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shutupineedtothink · 5 months ago

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Ok this has been sitting in my drafts for a minute but since nobody asked for it, here’s my full Nicky headcannon. It leads into an insane MCU witch movie with Agatha, Wanda, Rio, Billy, Tommy (?), maybe Jen and even Alice. All the witches! I got yall.

So, Nicky Scratch. That boy is Agatha and Rio’s but most prominently he is Death’s Son, right. A demigod something or other, an entity, Something Else. Not really human/mortal, but certainly not dead either. He’s in the same class of whatever Rio is. Rio knows this from day one. Agatha does not.

That means two main things: Nicky isn’t really “dead,” (he wasn’t even supposed to be “living”) and that kid should have hella powers. We should have seen some indication of that imo in the show but I can explain it away easily enough in a minute. Either way, under the surface he should have scary magic along the lines of Billy if not far more powerful.

Except while Billy has essentially Wanda’s magic, creator magic, Nicky’s is much, much darker. You know, something fitting of a child of Death.

Let’s say Nicky has Black Magic. 👀 haven’t seen that one on the color wheel of magic colors yet amirite. (Except the Darkhold I suppose, which is an interesting connection potentially.) Or maybe it's like Dark Magic, as in literal darkness. Darkling style. Maybe it's somehow a dark/light binary, like how Rio is technically a death/life binary. Idk I'm working on it, but you get the idea. He's on another level, something adjacent to Rio but not quite the same.

His magic is so strong, corrosive, not evil necessarily but heavy and consuming, that it was killing his mortal body from the beginning.

That’s why he was never meant to live in the first place — like Rio he is Another Being, his magic is Something Else. It’s too much for a human little boy. He needed to join her to really “live” and have any hope of control over his magic.

His powers also make him a massive target for who knows what demons and underworld beings. … you see where this could go.

So in this version, let’s say Rio has a much deeper connection to Nicky on a magical level. She can tell when his magic is about to manifest in the world of the living and takes him right before that happens, otherwise both him and Agatha will be in danger. Perhaps she even tells Nicky what’s happening, and he can feel it coming too, which also accounts for why he goes with her so willingly, to protect his mama from his own power. Kind of a lot for a six-year-old to understand but again, he’s Special.

Maybe Rio’s even been keeping the monsters off Nicky and Agatha’s trail while Nicky was human. Tbh it was a miracle she managed it for six years alongside her other responsibilities. She never told Agatha a) because she didn’t want her being more afraid than she already was, b) because would it have really made any difference, Agatha would hate her either way and c) For The Drama.

When Rio takes Nicky, maybe she stashes him in some kind of purgatory space. Pocket dimension? Idk we have no idea what she has access to but let’s say she hides him away somewhere so that she can teach him to use his magic and keep him away from the demons. This is where I would pull in Alice if possible, after we see Rio take her into the smoke in ep 8 Rio makes her an offer to help her protect Nicky in purgatory for a while, because his powers are only getting stronger and she's starting to get worried something's going to happen. Yes, diverting a soul like that is wildly against the rules. She does it anyway for her son.

All of this of course makes Agatha’s hatred for Rio that much worse, because Nicky is still “alive” in a sense and Rio is doing everything she can to protect him and raise him and help him control his magic. She can’t tell Agatha any of this because anyone else who knows about Nicky is a liability. Again, she really shouldn’t have even let him live with Agatha in the first place, it was a massive risk to everyone involved. But she did, and Agatha has no idea what a gift that was, for her and for Nicky.

All of that said, this would set us up for some CRaZy MCU witch/underworld stuff. So here’s the rough outline of my movie: let’s say the demons finally find Nicky wherever Rio has him hidden and take him to the underworld, Mephisto, blah blah whatever. I’m not worried about the motive at this point. Age Nicky up to Billy’s age roughly so he can be a real character. Btw, in my head Nicky is still the sweetest bean, total opposite to either of his mothers, too good for this world, cursed with this insane power he doesn’t know what to do with. Obviously, we have some opportunity to develop him from there.

