcement of tears that are swept away from the emerald green of her eyes.

"Do you... really think so?"

“I always did,” you shrug, “Even though I've been an asshole to you and her, I've always… I've always paid attention to the two of you. Like, not in a creepy way, I'm not a pervert or whatever, it's just—”

“Y/n,” she kind of smiles at you, “It’s okay, I get it. The three of us are connected by the Mind Stone, it's normal for you to feel something different about us. Vis said that the attraction he felt for me was because of that.”

“No, Wanda, that's not what I–” you exhaust yourself on a sigh, squinting your eyes for a few miserable seconds. You lift your eyelids and finally gives Wanda a supple, complacent look, no longer in a battle against your feelings for her, “It wasn't just the Stone, Wanda. It was never just the Stone. I was immature and stupid and for a while I wished it was, but it was never just that and I was always sure of it. I would really fall in love with you in any possible situation, Wanda, whether with the Stone or not.”

"In any situation...?" and she looks so fragile, when she casts a light green gaze upon you like the leaves of spring trees. And you shake your head in unsyllabic agreement with her doubts.

“In any situation,” is an unerring tone of voice, one she's never seen sketched out by you when it comes to your feelings for her.

“Either way, I would always fall in love with you. From the way you smile and scrunch your nose, or the way you eat cereal holding your spoon in that weird way, the smell of your perfume, the laugh you get when you watch your favorite sitcoms, for... for the way you took Talia in when we found her. It's not just the damn Stone, Wanda, I just can't help but fall in love with you just the way you are.”

Your gaze is sharpened by a still-young memory that echoes through the temples of your beloved Wanda – who pours out her appreciation for your figure before her in the tenderness exhaled through her pores.

You see it as a reminder of your past, where you both belonged in each other's arms and made love in the breath of the night, kissed by the moonlight, with no one knowing what you were doing away from the sight of astute spectators. However, your heart rises high in your chest as soon as the idea that she is in front of you is evident again, and it is different, but it is also so much the same as before. You smile at Wanda, who was once your victory and your defeat, much more than just a piece of the Mind Stone that lives in you. The one who always had your heart in her hands to keep.

“In any universe, Wanda, I will always love you.”

She gasps as she brings her face towards you, which doesn't flinch at all from the other woman's action. Lips touching as if to keep an ancient secret from each other, Wanda melting against you.

And a cunning pink tongue slips into her peach-colored mouth like a cunning snake, and there, with the velvet touch, you stroke your tongue against hers expertly and needy, coiling around her with a mature agility, as if guiding a wet dance between two people who, behind the excitement that seemed to warm their bodies like a summer mist, only sought to connect through cracked kisses – the echoes of the words you both wanted to say, but you were never sure how you were going to do it.

She still tastes like red, which is good to keep in your mouth, but the other taste you find in her is new and causes a smoldering happiness inside your chest – because it's the taste of the reciprocation of a feeling so intrinsic in your bloodstream, and in hers also. She kisses you because she misses you. You kiss her because you want to feel her again. And together, you kiss just because you love each other.

“Don't go away again,” her hot breath brushes the cheek of your half-swollen upper lip, her fingers carefully caressing the corners of your face between her hands, “Please, Y/n, never go away again. Never leave me again.”

“I won't, Wanda,” you muss, looking into her eyes, as close to you in her embrace as you are, “I'll be here for Talia and for you, I promise. I’ll never make you cry again. This time I’ll be the person you deserve to have by your side.”

When she smiles, so beautiful and so peaceful, you kiss the grin on her mouth. Again and again.

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