#wanda x reader

[ilovemarvel97]

Eternity

Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Summary: Wanda had died and woke up in a place called junction. There she needs to choose where and who she will spend her eternity with. The decision was supposed to be simple. But what happens when the past she thought she forgot had waited for her for seventy-two years?

Word Count: 16k+

Warnings: Angst

A/N: I had this idea since I saw the trailer of Lizzie’s new upcoming movie “Eternity.” I cried while I made this one 🥹

Main Masterlist

---

The train slowed with a soft lurch, the rhythmic clatter of wheels against the track fading into stillness. Wanda’s eyes fluttered open. She wasn’t sure when she had drifted off, but the strange calm that settled over her chest told her this was not just any journey. Outside the wide windows, a pale golden light bathed the platform—warm, inviting, endless.

She rose slowly, her hands brushing the seat as if she expected it to fade beneath her touch. The moment her feet touched the ground, a man in a tailored suit approached. His face was kind, his posture composed, and his voice carried the soothing clarity of someone used to explaining difficult things.

“Wanda Maximoff?” he asked, inclining his head. “I’ll be your coordinator. My role is to help you… transition. You’ve had a long, beautiful life. Ninety-four years.”

The words settled over her, not harsh, not shocking—just true. Wanda nodded slowly, piecing together the last moments she remembered: her family surrounding her, the weight of time pressing on her lungs, the quiet goodbye.

The man smiled softly. “This place is the junction. Everyone passes through here before moving forward.”

Wanda swallowed, her voice breaking on the very first thing that rose in her heart. “My wife… Y/N. She passed before me. A year ago. Please, tell me—”

“Wanda.”

Her name. Spoken with a warmth that froze her where she stood.

The coordinator’s explanation dissolved as Wanda turned, her breath catching in her throat.

There she was.

Y/N stood just a few steps away, looking as though the years had been peeled back—her hair gleaming, her smile radiant, her body young and whole again. Twenty-seven, the same age she had been when Wanda first fell in love with her.

“Y/N…” Wanda whispered, her hands trembling.

The smile on Y/N’s face softened into something that was all love, all patience, all home. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Wanda’s body moved before thought could catch up. She ran, her feet hardly touching the ground, and when Y/N opened her arms, Wanda launched herself forward, burying herself against the chest she had missed every single day for the past year.

The world fell away. All Wanda knew was the warmth of those arms, the press of Y/N’s lips against her hair, the tears neither of them tried to hide.

Seventy years together on Earth. A year apart in death. And now, at last, eternity in each other’s arms.

“I was so scared I’d have to wait forever,” Wanda sobbed, clinging tighter.

Y/N kissed her temple, laughing softly through her tears. “Forever doesn’t exist without you. I promised you—we’d always find each other.”

Wanda pulled back just enough to see her, her palms still framing Y/N’s face. Her lips trembled, her breath shallow.

“Where… where are we? Is this heaven?”

Before Y/N could speak, the coordinator stepped closer, his voice gentle but steady, like a practiced guide. “Not heaven, not exactly. This is the Junction. It’s the central crossing of the afterlife—a place every soul passes through.”

Wanda’s brows furrowed as she looked around, taking in the golden light, the endless horizon beyond the platform, the faint hum of something vast and alive.

“The Junction is where you decide,” the coordinator explained. “Each soul must choose where they want to spend eternity, and with whom. Sometimes, that choice is simple. Other times… not so much.” His eyes softened as they flicked between Wanda and Y/N, still clinging to one another. “For the two of you, I think the choice has already been made.”

Wanda’s throat tightened, her grip on Y/N’s hands instinctive. “So… we stay together?”

Y/N squeezed her fingers reassuringly, her smile the same one that had carried Wanda through seventy years of life. “If that’s what you want. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. I was just waiting for you.”

Wanda let out a trembling laugh, half a sob, half a sigh. “You waited a whole year.”

“A blink,” Y/N whispered, brushing her thumb across Wanda’s knuckles. “After seventy years at your side, I’d wait a thousand more if it meant this moment.”

The coordinator smiled faintly, watching them but not intruding. “That’s the beauty of the Junction. Time no longer binds you. Choices do.”

Wanda turned to him, her eyes still wet, her voice steadier now. “Then my choice is her. Always her.”

The golden light surrounding the platform shimmered, as though acknowledging the truth of her words. Y/N pulled Wanda closer, resting her forehead against hers.

“Together, then,” Y/N murmured.

“Together,” Wanda echoed, her lips brushing Y/N’s as she spoke.

The coordinator inclined his head. “Very well—”

Before he could continue, a ripple of golden light shimmered near the edge of the platform. Another figure appeared—a second coordinator, taller, more commanding, yet with an unmistakable warmth in his eyes.

“Wanda Maximoff,” he said, his voice both gentle and urgent. “I’ve been waiting… seventy-two years, exactly, for you.”

Wanda froze, her heart skipping a beat. “Waiting… for me?”

“Yes,” he replied, stepping closer. “The Junction is not just a single path. There are more options than most souls realize. Choices you may not have considered, even with eternity at your fingertips. You must breathe. Think deeply. Consider carefully before stepping forward.”

The first coordinator glanced at Wanda, hesitating, but remained silent.

The new coordinator extended a hand, pointing toward a figure standing a few paces away. Wanda’s breath caught in her chest.

Vision.

He looked exactly as she remembered him at twenty-two, bright-eyed, gentle, smiling with that same quiet intensity that had once made her heart flutter in high school. The memory of their love, so brief yet so profound, surged through her. Her first love, her first heartbreak.

Before Wanda could gather her thoughts, Vision took a step forward, then another—until he was standing right before her. Without a word, he opened his arms.

“Wanda,” he said softly, his voice a balm to her aching heart.

Wanda’s chest tightened. She looked down at Y/N’s hand still holding hers, the warmth and love she had just felt, and felt the impossible tug of two lifetimes of love. Tears pricked her eyes as she released Y/N’s hand, stepping forward into Vision’s embrace.

She buried her face against his shoulder, letting herself feel the familiar comfort, the memory of the love they had shared, the sweetness of a life cut far too short. “I… I can’t believe it,” she whispered, clutching him tightly.

Vision held her just as fiercely, resting his chin gently atop her head. “I never left, Wanda. Not truly. I’ve been waiting for you here.”

Then, a soft voice cut through the haze of memory and longing.

“Wanda…?”

She froze. The warmth in Vision’s arms suddenly felt heavy, uncertain. Wanda pulled back just enough to look over her shoulder. Y/N stood there, eyes wide and full of concern, her hand reaching out as if to anchor Wanda back to reality.

“Y/N…” Wanda’s voice wavered, torn between the past and the present, the lifetime she had shared and the first love she had lost. Her chest tightened painfully. She stepped away from Vision, guilt and longing colliding in her heart.

The Junction shimmered around them, silent but alive, waiting.

Y/N’s voice was soft, trembling, but firm, “Wanda… what’s happening? Are you okay?”

Wanda’s tears spilled freely now. She wanted to answer, to explain, to reconcile the impossible tangle of her heart. But words failed her. All she could do was look at the two people she had loved so fiercely, and feel the weight of the choice that now lay before her.

Wanda’s chest heaved as she stood frozen between the two people she loved during her life. Vision’s gentle presence was like a balm to her soul, yet the warmth and familiarity of Y/N’s hand, the lifetime of shared memories, called to her in a way nothing else could.

Sensing Wanda’s turmoil, Y/N stepped forward, her voice calm but firm. “Vision… please, step back.”

Vision’s brow furrowed, but he nodded, releasing Wanda gently. “I… understand,” he said softly, his eyes lingering on her with quiet longing before stepping aside.

Y/N turned her attention fully to Wanda. “You just arrived,” she said, her tone soft but steady. “Everything is… overwhelming. That’s okay. You don’t have to make sense of it yet. You’re still confused, and you have every right to be.”

Wanda’s lips trembled. “I… I don’t know what to do.”

Y/N smiled gently, extending her hand. “It’s ok. Let’s go rest first. I’ve prepared a place for us here—our room. Somewhere you can rest, breathe, and begin to sort through all of this. No choices need to be made yet.”

Wanda took Y/N’s hand, allowing herself to be guided by the hand that had been her anchor for seventy years. The touch was grounding, familiar, and safe.

Y/N led her down a softly glowing corridor, the Junction fading behind them into golden light. They arrived at a room suffused with warm sunlight, furnished in a way that felt like home—but better, more peaceful, timeless. A window overlooked a garden that seemed to stretch infinitely, flowers blooming in impossible colors, the air rich with the scent of lavender and rain.

“Sit,” Y/N said softly, gesturing to a plush chair by the window. Wanda did as she was told, her body heavy with exhaustion, her mind still racing.