Anyway, once she finds out he’s gone, Rio is forced to tell Agatha the truth. There’s no one else she can trust to get Nicky back. (I’m imagining a juicy confrontation between the two of them where we just let Kathryn and Aubrey cook with the exposition.) Rio can’t go to the underworld herself for some reason, because of The Cosmic Rules, and the Jac Schaeffer rules of Rio can’t hang around on screen for too long (which I like, actually).

Rio only deals with the mortal plane and directing souls to whatever comes next. So it has to be Agatha who rescues him, but as a ghost she’s stuck on the mortal plane too. So now we gotta “bring her back to life,” because I need real life Kathryn Hahn in this full movie not as a ghost, you feel me. And she has to be able to use her magic. So we gotta manifest a new body around her ghost form. At first they think Billy can do it, but even he’s not that powerful, not to mention still relatively untrained.

… Do you see the vision yet?

There’s only one witch, who may or may not be dead, who can manifest Agatha Harkness back into a living breathing body. And Agatha HATES it with every fiber of her noncorporeal being, but she needs the Scarlet Witch to make her mortal again, so that she can go to the underworld and save her son. Of course, chaos and shenanigans ensue, and Wanda and the boys end up going with her.

I’m calling the movie — Agatha Harkness and the Scarlet Witch. It’s a team up babyyyy! It’s about women and power, Wanda and Agatha being two sides of the same coin, mothers and their sons, rewriting your story, reuniting and letting go, etc etc etc. Yes I have entire scenes already written in my head, no I’ll never actually write the fic or the screenplay, if somebody wants to run with this please let me know and I’ll give you what I got.

The point is, the story potential on Nicky is insane to be The One Who Brings Everyone Else Together and I really hope they don’t just throw it away.

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amethystarachnid · 1 month ago

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HII

I just LOVE your work!!!

So can I please request trope number 9- with Wanda maximoff x Fem! Vampire reader...

So I was just thinking about like y/n and Wanda are really really close friends (both of them absolutely in love with each other)

That's all! THANK YOU!

LOVE LETTER

⤷ WANDA MAXIMOFF

ᯓ★ Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x fem!Vampire!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: fluff, romance

ᯓ★ From: MARVEL Love is in the air - Valentine's Day special game

ᯓ★ Word count: 5k

ᯓ★ Summary: you write a love letter to Wanda but forgot to sign it...

ᯓ★ TW(s): nothing I think?

ᯓ★ First time working with a vampire!reader and I didnt really know what to do...hope you enjoy the story anyway!

ᯓ★MARVEL Love is in the air - Valentine's Day special game

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The compound is quieter at night. Most of the team has gone to bed, leaving only the faint hum of security systems and the occasional creak of the building settling. You’re used to the quiet, to the dark, to the way the world slows when the sun goes down. It’s comforting in a way it probably shouldn’t be.

You sit on one of the couches in the common room, a book resting open on your lap. You haven’t turned a page in twenty minutes. Your mind is too busy, too restless, but it isn’t the usual hunger or boredom that keeps you distracted. It’s her. Wanda Maximoff.

She’s in the kitchen, moving around with an ease that you envy, humming softly to herself as she makes tea. The overhead light casts a glow around her, catching on the deep red of her sweater, the loose waves of her hair. She’s beautiful. She’s always been beautiful, but in moments like this—unguarded, comfortable—she’s breathtaking.

You shouldn’t be watching her like this. You shouldn’t be thinking about her the way you do. She’s your best friend, the closest person you have in this strange, makeshift family of heroes and gods. She’s kind to you in a way most people aren’t. She doesn’t flinch when your fangs slip out, doesn’t shy away when your hunger is obvious in your eyes. She trusts you. That should be enough.

It isn’t.

You’re in love with her. Have been for longer than you’re willing to admit, but the fear of ruining everything keeps you silent. So you sit in the quiet, staring at the same page of your book, listening to her soft movements, pretending that this is enough.

Wanda turns from the kitchen with her mug in hand, catching you watching her before you can look away. Her lips twitch into a small smile, and she walks over, settling onto the couch beside you. The warmth of her body is immediate, sinking into you like the heat of the sun, even though you don’t feel it the way she does.

“Couldn’t sleep?” she asks, voice soft.

You shake your head. “Not really.”

She takes a sip of her tea, watching you over the rim of her mug. You force yourself to focus on her eyes and not the curve of her lips, not the way the steam curls around her face.

“What about you?” you ask.

She shrugs. “Too quiet.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “Most people like the quiet at night.”

She nudges you lightly with her elbow. “You don’t.”

You glance at her, raising a brow. “I do.”

“No, you don’t,” she says with certainty. “You like the sound of people moving around. You like voices, music, anything that makes it feel less empty.”

She’s not wrong. You’ve spent enough years in silence to last a lifetime. You prefer the noise, the proof that you’re not alone, but she’s one of the few people who’s noticed.

“I guess you’re right,” you admit.

Her smile widens slightly, like she’s pleased with herself, and she leans back against the couch. You try not to focus on how close she is, how her knee brushes against yours.

“Are you reading, or just staring at the pages?” she teases, nodding toward your book.

You glance down at it, realizing you haven’t moved your hands in so long that it might as well be a prop. You sigh. “Staring, mostly.”

She hums thoughtfully and shifts, tucking her legs beneath her as she gets comfortable. “Maybe I should read to you.”

Your stomach flips, and you hope it doesn’t show on your face. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to,” she says simply, holding her hand out for the book.

You hesitate before giving it to her, watching as she flips to the beginning of the chapter. She clears her throat slightly before she starts, her voice slipping into the rhythm of the words with a natural ease. You listen, but not to the story. You listen to her, to the warmth in her voice, to the way certain words curl on her tongue.

You’re so in love with her it’s unbearable.

She reads for a while, the words washing over you in a way that feels almost hypnotic. You let yourself relax, leaning your head back against the couch, listening. She doesn’t stop until she reaches the end of the chapter, and when she does, she closes the book gently, looking over at you.

“Better?” she asks.

You nod. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Her gaze lingers on you, something unreadable in her expression. You wonder, not for the first time, if she knows. If she notices the way you look at her, the way you freeze under her touch, the way your hunger for her has nothing to do with blood. If she does, she never says anything.

She sets the book aside and shifts slightly, resting her elbow on the back of the couch, her head propped up on her hand. “Can I ask you something?”

You swallow hard, hoping she doesn’t hear the way your breath catches. “Of course.”

She hesitates for a moment, like she’s choosing her words carefully. “Do you ever get lonely?”

The question catches you off guard. “What?”

She shrugs, her fingers tapping idly against her cheek. “I was just thinking. You’ve been around for a long time, right? Do you ever feel… alone?”

It’s a loaded question, and she knows it. You glance away, focusing on a small crack in the ceiling. “Sometimes.”

She’s quiet for a moment before she says, “I do too.”

You look back at her, surprised. “You’re never alone.”

She gives you a small, sad smile. “It’s not the same thing.”

You know what she means. You’ve felt it too, that strange kind of loneliness that lingers even when you’re surrounded by people. The kind that makes you ache for something you can’t name.

“I get it,” you say softly.

She studies you for a long moment before shifting again, stretching her legs out until her feet press against yours. She does it so casually, so effortlessly, like she belongs in your space, like she knows you won’t push her away.

You don’t. You never do.

She lets out a quiet sigh, her eyes fluttering shut. “I like being here with you.”

Your heart clenches painfully. You want to tell her that you love her, that you would spend a thousand lifetimes by her side if she asked, but the words lodge in your throat, suffocating.

Instead, you say, “Me too.”

And for now, that has to be enough.

The idea comes to you late at night, long after Wanda has gone to bed and you’re left alone with your thoughts.