Y/N knelt in front of her, taking both of Wanda’s hands in hers. “Breathe,” she murmured. “You don’t have to choose right now. Not yet. Just be here. With me.”

Wanda exhaled slowly, letting the tension drain from her shoulders, the warmth of Y/N’s hands grounding her. For the first time since arriving at the Junction, she felt something like peace.

“I… I don’t even know where to start,” Wanda whispered.

“Start anywhere,” Y/N replied, smiling. “I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever.”

The room was quiet but full of possibility, and for the first time since crossing into the Junction, Wanda allowed herself to simply be—held, safe, and utterly loved.

After a while, Wanda leaned back in the chair, her hands still entwined with Y/N’s. The soft sunlight spilling through the window, the scent of the garden drifting in, and the quiet presence of Y/N gradually calmed the storm in her chest.

Y/N tilted her head, her fingers brushing lightly over Wanda’s knuckles. “How are you feeling now?” she asked softly, her voice warm and patient.

Wanda took a slow, deep breath, letting it fill her lungs before releasing it. She blinked, trying to gather her scattered thoughts. “A little… better,” she admitted, her voice still trembling. “It’s just… all of this. I didn’t expect… I didn’t expect to feel like this. Seeing you both…”

Y/N gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “I know,” she said. “It’s overwhelming. You’ve only just arrived. There’s no rush, my love. You don’t have to figure everything out at once. Not who, not where, not anything. Just… start by being here. With me.”

Wanda’s lips quivered, and she nodded, a small, tentative smile breaking through. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I… I don’t think I could face any of this without you.”

Y/N smiled softly, brushing a strand of hair from Wanda’s face. “Then don’t,” she said simply. “I’m here. That’s enough for now.”

And for the first time since stepping into the Junction, Wanda felt a fragile sense of calm, a thread of certainty woven through the confusion—because Y/N was here, guiding her, waiting with patience and love.

---

Later, the quiet of the room wrapped around them like a blanket. The golden light shifted into something softer, like twilight. Wanda and Y/N lay together on the bed, the sheets cool and smooth, the air gentle and still.

Wanda rested her head on Y/N’s chest, listening to the steady, reassuring rhythm that had once lulled her to sleep countless nights before. Her fingers traced idle patterns against Y/N’s side, as if reminding herself that this was real, that Y/N was truly here.

“They missed you, you know,” Wanda murmured, her voice quiet but filled with emotion.

Y/N’s hand stilled where it had been running through Wanda’s hair. “Our kids?”

Wanda nodded against her. “Yes. The boys, Tommy and Billy, and Lyla… they missed you so much after you were gone. Every day…I missed you so much.” Her voice cracked softly, but she pressed on. “They were all there when I… when I went, too. Right at my side. Holding my hand. Just like you would’ve been if you could.”

Tears stung Y/N’s eyes as she pressed a kiss into Wanda’s hair, her arms tightening around her. “I’m glad,” she whispered. “I hated leaving them… leaving you. But knowing they were with you, that you weren’t alone…” Her voice broke, and she swallowed hard. “That’s all I could’ve hoped for.”

Wanda lifted her head just enough to meet Y/N’s eyes, her own shimmering with tears.

“We had a beautiful life, right, my love?” she whispered, her voice trembling with both longing and gratitude.

Y/N’s gaze softened, and she lifted a hand to caress Wanda’s cheek with the gentlest touch. Her thumb brushed away a tear as she smiled, her own eyes glistening.

“The most beautiful life,” Y/N said quietly. “Better than anything I could have dreamed. You… our kids… every laugh, every fight, every kiss, every morning I woke up with you beside me—it was all beautiful. Because it was ours.”

Wanda’s lips quivered, a tear slipping down her face as she leaned into Y/N’s hand. “Even the hard years?”

“Especially the hard years,” Y/N murmured. “Because we faced them together. You were my home, Wanda. Every moment of my life that mattered was with you.”

Wanda’s breath hitched as she leaned up, pressing her lips to Y/N’s. The kiss was unhurried, lingering, filled with the weight of all their years and the relief of finding each other again. Neither of them pulled away for a long while—they simply stayed there, holding, kissing, and letting eternity begin with them.

---

The next day, Y/N laced her fingers through Wanda’s as they walked together, guided by a coordinator down a path of shimmering light. “I want to show you one of the places we could spend forever,” Y/N said with a little smile, her eyes glowing with excitement.

Wanda tilted her head, curious. “You’ve already been looking?”

“I thought I’d have to wait longer for you,” Y/N admitted softly, squeezing her hand. “But I wanted to be ready. To have something to show you.”

The light around them shifted, and then suddenly they were there—standing on soft, golden sand that stretched endlessly in both directions. The waves rolled in, gentle and warm, sparkling as though kissed by starlight. The air carried the salt of the sea, mingled with the faint sweetness of blooming flowers nearby.

Wanda inhaled deeply, her lips parting in awe. “It’s… perfect.”

They laid out together on the sand, basking in the sun that warmed them without ever burning. Wanda closed her eyes, her head resting back against Y/N’s shoulder as they soaked in the peace of it all. “I could stay here forever,” she whispered, the breeze catching in her hair.

But then—

“Wanda.”

The voice was soft, familiar, and it made Wanda sit up, her heart skipping.

Vision was standing just a few paces away on the sand, the sun painting his figure in light. He looked as young and gentle as ever, his eyes locked only on her.

Y/N’s body tensed beside her, though she kept still, watching Wanda carefully.

Wanda’s breath caught in her throat. “Vision…” she whispered, the paradise around them suddenly feeling complicated, fragile.

Her chest tightened as she looked at Y/N. She gently leave a kiss on Y/N’s cheek as she slowly pushed herself up from the sand. Y/N’s hand slid from hers, reluctant but gentle, letting her go. Wanda smoothed her dress down unconsciously, her heart pounding as she took careful steps toward the man standing just beyond the tide.

“Vision…” she whispered again, the name strange and familiar all at once on her lips.

He smiled, that same boyish smile she had fallen for so many years ago. “You look just as I remember you,” he said softly. “No—brighter. Time has been kind to you, Wanda. How old were you in this appearance?”

Her throat tightened, “I was twenty-seven…” She continues, emotion welling up. “It’s been… seventy-two years,” she said, shaking her head slightly in disbelief. “I never thought I’d see you again.”

“I’ve been waiting,” Vision replied, his eyes steady, almost pleading. “The moment I left, I knew I would wait until the day you came here. I had so much I wanted to give you. So much time I thought we’d have… taken from us.”

Wanda’s eyes shimmered with tears. She remembered the young woman she had been at twenty-one, so full of love and hope, standing beside him in a white dress, certain their forever had just begun. And then—just like that—it was gone.

“You were my first everything,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “My first love. My first heartbreak.”

Vision reached out a hand, stopping just short of touching her. “But that doesn’t mean it has to end here. Eternity is a chance to finish what was taken from us. To finally live the life we were meant to live.”

Wanda’s breath caught, her heart twisting. Behind her, she could feel Y/N’s eyes on her—not pulling, not demanding, just waiting, patient and steady, like always.

Caught between the love that had begun her story and the love that had carried her through it, Wanda stood in the golden sand, unsure which way her heart would lead.

Wanda’s lips parted, her chest rising and falling as she searched for the right words. Finally, she drew in a breath, her voice quiet but steady.

“Vision… after you died… I remarried.” Her throat tightened as she glanced over her shoulder at Y/N, sitting on the sand watching with patient eyes. “I built a life with her. A family. We had children, grandchildren… seventy years together.” Her voice broke slightly. “She was my home.”

Vision nodded slowly, his expression softening rather than hardening. “I know,” he said gently. “I saw. I was glad you found happiness, Wanda. Glad you weren’t left to face the world alone after I was gone.”

Wanda blinked at him, surprised. “You… you were glad?”

“Yes,” Vision said firmly, stepping just a little closer, though still careful not to intrude. “Because I loved you. And when you love someone, you want them to have joy, even if it’s not with you.” He paused, his eyes glimmering with longing. “But eternity is different. Here, time doesn’t steal from us. Here, we can… have something again. Even just a little. I’m not asking you to undo your life with her. I just…” His voice softened, vulnerable. “I want some time with you. To finish what we never had the chance to.”

Wanda’s breath caught, tears threatening to spill. She turned her head slightly, her gaze flicking back to Y/N—the woman who had been her partner, her anchor, the mother of her children, her forever. Y/N didn’t move toward her, didn’t interrupt. She only watched, her face full of quiet strength, waiting for Wanda to choose.

Wanda stood trembling, caught between the ache of unfinished love and the weight of a lifetime fully lived.