You can’t keep doing this—watching her from the sidelines, letting your feelings fester in silence, pretending that being just her friend is enough when it never has been. She deserves to know. And if you can’t bring yourself to say it out loud, maybe you can write it down instead.

You don’t think. You just move. You grab a piece of paper, sit at your desk, and start writing.

At first, the words come slow, hesitant, as if you’re afraid the ink itself will betray you. But then, the truth spills out in a rush—how much she means to you, how she lights up your world in a way nothing else ever has, how her laugh is your favorite sound, how her touch lingers longer than it should, making your undead heart ache for something you fear you’ll never have.

You write it all. The love you’ve kept buried deep inside, the yearning, the desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, she might feel the same.

When you finish, your hands shake. You stare at the letter, rereading the words until they blur together, and for a second, you consider tearing it up. But no, you can’t keep running from this. If you don’t do something now, you never will.

You fold the letter carefully, clutching it tight as you step into the hallway. The compound is eerily silent at this hour, everyone fast asleep, and the only sound is the faint hum of the ventilation system.

Wanda’s room isn’t far. You know the way by heart.

When you reach her door, your pulse races, an old habit that never quite faded despite what you are. You take a shaky breath and crouch down, carefully sliding the letter underneath her door, pushing it through the small gap at the bottom.

And then—just as the paper disappears into the darkness—you realize.

You didn’t sign it.

Panic grips you. Your name isn’t on the letter, not even initials, nothing to tell her who wrote it. You reach out instinctively, fingertips barely brushing the edge of the paper, but it’s too late. It’s already on the other side.

Shit.

For a long moment, you just kneel there, frozen, staring at the door like it might open and hand you back your mistake. But it doesn’t.

You can’t knock now. You can’t barge in and say, “Hey, by the way, that love letter? It’s from me.” No, that would be humiliating.

Maybe—maybe it’ll be fine. Maybe she’ll just come to you. She’ll read the letter, recognize the way you write, the things only you would say, and she’ll know. She has to know.

Right?

—

The next morning, you barely get any sleep, too busy thinking about what might happen when Wanda reads the letter. But when you finally drag yourself to the common room, stomach twisting with nerves, she’s already there.

And she’s smiling.

Not just any smile, but that soft, private one, the kind you’ve only seen when she talks about something—someone—she loves.

And she’s talking to Vision.

You stop in your tracks, confusion gripping you as you watch them. Wanda is holding a piece of paper—your letter. And Vision is standing in front of her, hands clasped behind his back, looking… pleased.

Oh.

No.

You listen, dread sinking into your bones as she speaks. “I just—I never expected something like this from you,” she says, her voice warm, touched. “It’s beautiful.”

Vision inclines his head, a small, knowing smile on his face. “I only wrote what was in my heart.”

Your stomach drops.

No. No, no, no.

This isn’t happening.

He didn’t—he couldn’t—

But then Wanda is reaching for him, touching his hand, and the way she’s looking at him—it’s the way you’ve always wanted her to look at you.

Your whole world tilts.

It’s a mistake. A terrible, awful mistake. But you can’t speak. You can’t move. All you can do is stand there, frozen, as Wanda tucks your letter to her chest, like it’s something precious, something she’s going to hold onto.

She thinks it’s from him.

And he’s letting her believe it.

You feel sick.

The realization crashes over you like a wave, drowning you, knocking the air from your lungs. Wanda is smiling. Vision is standing there, silent but accepting. Your love letter—the words you bled onto the page, the confessions you were too scared to say out loud—none of it belongs to you anymore.

It belongs to him.

You can’t be here.

You turn on your heel, leaving before either of them can notice you. You don’t know where you’re going, only that you need to get out, to get away from the sight of them together, from the sound of Wanda’s voice filled with warmth that was meant for you.

It was supposed to be you.

—

The days pass in a blur. You avoid Wanda as much as possible, which isn’t easy when you live in the same compound, but you try. It’s not like she notices. She’s too busy with him.