---

Later that day, back at the place Y/N had prepared for them, the golden glow of the Junction softened into a dusky twilight. The room was quiet, filled only with the distant hum of the infinite garden outside.

Wanda sat perched on Y/N’s lap, her legs straddling her waist, arms wrapped tight around her neck. Her cheek rested against Y/N’s shoulder, her breathing uneven. She wanted to speak, but every time her lips parted, no words came out. Instead, she held on tighter, as if clinging to Y/N might delay the inevitable conversation.

Y/N’s hands rubbed soothing circles against her back, patient and unhurried. She had felt this before—this silence, this weight in Wanda’s embrace. It always came when Wanda’s heart was tangled in something she couldn’t quite put into words.

Finally, Y/N tilted her head, pressing a gentle kiss to Wanda’s temple. Her voice was soft, steady, carrying no judgment.

“It’s okay if you want to spend some time with Vision.”

Wanda stiffened, pulling back just enough to look at her, eyes wide and shimmering. “You… you knew?”

Y/N gave her a small, sad smile, brushing a thumb across her cheek. “You always hold me like this when there’s something heavy on your heart. I knew the moment you curled up on me.”

Wanda’s throat tightened, and her hands cradled Y/N’s face, desperate, guilty, loving all at once. “I don’t… I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” Y/N assured gently, leaning into her touch. “I know what he meant to you, Wanda. He was your first love, the one you lost before you were ready. That kind of wound doesn’t just disappear, even after a lifetime with me. If spending some time with him helps you find peace… I can live with that. We have eternity now. I’m not afraid of losing you.”

Wanda’s tears spilled over, her chest heaving with emotion. “But what if you do? What if—what if I choose wrong?”

Y/N shook her head slowly, her hands sliding down to squeeze Wanda’s waist, grounding her. “There isn’t a wrong choice. There’s only your heart. And I trust yours, Wanda. I always have.”

For a long moment, Wanda stared at her—at the woman who had been her anchor through every storm, her partner in every joy and every hardship. And then she crumbled, pressing her forehead to Y/N’s, her tears dampening both their cheeks.

“I love you,” she whispered fiercely, like a vow. “No matter what happens, no matter what I feel when I look at him, I love you. You’re my home.”

Y/N closed her eyes, letting the words sink deep, her arms tightening around her. “And I love you. Enough to let you do what you need. Even if it means sharing a little of eternity.”

Wanda kissed her then, desperate and trembling, her lips tasting of tears and devotion. Y/N kissed her back, steady and patient, as though she could hold every broken, conflicted piece of her together with nothing but love.

When the kiss broke, Wanda whispered against her lips, “Promise me… you’ll never let go.”

Y/N smiled faintly, brushing her thumb across Wanda’s jaw. “Never. Not in life. Not in death. Not in eternity.”

---

In the days that followed, Wanda found herself walking beside Vision more often. He would appear at the Junction or at the different places the coordinators showed them, always with that gentle smile, always eager to share a memory.

At first, it was small things — the way he used to sneak her notes between classes, the songs they danced to at prom, the day he asked her to marry him under the blooming cherry trees by the old library. Wanda laughed through tears at the recollections, letting herself be seventeen again, twenty-one again, alive in the warmth of that first, fleeting love.

Sometimes, Vision would take her hand and guide her through recreated versions of those days — a school gym glowing with fairy lights, a quiet kitchen with a half-burnt cake they tried to make together. And Wanda, though she knew this eternity wasn’t real in the same sense, still let herself smile, still let herself feel the way she had once felt.

But each night, when she returned to her room, to Y/N who was always there waiting. Y/N never questioned, never reproached — she only welcomed Wanda back with open arms, brushed her hair gently, and listened as Wanda whispered, “We used to do this… he remembered that…”

And though Y/N smiled and kissed her temple, Wanda could hear the quiet ache beneath her silence.

---

The river sparkled under a soft golden light, its surface rippling gently as if carrying whispers of the past. Wanda sat on a checkered blanket beside Vision, the basket between them filled with the same foods they once shared in their youth — strawberries, homemade bread, a bottle of cheap wine that somehow tasted richer here.

“It feels exactly the same,” Wanda murmured, running her fingers over the rim of the glass. “Like no time has passed at all.”

Vision leaned back on his elbows, smiling at her the way he had when they were just kids daring to dream of forever. “That’s the beauty of this place. Here, we are not bound by years or endings. We can hold on to what we lost.”

Wanda’s lips curved into a soft smile, though her chest ached. “I lost you too soon.”

“And I lost you,” Vision said quietly, his eyes fixed on hers. “I waited, Wanda. For so long, I waited.” He reached over, brushing his thumb across the back of her hand. “I don’t want to steal you away from the life you had after me. But I would give anything for a little more time with you now.”

Her heart twisted. His touch was familiar, comforting, like a chapter she had thought was closed but had been reopened with startling clarity. She let herself lean into it, for just a moment, listening to the river flow, imagining what might have been if fate had been kinder.

Vision’s eyes softened as he gazed at her, the sound of the river filling the silence between them. Then, almost hesitantly, he asked,

“Do you remember… that night after the spring dance? When it rained so hard the power went out in the whole town?”

Wanda’s breath caught. She did remember.

“You were wearing that green dress,” Vision continued, his voice low, almost reverent. “We ended up at your parents’ porch, soaked to the bone. You made me sit on the step, and you said—” He chuckled faintly, shaking his head. “You said if I ever wanted to kiss you, I’d better do it before we both caught pneumonia.”

Wanda laughed softly, the memory washing over her like a wave. “I can’t believe you remember that.”

“How could I forget?” His eyes searched hers. “It was my first kiss. My first everything.”

Her chest tightened, a bittersweet warmth blooming inside her. She could almost feel the rain again, the thrill of being young and invincible, of believing love alone could protect them from the world.

Her lips parted slightly as the memory tangled itself around her heart. She was twenty-one again, standing on that porch, rain dripping from her hair, the world small and simple.

“Wanda…” Vision whispered, his hand cupping her cheek just as he had all those decades ago. Before she could breathe, before she could think, his lips pressed against hers.

It was tender, familiar—like stepping into a dream she’d once left behind. For a heartbeat she let herself sink into it, tasting the ghost of their youth.

For a moment, Wanda didn’t move. The kiss lingered—gentle, achingly familiar, pulling her back into the innocence of being twenty-one, when she believed love could only ever be pure and eternal.

Her eyes fluttered closed, her hand rising almost unconsciously to rest against Vision’s chest. The world around them blurred, and for that fleeting instant, she let herself be carried away by what they once were.

But then, like sunlight cutting through fog, she felt it—Y/N’s laughter in her mind, the echo of shared mornings and whispered promises, the weight of seventy years side by side. The home they built. The children they raised. The woman she had chosen again and again.

Her lips trembled as she pulled back, not abruptly, but with the softness of someone returning from a dream.

“Vision…” she whispered, her voice thick, conflicted. Her hand lingered against him for a heartbeat longer before she let it fall to her lap.

Vision searched her face, his thumb brushing along her cheekbone as if trying to hold on to her warmth.

“You still feel it, don’t you?” he asked softly, hope flickering in his eyes. “What we had—it’s still here. I know it.”

Wanda’s breath caught. She wanted to deny it, to insist it was only memory, only nostalgia—but the truth was harder. She had felt something. The echo of their love, brief but once so strong.

Her silence stretched between them, and Vision leaned closer, his forehead nearly touching hers.

“Wanda… we were robbed of time. Just one year of marriage. Do you know how often I thought about what could have been, if I hadn’t stepped off that curb?” His voice wavered, raw. “I’ve waited seventy-two years for you. Please… don’t turn away from us yet.”

Her heart pounded. The ache of his words pressed against the life she had lived with Y/N, a life Vision hadn’t shared but was no less real.

Wanda’s chest heaved, her hands gripping the blanket beneath her as she stared out at the river, trying to steady the storm inside her.

“I…” she began, then faltered, words failing her. She could feel Vision’s gaze on her, patient but insistent, waiting for a reply that wasn’t coming.

Her mind raced—memories of their youth, the stolen moments of first love, the laughter and kisses that had defined a lifetime, all clashing with the warmth and constancy of Y/N, the life she had built after his death.

“I can’t…” she whispered finally, her voice almost lost in the breeze. “I… I need… time.”

Vision nodded slowly, as if he had expected no less. “I can wait,” he said softly, his hand retreating but leaving the warmth of his presence lingering near her. “Take all the time you need, Wanda. I’ll be here. I’ve waited this long.”

Wanda closed her eyes, leaning back against the blanket, letting the sun warm her face. She didn’t know what the next step would be, or how her heart could hold two loves at once—but for the first time, she allowed herself to simply feel. Conflicted. Alive. And free to decide, in her own time.