Every time you see them together, it feels like a knife twisting in your chest. You wonder if Vision knows what he’s done to you, if he realizes that by taking credit for your words, he’s stolen more than just a letter—he’s stolen your chance.

Or maybe he does know. Maybe he doesn’t care.

And Wanda—God, Wanda. She’s so happy. She looks at him like he hung the stars, like she finally has something good in her life, and you hate yourself for wanting to take that away from her.

You tell yourself it’s better this way. If she’s happy, if she never has to know the truth, then maybe it’s for the best.

But that doesn’t stop it from hurting.

—

A week later, you find yourself on the rooftop, staring out at the city. It’s late, and you should be inside, but you can’t bring yourself to be around the others, to watch Wanda and Vision fall into something that was never meant to be theirs.

You hear footsteps behind you. Soft, familiar.

You don’t turn around.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Wanda says, stepping beside you.

You force yourself to stay still, to keep your voice even. “Why?”

She leans against the railing, tilting her head as she studies you. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

Your grip tightens on the metal. “No, I haven’t.”

She gives you a look. “Don’t lie to me.”

You sigh, staring out at the city lights. “I just… needed some space.”

“Did I do something wrong?” she asks, voice quiet.

You want to laugh. She has no idea.

“No,” you say, because it’s the truth. She didn’t do anything. You did this to yourself.

Wanda watches you for a long moment before looking down, a small, almost shy smile tugging at her lips. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

You don’t answer, but she continues anyway.

“I think I might be in love with him.”

The words hit you harder than you expect. You knew this was coming, knew it the moment she read your letter and thought it was from him, but hearing it out loud is something else entirely.

It breaks you.

You swallow the pain, bury it deep, and force yourself to nod. “That’s… great.”

She nudges you lightly. “You don’t sound happy.”

You force a smile, even as your heart shatters. “I am. If you’re happy, then I’m happy.”

She beams at you, and it’s cruel, how beautiful she looks when she’s talking about someone else.

You think about telling her the truth. You imagine what would happen if you said, It wasn’t him. It was me. Would she look at you differently? Would she hate you for lying, for waiting too long?

You’ll never know. Because you’ll never say it.

So you let her believe. You let her love someone else with the words you wrote.

And you break, silently, as she thanks you for being a good friend.

You stop going to the common areas.

At first, it’s easy to make excuses. Training sessions you don’t feel like attending, team movie nights that suddenly seem unbearable, morning coffee runs that you conveniently sleep through. The others don’t question it right away—after all, everyone has their off days—but as the week drags on, you hear them talking outside your door.

“She’s barely come out.” That’s Steve, ever the concerned leader.

“Maybe she just needs space.” Sam, rational as always.

Then Wanda’s voice—soft, worried. “I’ll check on her.”

Panic grips you. You don’t want to see her. You don’t want to look into her eyes and pretend you’re fine, pretend it doesn’t kill you every time she touches Vision like he’s something precious, something worthy of her love.

You hear footsteps approaching, and you move fast, slipping into bed and pulling the covers over your head just as there’s a knock on your door.

“Y/N?” Wanda’s voice is hesitant. “Are you okay?”

You don’t answer. You hold your breath, hoping she’ll leave.

Another knock. “I… I miss you.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. The words are worse than silence. She doesn’t even know what she’s doing to you.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, you hear her sigh, and her footsteps retreat.

You exhale shakily, your chest tight with unshed tears.

You can’t do this.

—

The next day, Natasha comes knocking.

You consider ignoring her like you did Wanda, but it’s Natasha. She won’t leave just because you pretend you’re not here.

“Y/N,” she calls, voice firm. “I know you’re in there.”

You say nothing.

She sighs. “Okay. If you want me to kick the door down, just keep ignoring me.”

You groan, rolling onto your back. “You wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t I?”

You hesitate. You wouldn’t put it past her.