---

Over the next few days, Wanda found herself torn between two worlds.

With Vision, she wandered through recreated memories—quiet afternoons in sunlit kitchens, rain-soaked walks through the town they had once known, laughter echoing across the riverbanks. Every moment felt achingly familiar, and every touch reminded her of the girl she had once been: fearless, young, and in love for the first time.

Yet, each evening, she returned to Y/N. Y/N was always there, waiting in their room in the Junction, patient and steady. She didn’t question Wanda, didn’t demand answers—she only offered warmth, quiet understanding, and the constancy of seventy years of love.

“Did you enjoy your day?” Y/N would ask softly, brushing a hand through Wanda’s hair as they lay together.

Wanda’s heart tightened. “I… I did,” she admitted. “It’s just… seeing him again. Remembering. It’s overwhelming.”

Y/N smiled gently. “I know. Memories can be like that. But you always come back. That says more than anything.”

And Wanda did come back. Each time. Because Y/N wasn’t just a memory; she was home, the anchor of every choice Wanda had ever made after Vision’s death. Yet, the spark with Vision refused to fade entirely—reminding Wanda of the girl she had once been, of first love, of what might have been.

Caught between the past and the life she had chosen, Wanda began to understand that eternity wasn’t about choosing one love over another—it was about embracing the fullness of her heart. Still, the decision weighed on her, as the Junction held infinite possibilities, and her heart stretched across decades of memories, loyalty, and longing.

---

Today, Wanda was with Y/N. The morning sunlight spilled through the Junction’s ever-shifting skies, painting everything in soft gold. Y/N had taken her hand, guiding her along a winding path that seemed to shimmer with possibility.

“I want to show you something,” Y/N said, her eyes sparkling with quiet excitement. “I think you’ll love it.”

Wanda followed, her heart lighter than it had been in days. There was a calmness in Y/N’s presence that no memory, no nostalgia, could match. Each step felt natural, like returning to a home she had never truly left.

The path opened onto a wide, flowering meadow. Wildflowers in impossible colors swayed gently in the breeze, and a small stream curved through the center, its water sparkling like liquid crystal. The air smelled of sun-warmed earth, honey, and something uniquely them.

Wanda gasped softly. “It’s… beautiful.”

Y/N smiled, tugging her closer. “I thought you’d like it. I wanted you to see a place that’s ours, a space where we can just… be. No memories pulling at us, no choices pressing down. Just us.”

They wandered through the meadow hand in hand, the sun casting long, golden shadows behind them. Y/N leaned into Wanda, resting her head on her shoulder. “I wanted you to feel that even here, eternity can be gentle. That there’s peace waiting for you in the present, not just in memory.”

Wanda closed her eyes, inhaling the scents and the warmth of Y/N’s presence. For the first time since arriving at the Junction, the tug between past and present softened. She realized she didn’t have to choose yet—not today. Not while she was here, in this moment, with Y/N guiding her.

When Wanda opened her eyes again, she saw Y/N’s bright, mischievous smile. Before she could react, Y/N scooped her up into her arms, spinning her around effortlessly.

“Hey! Y/N! Put me down!” Wanda laughed, the sound spilling freely over the meadow, mixing with the hum of the wind and the chirping of birds.

“Never!” Y/N teased, twirling her again until both of them were dizzy with laughter.

They finally toppled onto the soft grass, but when they landed, Y/N was the one beneath, breathless and grinning as Wanda lay sprawled over her. Both of them burst into laughter, Wanda pressing her forehead against Y/N’s chest as she tried to catch her breath.

“You’re impossible,” Wanda giggled, lifting her head to look at her.

“And you’re perfect,” Y/N murmured, brushing a strand of hair from Wanda’s face.

Her cheeks warmed, and Wanda shook her head with a smile. “Say things like that again, and I’ll have no choice but to kiss you.”

Y/N smirked, eyes flicking down to Wanda’s lips. “Then I’ll keep saying them.”

Before Wanda could reply, Y/N lifted her head just enough to close the distance, their lips meeting in a warm, lingering kiss. Wanda’s hands pressed against the grass on either side of Y/N’s shoulders, steadying herself as she leaned in, deepening the kiss.

They broke apart only when breath became necessary, foreheads touching, both giggling softly.

“I missed this,” Y/N whispered, her hands resting gently at Wanda’s waist. “I missed you.”

“And I missed you,” Wanda admitted, her fingers brushing along Y/N’s jawline. “I forgot how much fun we could have. Even here, in… this place.”

Y/N smiled up at her, voice tender. “Then let’s never forget again.”

Wanda lowered herself back into Y/N’s arms, kissing her once more, laughter and warmth surrounding them as they lay tangled together in the meadow—two souls rediscovering each other, for however long eternity allowed.

The laughter between Wanda and Y/N hung in the air, mingling with the scent of wildflowers, when a sudden presence made Wanda tense.

“Wanda.”

Vision stood at the edge of the meadow, his expression calm but insistent. “I came to spend time with you.”

Y/N’s eyes narrowed slightly, her jaw tightening, but she kept her voice measured. “You had your time yesterday,” she said, her tone cool but firm. “And I didn’t say anything. So why must you interrupt us now?”

Vision’s eyes flashed, a mix of frustration and longing. “You had a whole lifetime with her!” he spat, his voice trembling with the weight of decades lost. “I’ve been waiting seventy-two years for even this small moment!”

Wanda froze, sensing the tension coil between them. She looked at Y/N, her gaze softening but serious. Y/N recognized the look immediately—the one Wanda always gave when she didn’t want Y/N to argue or when she needed her to be the mature, more patient one.

Y/N exhaled slowly, her chest rising as she pressed a gentle kiss to Wanda’s cheek. “Go back to your time with him,” she murmured softly. “I’ll go back to our room.”

Wanda’s lips parted, calling after her. “Y/N—”

“It’s okay,” Y/N said firmly, though her eyes lingered on Wanda a moment longer. Then, with a final, small smile, she rose and walked away through the meadow, leaving Wanda standing amidst the flowers, torn between past and present.

Wanda watched her go, the echo of Y/N’s presence lingering in the golden light, and swallowed hard. She knew she had to choose her next steps carefully—because eternity was no longer just about memories, it was about the love she carried in her heart, in that very moment.

Wanda’s heart clenched as she watched Y/N’s figure fade into the meadow’s light. Guilt washed over her, sharp and immediate. I shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have let her leave like that, she thought, panic rising.

“I… I need to go after her,” Wanda murmured, turning instinctively toward the path Y/N had taken.

Vision stepped closer, his hand gently resting on hers, stopping her. “Wanda… stay,” he said softly, his voice calm but persuasive. “She’s not a kid. She’ll be fine. You don’t have to carry everything right now.”

Wanda shook her head, conflicted. “But I—”

Vision smiled, leaning just slightly closer, his eyes searching hers. “Look at me. Just for a moment. Let me be here with you. I’ve waited seventy-two years for any time with you. Don’t push it away because of guilt that doesn’t belong to you.”

Wanda hesitated, the words tugging at her heart. Because she also felt guilty he waited for that long. Slowly, she allowed herself to stay, letting her fingers entwine with his.

He leaned in, brushing a kiss across her temple, then whispered, “You’re here now. Let me show you… let me remind you what we had. Don’t think about her—just for a little while, be with me.”

And as he spoke, guiding her to sit beside him on the riverside blanket, he began telling a story from their youth—a prank they pulled in high school, a song they danced to under the stars. Wanda felt herself laughing, caught in the warmth of nostalgia, her guilt lingering in the background but dulled, as Vision skillfully distracted her with memories and the comfort of their shared past.

Even as a part of her mind ached for Y/N, another part was here, drawn irresistibly to the first love she had once thought lost forever.

---

As the golden light of the Junction began to fade into a soft evening glow, Wanda finally rose from the riverside, her heart heavy and tangled. Vision’s stories and laughter still lingered in her ears, but the guilt she had tried to push aside now surged forward.

She walked back along the familiar path, each step slower than the last, until she reached their room. The door was slightly ajar, the warm light spilling into the corridor like a beacon.

When she stepped inside, Y/N was there, sitting on the edge of the bed, calm and serene as ever. Wanda froze for a moment, the weight of her realization pressing down on her. I let her go. I let Y/N leave me. And she didn’t complain, she didn’t scold… she just left.

Her chest tightened. She knelt by the bed, dropping to her knees beside Y/N and cupping her hands in hers. “I… I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice trembling. “I should never have let you go like that. I—”

Y/N lifted a hand, brushing her thumb lightly across Wanda’s cheek. “Shh,” she murmured, “it’s okay. You missed him. I get it.” Her voice was calm, but Wanda could hear the effort behind it—the swallowing of jealousy, of insecurities that bubbled up despite all the years they had shared.