With a sigh, you force yourself out of bed and open the door just enough to see her standing there, arms crossed, looking unimpressed.

“You look like hell,” she comments.

“Thanks,” you mutter.

“Can I come in?”

You don’t really want company, but you also don’t want her breaking your door, so you step aside, letting her in.

She surveys the room—dimly lit, curtains drawn, unmade bed, the faint scent of old coffee lingering in the air. You know what she sees.

“You wanna tell me what’s going on?” she asks, turning to you.

You shake your head, avoiding her gaze. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

She snorts. “Yeah, and I’m the queen of England.”

You try to keep your expression neutral, but the weight in your chest is suffocating.

Nat watches you carefully, her voice softening. “Y/N… whatever it is, you don’t have to deal with it alone.”

That’s what breaks you.

The lump in your throat grows unbearable, your vision blurring as your breath shudders. “I—” Your voice cracks, and suddenly, you’re crying, the dam bursting before you can stop it.

Nat’s arms are around you in seconds, strong and steady. You cling to her like she’s the only thing keeping you together, sobbing into her shoulder.

Between ragged breaths, the words spill out—how you love Wanda, how you wrote the letter, how Vision took the credit, how it’s killing you to watch them together.

Nat is quiet as you talk, holding you, letting you cry. When you finally stop, exhausted and drained, she pulls back slightly, her hands firm on your shoulders.

“Well,” she says, “that’s a pile of absolute bullshit.”

You blink up at her, sniffling. “What?”

She raises a brow. “Vision took credit for your letter? And Wanda just believed him?”

You nod miserably.

Nat shakes her head, muttering something in Russian that you’re pretty sure is a curse. “Unbelievable.”

You wipe your eyes, exhausted. “I just… I don’t know what to do.”

Nat squeezes your shoulders. “First, we’re getting you out of this room before you turn into a full-blown vampire stereotype.”

You give her a weak glare. “That’s offensive.”

“Then come prove me wrong.” She smirks. “C’mon, I promise not to throw you into the sun.”

Despite yourself, you let out a watery laugh.

—

True to her word, Nat doesn’t let you isolate yourself again. She drags you to training, to breakfast, to the common room—even to team briefings you could technically skip. And every time Wanda and Vision walk in, Nat finds a way to make a comment.

The first time, it’s subtle.

“Wow, Vision,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “Didn’t know you were such a romantic.”

He tilts his head. “Pardon?”

She gestures vaguely at Wanda. “The love letter. Smooth move.”

Wanda smiles. “I know, right? I was so surprised.”

Nat hums. “Yeah, I bet.” She flicks a glance at you, and you stare at the table, willing the floor to swallow you whole.

The second time, she’s bolder.

It’s during a mission debrief, and Vision is explaining strategy. Nat, sitting beside you, mutters under her breath, “Funny how he’s got such a way with words when he’s taking them from someone else.”

You elbow her. She just smirks.

But the third time—

It happens at lunch, when Wanda and Vision sit across from you and Nat. You barely look up from your food, but Wanda smiles at you. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

You nod mutely.

Vision clears his throat. “Yes, it is good to see you socializing again.”

Nat scoffs. “Oh yeah, wouldn’t want her locking herself away again over some misunderstanding.”

Wanda tilts her head. “What do you mean?”

Nat shrugs, sipping her drink. “Nothing. Just thinking about how some people take credit for things they didn’t actually do.”

Vision stiffens slightly, but says nothing.

You shoot Nat a look. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

She smirks, but follows you out of the room.

“Nat,” you hiss when you’re alone, “what are you doing?”

She crosses her arms. “Getting under his skin.”

“Why?”

“Because he deserves it.”

You run a hand through your hair, frustrated. “This isn’t helping.”

She softens. “Y/N… you can’t just let this go. He lied. And Wanda—she’s smart, but she’s blind to this. Someone needs to open her eyes.”

You swallow hard. “And what if she still chooses him?”

Nat hesitates, then sighs. “Then she’s an idiot.”