Wanda blinked, guilt tightening her chest. “I… I didn’t want to hurt you,” she whispered.

Y/N shook her head gently, pressing her forehead to Wanda’s. “I know. And you didn’t. That’s why I’m telling you—it’s okay. You can spend time with him, remember your past… before we go to our eternity. I know you missed him, Wanda. It’s only natural.”

Tears welled in Wanda’s eyes, gratitude and relief mingling. “You… you really mean that?”

Y/N smiled softly, brushing a strand of hair from Wanda’s face. “I do. Because I love you. And love isn’t about keeping you from the past—it’s about letting you be whole, so you can choose your future freely. And I trust that future will be with me.”

Wanda leaned into Y/N, pressing a soft kiss to her temple. “You’re incredible,” she murmured, voice thick. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

“Don’t think about that,” Y/N whispered, her hands holding Wanda’s face gently. “Just… go. Take your time. I’ll be here when you come back. Always.”

Wanda nodded, swallowing hard, and for the first time in days, she felt a fragile peace settle over her. She could finally honor both her past and her present—without fear, without guilt—because Y/N had given her permission to feel it all.

---

In the following days, Wanda allowed herself to step fully into the moments with Vision. They wandered through sunlit parks, revisited memories of high school mischief, and laughed over shared inside jokes from decades ago. For brief hours, she felt the thrill of being young again—the warmth of first love, the comfort of a connection lost too soon. She felt loved, remembered, and alive in a way that made her chest ache with bittersweet joy.

And yet, no matter how absorbed she became with Vision, she always returned to Y/N. Each evening, she would find herself in their room, Y/N waiting patiently, her presence steady and comforting.

Vision often appeared at unexpected moments, breaking up their quiet time, eager to pull Wanda back into the past he cherished so deeply. And each time, Y/N said nothing. She swallowed every flicker of jealousy, every pang of insecurity, quietly trusting Wanda’s heart.

Wanda noticed, of course. She saw the way Y/N would simply smile and let her go, the way she hid her emotions with gentle grace. It tugged at her own conscience, reminded her of the depth of Y/N’s love and faith.

Y/N’s silence, her patience, and her unwavering trust carved a calm certainty in Wanda’s heart. No matter the pull of nostalgia, no matter the intoxication of first love, Y/N’s presence grounded her. She was reminded that love could be both thrilling and steady, fiery and enduring.

Every night, as Wanda lay with Y/N, she whispered, “I’m so lucky to have you.”

Y/N would smile softly, brushing a hand through Wanda’s hair. “I know,” she murmured. “And I have faith you’ll choose us. Always.”

And with that faith, Wanda allowed herself to experience both—reconnecting with Vision while remembering the life and love she had built with Y/N—her heart stretching across time, memory, and eternity, until it could hold them both without breaking.

---

A few days later, as Wanda wandered the Junction with Vision, a gentle shimmer in the air announced the arrival of the coordinators. Their forms were serene, yet their presence carried a quiet authority that made Wanda stop mid-step.

“Wanda Maximoff,” one of them spoke, their voice smooth and calm. “Your time to decide is approaching. You must choose where—and with whom—you wish to spend your eternity.”

Wanda froze, the words hitting her harder than she expected. She glanced at Vision, whose expression softened, but the tension in her chest only grew.

“You have few days remaining,” the coordinator continued, “but soon, a decision will be required. Neither time nor hesitation will extend this moment indefinitely.”

Wanda’s stomach tightened, and she felt a sudden pull between two points in her heart, Vision, the echo of first love and lost youth, and Y/N, the steady, unwavering love she had shared for seventy years.

Vision reached for her hand, his thumb brushing her knuckles. “We still have time,” he murmured. “Just a few more days.”

Wanda nodded, but her gaze shifted involuntarily toward the path leading back to their room. She knew Y/N was waiting, patient and faithful, offering her the freedom to remember, to feel, and to choose.

Later that evening, as she lay with Y/N, holding her close, Wanda whispered, “They said I have to choose soon.”

Y/N pressed her cheek to Wanda’s temple, brushing her fingers through her hair. “Then take these days wisely. Remember both parts of your heart, Wanda. And know… I trust you.”

Wanda closed her eyes, feeling the weight of the decision pressing gently against her chest. The days ahead would be filled with laughter, memories, and longing—but she knew, deep down, that whichever choice she made would need to honor all the love she had carried across a lifetime.

---

Later that evening, as she lay with Y/N, holding her close, Wanda whispered, “They said I have to choose soon.”

Y/N lifted her head slightly, brushing a gentle kiss against Wanda’s temple. “Do you… know where you want to spend eternity?” Wanda asked softly, her voice heavy with the weight of impending decision.

Y/N shook her head, a small, reassuring smile on her lips. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Wherever you want to go… I’ll be there. As long as I can spend it with you, anywhere is fine.”

Wanda’s throat tightened. She felt the warmth of Y/N’s love surrounding her, patient and unwavering, and yet a sharp pang of guilt stabbed at her heart. Vision had waited for seventy-two years—decades stolen from him, spent longing for her presence. And here she was, torn between the past and the life she had built, unable to make a choice.

“I…” Wanda began, her voice trembling. Tears pricked her eyes, and she pressed her forehead against Y/N’s chest. “I want to be with you… I do. But… he waited so long. I can’t stop thinking about that.”

Y/N’s hand traced gentle circles along Wanda’s back. “I know,” she whispered softly. “I can see your heart is big enough to hold both. That’s why I’m not afraid. You don’t need to apologize for remembering. Just… promise me that, in the end, you’ll follow your heart.”

Wanda exhaled shakily, feeling the tight knot of guilt and longing slowly loosen under Y/N’s understanding. She wanted to cry, to laugh, to clutch Y/N and never let go. And somewhere deep in her chest, she realized that the next few days wouldn’t just be about choosing—they’d be about honoring all the love she had ever carried.

---

Over the next few days, Wanda found herself constantly pulled between the past and the present. She spent hours with Vision, revisiting memories, laughing at their youthful antics, and savoring the warmth of first love.

But Vision, while tender and charming, also revealed a streak of childish insistence that made her heart ache in a different way.

“You know,” he said one afternoon as they sat by the riverside, tossing pebbles into the water, “Y/N already got her chance.” He crossed his arms, pouting slightly. “Seventy years, Wanda. Seventy years! That’s a lifetime. She had you, all of you. This—” He gestured toward himself, eyes gleaming with quiet intensity, “—this should be mine too.”

Wanda flinched at the bluntness of his words, torn. “Vision… she’s waiting for me too,” she whispered, guilt twinging through her chest.

“Waiting doesn’t mean she owns your heart,” Vision countered, leaning closer. “I waited seventy-two years! Do you know how long that is? Do you know what it feels like to live a lifetime, hoping one day I’d see your face again?”

His voice trembled slightly, though his eyes were firm. “I’m not trying to take her away from you. I just… I deserve some time too. Just a little. Please, Wanda.”

Wanda’s chest tightened. She could see the ache behind his stubborn insistence, the loneliness he had carried for decades. And yet, Y/N’s calm patience and unwavering faith haunted her thoughts.

“I… I can’t ignore either of you,” Wanda whispered, pressing a hand to her chest. “I want to honor both of you… but I don’t want to hurt either of you.”

Vision let out a frustrated sigh, but his hand found hers anyway. “You won’t hurt me,” he murmured. “Just… promise me you’ll let me be here, just a little longer, before your final choice.”

Wanda nodded, closing her eyes, letting the rush of love, guilt, and longing swirl within her. She was caught between two worlds—the playful, insistent first love, and the steady, patient love that had carried her through seventy years. And she knew that the next few days would test her heart in ways she had never imagined.

---

Each day, Vision’s presence pressed on Wanda’s heart in ways she hadn’t expected. He followed her through the Junction’s recreated streets, popped up during moments she shared with Y/N, and constantly reminded her—sometimes bluntly, sometimes with a mischievous glint—that Y/N had already had her chance.

“You can’t deny it,” he said one morning, sprawled lazily on a park bench while Wanda stood beside him, torn. “She had seventy years. Seventy! That’s enough. You owe me this, Wanda. Just a little time. Isn’t that fair?”

Wanda clenched her fists, the conflict roiling inside her. “Vision… you’re not wrong, but—”

“Then don’t overthink it!” he interrupted, leaning closer. His eyes softened, but his words carried that impatient edge she remembered from when they were young. “I’ve waited for decades. You don’t get to waste this on guilt or indecision. Just be here with me. Let me remind you of what we had… what we can still feel, if only for a little while.”