Your chest aches.

She places a hand on your shoulder. “But at least you’ll know the truth is out there.”

You nod slowly, but deep down, you’re terrified.

Because the truth won’t just change Wanda’s perception of Vision.

It might change how she sees you.

It happens so suddenly that you don’t even have time to stop it.

One second, everyone is gathered in the common room, chatting after dinner, and the next, the truth spills out in a way no one could have predicted.

Vision is the one who causes it.

He’s recounting something—a tactical observation, some philosophical discussion—and Wanda, sitting beside him, casually nudges his arm. “You always have a way with words,” she teases, smiling. “Like that letter.”

Your stomach tightens.

Natasha, who’s lounging on the couch across from you, raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, that letter,” she says smoothly, sipping her drink. “Still can’t believe you came up with that all on your own.”

Vision pauses, glancing at Wanda, then at Nat. “It was simply a reflection of my sentiments.”

“Oh?” Nat tilts her head. “So if I asked you to write another one, just like it, right now, you could?”

The room stills.

Wanda frowns slightly. “Nat, what are you—?”

“Come on, Vis,” Nat continues, setting her drink down. “You’re a poet, right? Should be easy.”

Vision hesitates.

Too long.

The silence stretches, and the air shifts. The ease in Wanda’s expression fades as she studies him. “Vision?”

He clears his throat. “I—”

And that’s all it takes.

You see the exact moment realization dawns on Wanda’s face. Her brow furrows, her lips part, and she turns—not to Nat, not to Vision, but to you.

Your blood turns cold.

You don’t wait for her to say anything. You can’t.

You’re on your feet before you realize it, moving fast, retreating from the room, from their gazes, from the truth unraveling all around you.

You don’t stop until you’re in your room, the door slamming shut behind you.

Your heart pounds, your breath comes fast, and the weight of what just happened crashes over you like a tidal wave.

It’s over.

Wanda knows.

She knows it wasn’t Vision.

She knows it was you.

And she must be furious.

You pace, running your hands through your hair, panic clawing at your insides. You were never supposed to tell her. She was never supposed to find out.

What if she hates you?

What if she thinks you tricked her?

What if this ruins everything?

You squeeze your eyes shut, willing the thoughts away, but they won’t stop.

Then—

A knock.

You freeze.

You don’t answer. Maybe if you stay quiet, she’ll leave—

“Y/N.” Wanda’s voice is soft, just outside your door.

You swallow hard. Say nothing.

Another knock. “Please.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. You don’t want to do this. You don’t want to see the anger in her eyes, the disappointment, the pity.

“Okay,” she says after a long pause. “Then I’ll talk, and you can listen.”

You don’t stop her.

She takes a deep breath. “I should have known.” A humorless chuckle. “No—I did know. I think, deep down, some part of me always suspected.”

You frown slightly, your hands clenching at your sides.

“I wanted it to be real,” she continues, voice quiet. “I wanted to believe it was from him because… because I thought maybe if I gave him a chance, I could feel something. Maybe I’d finally get the normal love everyone always talks about.”

Your breath catches.

“But the truth is… I never really loved him.” A pause. “I cared about him. But it was never… it was never what I wanted it to be.”

You can’t move.

“Do you know who I do feel something for?”

Silence.

Your hands shake.

“I think you do,” Wanda whispers.

You inhale sharply.

She’s waiting for you.

And suddenly, you realize—she’s not angry. She’s not here to scream at you, to tell you that you ruined everything.

She’s here because she wants to be.

Slowly, with a deep breath, you step forward and open the door.

Wanda stands there, looking up at you with wide, uncertain eyes.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she admits. “I’ve never felt this way before. And I was scared. I am scared.”

You swallow, voice hoarse. “Scared of what?”

She smiles faintly. “Of what you make me feel.”

Your breath stutters.

She reaches out, hesitant, fingers brushing yours. “But… if you’re willing to be patient with me… maybe we can figure it out together.”

Your eyes search hers, and for the first time in weeks, you see the truth.

She wants this.

She wants you.

Your hand tightens around hers, and for the first time in what feels like forever—

You breathe.

The first time you wake up with Wanda curled against you, you almost forget to breathe.

Not that you need to—but still.

It’s been a few weeks since that night outside your door, since she held your hand and told you she wanted to figure this out. Since you both agreed to take things slow.

And you have.

There are no labels, no grand declarations—just stolen moments, quiet touches, and a slow unraveling of something you’ve both been afraid to name.

You don’t kiss yet. You don’t rush anything.

And yet, waking up like this, with her warmth pressed against you, her steady heartbeat thrumming so close, you feel like you might fall apart.

She stirs slightly, shifting closer, her hand resting lightly over your stomach.

You exhale shakily, staring up at the ceiling.

You don’t know how long you can do this without breaking.

Wanda makes a soft noise, then buries her face against your shoulder. “You’re thinking too loud.”

You tense. “Sorry.”

She hums, voice thick with sleep. “What’s wrong?”

You hesitate. You don’t want to ruin this moment.

But Wanda has a way of pulling the truth from you.

“…Nothing.”

She tilts her head, her cheek pressing into your arm. “Liar.”

You let out a breathy laugh, but it’s hollow.

Wanda shifts, propping herself up on one elbow to look at you properly. Her hair is tousled, her eyes soft with sleep, and for a second, you let yourself pretend that this is normal. That this is something you can have.

Her fingers skim over your wrist, tracing absent patterns. “Tell me.”

You hesitate, staring at the ceiling.

Then, finally— “I can’t give you everything.”

She stills.

You swallow hard, forcing the words out. “I can’t—I can’t take you out to dinner in the sunlight. I can’t—I can’t grow old with you. I can’t give you—” Your voice catches. “I can’t give you a normal life, Wanda.”

The silence stretches between you, thick and heavy.

Then, after a long pause, Wanda shifts, leaning over you slightly. “Do you want to know a secret?”

You blink up at her. “What?”

Her lips quirk up slightly. “I’ve never had a normal life.”

You huff out a laugh, but it’s strained. “That’s not the point—”

“Yes, it is,” she interrupts gently. “I don’t want normal, Y/N.” She pauses, then continues, softer, “I just want you.”

Your breath catches.

She watches you carefully, her fingers brushing lightly over your cheek. “I don’t care if we have to go on late-night dates or if you can’t drink wine with me at dinner or if you never age another day. None of that changes how I feel.”

You want to believe her. God, you want to.

But—

“What if you change your mind?” The words come out small. “What if one day, you wake up and realize you want something more? Something I can’t give you?”

Wanda frowns slightly, searching your eyes. Then, slowly, she leans in, resting her forehead against yours.

“If that happens,” she murmurs, “then we talk about it.”

You inhale sharply.

She pulls back slightly, studying you. “I can’t promise you forever. I don’t think anyone can.” She pauses. “But I can promise that right now, there’s no one else I’d rather be with.”

Something tightens in your chest.

You swallow hard, your hands curling into the sheets. “…Okay.”

Her smile is small, but real. “Okay.”

And just like that, you let yourself breathe again.

—

It takes time.

Wanda is patient.

You are cautious.

You learn each other in small ways—fingers brushing when you sit together, sleepy conversations at 3 AM, the way her powers spark softly when she gets flustered.

She learns that you don’t like mirrors, that your hands are always cold, that your favorite way to fall asleep is listening to the sound of her heart.

You learn that she dreams in color, that she talks to plants when she thinks no one’s listening, that her magic feels like warm honey when she lets it touch your skin.

One night, she holds your hand under the stars and asks, “Can I kiss you?”

You freeze.

Your throat feels tight. “Are you sure?”

She squeezes your hand. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

So you let her.

And it’s slow, and warm, and careful.

And for the first time in forever, you don’t feel like a monster.

You just feel hers.