Later that afternoon, when she tried to meet Y/N in their room, Vision appeared again, blocking the doorway with that determined, boyish grin. “Wanda! You’re avoiding me. I saw you smiling at her—don’t do that. That smile belongs to me, too.”

Wanda felt her stomach twist. She wanted to push past him, to run back to Y/N, but Vision’s hand reached for hers, warm and familiar. “Come on,” he said softly, tugging her toward the riverside. “Just one more afternoon with me. That’s all I ask. Just one more.”

Y/N, sitting quietly in their room, sensed Wanda’s absence but said nothing. She didn’t interrupt, didn’t complain. Instead, she waited, knowing that Wanda’s heart would return to her when the time was right. She swallowed every flicker of jealousy and insecurity, grounding herself in trust.

And Wanda, caught between Vision’s persistent pull and Y/N’s patient love, felt the tension tighten like a rope around her chest. Every laugh, every touch, every nostalgic story with Vision reminded her of lost youth—but each thought of Y/N reminded her of the lifetime she had chosen and the life still waiting for her in the Junction.

Her heart stretched across decades, memories, and love, and for the first time, she truly understood how difficult a choice eternity could demand.

---

Y/N’s POV

Today was the day. The last day. Y/N had waited for this moment with quiet certainty, though her heart still fluttered like a bird in her chest. She had no doubt Wanda would come back to her—but the reality of it, the finality of the decision, still made her pulse quicken.

Wanda had asked her out, choosing to spend the day together before making her choice. And so they wandered through the Junction, hand in hand, finding quiet spots where the light fell softly and the air smelled like something between nostalgia and possibility.

They talked, laughing and sometimes tearing up, remembering the life they had shared.

“Do you remember the first time we met?” Wanda asked softly, her voice tinged with vulnerability.

Y/N nodded, smiling at the memory. “You were sitting on that park bench, looking like you’d carried the weight of the world on your shoulders. I could see it in your eyes—grieving, lost. And somehow I thought… maybe I could make you smile again.”

Wanda chuckled, a small, bittersweet sound. “You did. I remember thinking, ‘Who is this fearless woman who refuses to let me hide behind my sadness?’ You sat beside me, cracked a joke, and somehow… I felt lighter for the first time in two years.”

“And that was the beginning,” Y/N murmured, squeezing Wanda’s hand. “The first time we laughed together. The first time your heart started to open again. I knew then I wanted to be by your side, to bring you back to yourself.”

They smiled at each other, letting the memory wash over them like sunlight through leaves. Then came the first kiss, the awkward but electric moment in the quiet park as they shared their fears and hopes. Every touch, every word, every shared glance from that day forward had led to a life full of love, laughter, and family.

Their steps carried them to a sunlit glade, where Y/N rested her head against Wanda’s shoulder. “Our wedding,” Wanda whispered. “I can still feel your hand in mine as we said our vows.”

Y/N’s eyes glimmered with tears she refused to hide. “I can feel it too. Every promise we made… every word, every touch… it was real. It is real.”

They sat down beneath a flowering tree, and Wanda’s hands traced Y/N’s, warm and steady. “And our children,” she murmured. “When we found out I was pregnant… I was so scared. But you—” Her voice broke slightly. “You made it the happiest moment of my life.”

Y/N smiled, brushing a strand of hair from Wanda’s face. “You made it ours. Every step, every sleepless night, every laugh and cry… it was ours. And it still is.”

Wanda leaned into her, resting her forehead against Y/N’s. “I’ve missed this,” she whispered. “I’ve missed you.”

“And I’ve missed you,” Y/N said softly, wrapping her arms around Wanda and holding her close. “All along. I knew you’d come back. I trusted you. And now… now we can just be.”

Y/N pressed a gentle kiss to Wanda’s temple, her heart swelling with the quiet joy of decades spent together, the happiness of a lifetime renewed, and the promise of eternity waiting just beyond the horizon.

They sat in silence for a while, the gentle light of the Junction casting soft shadows across the room. Wanda’s hand rested lightly in Y/N’s, but the air between them was heavy with unspoken truths.

Finally, Y/N spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. “You chose him, right?”

Wanda’s chest tightened. She looked down at Y/N, the warmth of her touch grounding her, but she could feel the truth in Y/N’s words. She had known it in her heart even before she had said it aloud.

Y/N nodded slowly, tears glimmering in her eyes. “I knew,” she murmured. “I knew you chose to spend your last day with me… because you chose Vision. You chose to spend eternity with him.”

Wanda swallowed hard, guilt and love swirling together like a storm. “I… I did,” she admitted, her voice breaking slightly. “I love you, Y/N. I’ve spent a lifetime with you—seventy years—and it was the best life I could have ever imagined. Every day, every laugh, every moment with you… it was perfect. But… I needed to see the life I once dreamed about. I needed to see the time I could have had with him.”

Y/N’s hands trembled slightly in Wanda’s. She took a shuddering breath and finally broke, tears spilling freely. “I had faith in our love,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “I trusted you, Wanda. I always knew your heart belonged to me, no matter what. But hearing you say it… it still hurts.”

Wanda cupped Y/N’s face gently, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “It’s not about love,” she said softly, her own tears glimmering. “I love you—with all my heart, with all my being. Nothing could ever change that. This… this is about a life I once imagined. About remembering a dream I had, about experiencing the time I never got to have. But it doesn’t change what we had… or what we will always have.”

Y/N pressed her forehead against Wanda’s, letting herself breathe through the ache in her chest. “I know,” she whispered. “I know your heart is mine, always. And I’ll let you see your dream, because I love you enough to do that. But promise me… don’t forget us.”

Wanda nodded, pressing a soft kiss to Y/N’s lips. “Never. You are my life, my home, my everything. And this… this is just a small chapter, a dream I need to live. But you—you’re forever.”

Y/N let the words settle between them, tears and trust mingling in the quiet of the room. And for all the ache and longing, she knew that love—true, enduring, unshakable love—could survive even the choice of a lifetime.

---

Wanda took a deep breath, her fingers brushing against Vision’s as they stood before a softly glowing door in the Junction. With a quiet nod, they stepped through together.

The world shifted instantly, and Wanda blinked at the scene before her. The air smelled of blooming flowers and fresh bread from the small bakery at the corner of the cobblestone street. Sunlight spilled over the quaint rooftops of the little town she and Vision had once called home—a town they had chosen for eternity, a place frozen in the memory of their first year together after they married.

“This… it’s perfect,” Wanda whispered, turning to Vision. His eyes shone with the same quiet intensity she remembered from their youth, and his hand found hers, fingers intertwining naturally.

They wandered through the streets, taking in every detail—the little café where they had shared their first married breakfast, the bookstore where Vision had surprised her with poetry, the park bench by the fountain where they had sat for hours talking about dreams too big for their young hearts.

“I never imagined it would feel like this,” Wanda murmured, leaning into him. “Like we never left. Like it’s still ours.”

Vision smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “That’s the beauty of this place,” he said softly. “We get to live it fully, uninterrupted. A life we dreamed of, all over again.”

They moved through the little town hand in hand, laughing, remembering, and savoring the simple, everyday moments that had once defined their happiness. Wanda could feel the warmth of their short, sweet life together—every smile, every conversation, every quiet evening they had shared.

Even as a small ache tugged at her heart for Y/N, who she had left back in the Junction, Wanda let herself immerse in this dreamlike slice of life, understanding why she needed this time. She was revisiting a chapter she had longed for, remembering the life she had once dreamed of living with Vision—a brief but treasured part of her heart.

She wandered through the cobblestone streets, hand in hand with Vision, laughing softly as they passed the little café where they had shared their first married breakfast, and pausing by the park bench where they had spent long afternoons talking about hopes and dreams that once seemed too big for their young hearts.

“It’s… exactly how I imagined it,” Wanda whispered, leaning against Vision as they watched the sun shimmer on the fountain’s water.

Vision smiled, his quiet intensity ever-present. “A life we almost had, but now we can live it again, even if only for a little while,” he said softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

Wanda closed her eyes, letting the warmth and familiarity wash over her. Every laugh, every whispered memory, every gentle touch reminded her of the life she had once longed for. And though a part of her heart ached for Y/N’s patient love waiting back in the Junction, she understood this time with Vision was not a betrayal—it was a chance to honor a dream she had carried for decades.

Each moment here, fleeting yet vivid, was a reminder of how vast and complex her heart could be: capable of loving deeply, holding onto memory, and cherishing the people who had shaped her life, past and present alike.

---

For days, Wanda allowed herself to be fully present in the life she had always imagined with Vision. Every morning began with the soft golden light spilling through the windows of their small home, the aroma of fresh bread from the bakery downstairs mingling with the scent of flowers in the garden.

She laughed as she cooked breakfast with Vision, their hands brushing over eggs and toast, stealing little kisses between bites. They revisited the routines of their first year together—morning walks through the quiet streets, afternoons in the park, evenings sitting on their little balcony watching the sun dip below the horizon.

Everything felt achingly familiar and perfectly new at the same time. The way Vision would tilt his head, eyes shimmering with quiet wonder, the way he always noticed the smallest details, the way he remembered the words she said months ago as if they had been spoken yesterday—everything was just like it had been when they were first married.

They held each other in the garden as rain began to fall softly, laughing as they ran under the downpour, spinning and twirling like they were young again. They spent quiet nights by the fireplace, sharing stories, dreams, and laughter, wrapped in the warmth of their home.

Wanda felt a happiness that was simple, deep, and unhurried. In this little town, in this life they had recreated, she could almost forget the rest of the world, almost forget the choice that still awaited her back in the Junction.

For a brief, perfect while, she could be simply Wanda—the young woman who had married her first love, living the dream she had carried for decades. And every day with Vision reminded her why she had loved him, why she had imagined this life, and why it had mattered so much, even if only for a fleeting moment.

---

They sat at the small kitchen table, sunlight spilling over the checkered cloth. Wanda had prepared a simple meal, risotto with wild mushrooms, something she had perfected over the years. It was creamy, fragrant, and comforting—the kind of dish that reminded her of home.

Vision picked up a fork and tilted his head, eyes curious. “What is this?” he asked, his voice soft but inquisitive.

Wanda smiled brightly, brushing a lock of hair from her face. “It’s mushroom risotto. Y/N’s favorite.”

Vision’s brow furrowed slightly, and he took a tentative bite. His expression twisted ever so slightly. “I… don’t think I like it,” he said gently.

Wanda laughed, a light, melodic sound that filled the kitchen. “Oh, I remember the first time I made this for her. I burned the mushrooms, added too much wine, and it was a disaster. But she loved it anyway. She laughed at me, kissed me, and said it was the best meal she’d ever had.”

Her eyes sparkled as she recounted the memory, her voice full of warmth and joy. Vision watched her, noting the way her smile lit up, the way she laughed, and the way her whole being seemed to glow with the memory of Y/N.

But then, gently, he reached across the table and laid his hand over hers. “Wanda…” His voice was soft, but firm, a calm current under the warmth of his words. “Stop talking about the past. You’re here with me now. We should enjoy our time together, not dwell on memories that are not mine.”

Wanda’s laughter faltered, a small blush creeping up her cheeks. She glanced down at her hands, feeling the familiar tug of guilt and longing twist in her chest. Vision’s words weren’t harsh—he spoke with care—but they carried the quiet weight of ownership, of wanting her attention fully, exclusively.

She nodded slowly, forcing a smile, trying to let go of the warmth of the memory. “Of course,” she whispered. “I… I’m here, with you.”

But even as she said it, a small part of her heart ached for Y/N, for the life they had shared, for the laughter and love that had shaped her in ways nothing else ever could.

As days passed in the little town, Wanda began to notice subtle differences in how she experienced life with Vision compared to the life she had shared with Y/N.

She cooked breakfast one morning, trying to replicate the little rituals she and Vision had once done, but her movements felt off—she reached for the coffee pot differently than Y/N would have, and the toast never came out quite the way she remembered from her mornings with Y/N. When she set the table, the napkins weren’t folded like Y/N had done, the plates didn’t feel arranged “just right,” and even the laughter she shared with Vision felt lighter, missing the depth that Y/N’s presence had always brought.

While walking through the park, Vision reached to hold her hand in a way that was gentle but distant, and she realized that Y/N’s touch had been warmer, more instinctively reassuring, always guiding her. Even small things—how she had once curled up in the living room reading, the way Y/N would brush strands of hair from her face before every meal, the soft teasing whispers as they fell asleep—felt irreplaceable.

Wanda tried to share these memories, hoping to explain her feelings. “I remember when Y/N and I used to sit by the window in the morning, and she’d let the sunlight hit just right, so we’d wake slowly together,” she said one evening, voice soft and wistful.

Vision’s expression tightened slightly. “That is in the past, Wanda,” he said firmly, yet gently. “Y/N belongs there. We are here, now. You should focus on this life with me, not the life you left behind.”

Another time, she laughed remembering a little prank Y/N had pulled—switching the sugar with salt during a baking experiment. “Y/N would have never let me get away with that,” Wanda said softly.

Vision’s brows knitted. “That is not part of our life. That was in the past. Let it remain there.”

Even when she reached for the old songs she and Y/N had danced to on quiet nights, Vision frowned. “She had terrible taste. I hate this song. That why I told you the past cannot interfere with our present, Wanda. You are with me now. Enjoy it.”

Gradually, Wanda realized that the life she shared with Vision, while pleasant and familiar, felt incomplete. Every joy was tinged with a subtle wrongness, every laugh muted by comparison to how Y/N had shared it with her. And the more she tried to immerse herself, the more she noticed the invisible threads pulling her thoughts, her memories, and her heart back to Y/N—the steady, patient love she could never forget.

---

One Afternoon

Wanda and Vision wandered through the small grocery store in their little town, the warm sunlight streaming through the windows. Wanda’s eyes lit up as she spotted a small display of chocolate-covered marshmallow treats, a snack that immediately brought back memories.

“Tommy used to love these,” she said softly, smiling at the memory. “Well… Billy didn’t care for them much, but Lyla… she loved them too. Not just because of the taste, but because Y/N liked them. She always made sure the kids had their favorites.”

Vision froze, his jaw tightening slightly. His gentle demeanor gave way to a rare, sharp edge. “Stop,” he said quietly at first, then a little more firmly. “I don’t want to hear about children that are not mine. That is all in the past. Y/N is in the past, and those children… they belong there. Not here.”

Wanda’s smile faltered. The lightness in her chest, the warmth of sharing a memory, was abruptly snuffed out. She stared at the treats in her hand, feeling a sting she couldn’t quite put into words.

“I… I wasn’t trying—” she began, but Vision cut her off a little louder.

“No, Wanda. This life… this is ours. You cannot let the past interfere with it. You cannot drag what no longer exists into the present.”

Her chest tightened. The words weren’t cruel, but they carried the weight of dismissal, the invisible wall between what she remembered and what Vision wanted her to embrace. She went quiet, the small smile fading entirely.

For the first time since stepping into this dream-life, Wanda felt an undeniable ache, a hollow note running through the happiness she had been chasing. Every laugh, every gentle touch, every memory she had tried to share now felt impossible to voice. She realized, with a sudden clarity, that no matter how perfect the recreated life was, it could never replace what she had with Y/N—the life she had built, the children she had raised, the love she had shared over seventy years.

And in that quiet moment, standing in the grocery store with Vision watching her, Wanda understood that her heart was no longer capable of pretending.

---

After that day at the grocery store, Wanda found herself wandering the quiet streets of the little town, Vision’s hand in hers, but her heart no longer fully there. She had come here seeking a dream—a glimpse of the life she might have had if fate hadn’t taken Vision from her—but slowly, painfully, she began to understand the truth.

The chapter she had imagined with Vision had ended decades ago. That life was beautiful in memory, yes, but it was a memory, not the present. Her home, her true happiness, was elsewhere—with Y/N, with their children, with every quiet, chaotic, and perfectly imperfect moment they had shared over seventy years.

She thought of Y/N’s smile, the way she had always held her hand in times of fear, the soft teasing in her voice, the way she made Wanda’s heart race even after decades, even when their hair was gray and their bodies aged. Vision, for all his charm and gentleness, lacked that spark—the effortless, magnetic pull that Y/N had carried with her always. He was polite, protective, and insistent, but childish in ways Y/N never was, and every insistence, every boundary, only reminded Wanda that this life was not hers.

The comparison became unavoidable. Vision had waited seventy-two years, and now, in this recreated life, he wanted her full attention, full devotion—but it felt constricting, a shadow over her own heart. Y/N had never done that. When Wanda spoke of the past, of the memories she had with Vision long before, Y/N never told her it was “just in the past.” She had listened, smiled, held Wanda close, and promised her happiness, always letting Wanda know that every joy, every laughter, every sorrow they had shared mattered—and would continue to matter.

Wanda’s chest tightened with both love and regret. She had gone chasing a dream, thinking it would fill some emptiness—but the emptiness only existed because she had tried to deny the life she had built, the love she had nurtured with Y/N.

And now, Wanda found herself sitting on Vision’s lap, her arms wrapped loosely around his neck, her head resting against his shoulder. She wasn’t sure how she had ended up here—maybe it was instinct, maybe it was the familiar ache of trying to gather her courage before speaking—but the moment she settled into him, she realized something was wrong.

This was what she had always done with Y/N. Whenever words failed her, whenever her mind was tangled and her heart felt too heavy, she would climb onto Y/N’s lap, curl into her, and let the warmth of her body and the steady rhythm of her heart calm her. Y/N had always known what it meant. She never rushed her, never pressed her, never made her feel small. Y/N would simply hold her, stroke her back, and whisper, It’s okay, my love. Take your time. I’m here.

But Vision didn’t hold her.

His hands trailed down her sides, lingering too low, his lips brushing against her neck as if her silence was an invitation to something physical. His touch wasn’t grounding—it was insistent. When Wanda gently pulled back, murmuring, “Could you just… hold me?” she saw his expression falter.

“Wanda,” Vision said softly, but there was a faint impatience beneath his voice. “We’ve been apart for so long. Don’t you think… it’s time we gave ourselves what we were always meant to have?”

Her chest tightened. She shook her head slightly, her voice fragile. “I… I don’t want that right now. I just… need to breathe. To be still. Please.”

But instead of pulling her closer, instead of reassuring her, Vision’s hands stilled in hesitation. A flicker of frustration crossed his face, quickly masked by a strained smile.

“You’re still caught in the past, Wanda,” he murmured, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “But you’re here now. With me. Why dwell on memories when we can create something new?”

Wanda’s heart ached. It wasn’t just the words—it was the absence. The absence of patience, of understanding, of the quiet safety she had always felt with Y/N. With Y/N, silence had been sacred, a space where love was felt without needing to be spoken. With Vision, silence was a void he wanted to fill, even if it meant pushing her into something she wasn’t ready for.

Her arms tightened around him briefly, not from desire but from sorrow. She buried her face against his shoulder, whispering so softly it almost broke her own heart to admit:

“This… doesn’t feel right.”

Vision froze, confusion flickering in his eyes. “What do you mean?”

Wanda pulled back just enough to look at him, her tears glimmering. Her voice cracked as she whispered, “I just want you to hold me.”

For a heartbeat, silence stretched between them. Then Vision’s jaw tightened. His eyes darkened, not with tenderness but with something sharp, wounded pride.

“You were the one who sat on me,” he said, his voice low, edged with frustration. “What did you expect, Wanda? You can’t… you can’t touch me like that and then ask for nothing. You were seducing me.”

Wanda froze, her breath catching. The words cut deep, colder than she expected, and for a moment she couldn’t even form a reply. “No,” she whispered, shaking her head, her tears spilling freely now. “That’s not what I meant. That’s not what I was doing. I just—”

But he was already shifting beneath her, his hands firm as he lifted her off his lap and set her aside. His movements weren’t cruel, but they lacked gentleness, as though he couldn’t bear to look at her.

“I can’t do this right now,” Vision muttered, standing swiftly. His expression was closed off, hard in a way that was so unlike the boy she remembered. Without another glance, he turned and strode out of the room, the door closing behind him with a muted finality.

Wanda sat there, stunned, her chest tight and aching. The absence of his arms—the simple, steady comfort she had begged for—felt louder than any words could. She hugged herself, trembling, the echo of Y/N’s embrace flooding her memory. Y/N would never have pushed her away for needing too much, for needing *just to be held.*

Her tears fell harder, and in that broken silence, Wanda finally understood the truth: this wasn’t love. Not anymore.

---

Few Days Later

They were sitting on the little balcony of their recreated home, the warm sun bathing the street in a golden glow. Wanda had just finished arranging some flowers, her mind still swirling with memories and realizations about where her heart truly belonged.

Vision leaned back slightly, his expression thoughtful. “Wanda,” he said, his voice calm, “do you think… we could… have children here? Would that be possible in this place?”

Wanda froze mid-motion, the petals of the flowers trembling slightly in her hand. Her stomach twisted instantly, a sharp, involuntary reaction. Disgust, mingled with shock, bubbled up through her chest.

“Children?” she echoed, her voice cold and sharp, though she tried to rein it in. “Vision… no. Just… no.”

Vision tilted his head, a faint anger in his expression. “I don’t understand… Why not? We are together here. This life is ours—why would it matter?”

Wanda took a step back, pulling slightly from his presence. Her heart raced, and the lightness she had felt in this dream-life suddenly felt heavy and suffocating. “It… it matters because it’s not real, Vision. It’s not our life. This is a memory, a recreation, a fantasy. You can’t just… create a life that never existed. Not like that. And I—” She clenched her fists, trying to steady herself, “I would never do that here. Not with you. Not like this.”

Vision’s serene mask cracked. His eyes sharpened, his voice dropping, edged with bitterness. “Not with me? Wanda… you sat here with me, in this life. You sat on me, touched me, looked at me as if you wanted something more. And now you tell me it was nothing?”

Her breath caught, her tears glimmering. “I just wanted you to hold me,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

But instead of softening, he gave a humorless laugh, wounded pride lacing every word. “Hold you? You were seducing me. Don’t twist this, Wanda. You can’t play with me like that.”

Her eyes widened at the accusation, pain rushing through her chest. “That’s not true—”

Vision’s expression hardened, but his voice softened into something coaxing, almost manipulative. “Fine. But… we can try sometime, right? We can try to have children on our own here. So you’ll stop talking about the ones you had with that person from your past.”

The words struck like a blade. Wanda’s stomach twisted, her heart lurching with anger and grief all at once.

She shook her head, stepping away fully now. “No. Stop. This isn’t what I came here for. You… you can’t replace them. You can’t replace my children! You can’t replace my Y/N. I can’t—” Her voice broke, and she turned toward the door, moving away from the recreated town and the illusion of a life she no longer wanted to cling to.

The realization settled over her like ice, the fantasy with Vision had never been hers to live fully. It was a chapter closed long ago. And the only life she truly belonged to, the only love she could not deny, waited for her back in the Junction.

Wanda turned toward the door, but before she could step away, Vision’s angry voice followed her.

“Wanda… wait,” he said, moving closer. His hand reached for hers again, but she hesitated. “What’s the matter? This is our life. This is our future. Why are you running from it?”

Her chest tightened, a mix of frustration, guilt, and lingering affection colliding in her heart. “Vision… it’s not real. This isn’t… our life. Not really. You’re… you’re in my memory, a dream of what could have been. You are the one in my past, not Y/N.”

His head tilted slightly, his tone pressing, insistent. “But you chose me! We spoke of this once, Wanda. We dreamed of it—children, a family, a future together. Why should it matter that it happens here, in this place? Why should she matter more than what we imagined?”

Wanda pulled her hand back, shaking her head. “Because it’s not Y/N. Not my home, not my heart. Everything I did, every life I built—that was with her. With our children. You… you’re a part of my past, and I needed to see it, to remember it. But this… this is not what I want. Not anymore.”

Vision’s eyes softened, but his voice remained steady, almost pleading. “Wanda… don’t you feel it? Don’t you feel the life we could have? The love we shared?”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. She swallowed hard, the ache in her chest growing sharper. “I do… I loved you once. I dreamed of this life with you. But it’s over. That chapter ended decades ago. My heart… it’s with Y/N. It always has been. Every laugh, every touch, every life we built together… it’s her. It’s ours. And no recreated town, no dream-life… can change that.”

Vision’s hand dropped slowly, his expression unreadable. For the first time, the quiet weight of reality settled between them. Wanda took a deep breath, her resolve solidifying.

“I need to go back,” she whispered. “Back to where I belong.”

Vision’s eyes darkened with frustration. “Wanda!” he snapped, his voice sharp and full of emotion. “How can you just abandon this life? This future we planned? You came here willingly! You chose to step into this life with me, and now you just… throw it away?”

Wanda flinched at the intensity, but her resolve didn’t waver. She squared her shoulders and met his gaze, her voice steady despite the ache in her chest. “Vision… I didn’t throw it away. I came here to see it, to understand the life I could have had. But it’s over. It ended long ago. You were my first love, my first heartbreak—but my heart… it’s not yours anymore. It’s with Y/N. It always has been.”

Vision’s eyes glimmered with a sharp edge, his voice low and dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, I see,” he said, tilting his head slightly, a bitter smile curling his lips. “So you came here to visit your little fantasy, and now you tell me it’s not enough. You didn’t throw it away… you chose to spend eternity with me, leaving Y/N behind. And who knows? She’s probably moved on, found someone else to share her eternity with while you were busy chasing a dream that you claim it wasn’t real!”

Wanda felt the words like a physical blow. Her chest tightened, and for a fleeting moment, doubt flickered across her mind—but only for a heartbeat.

“No,” she said firmly, her voice steady despite the pain. “You don’t understand, Vision. That’s not how it works. I didn’t abandon her. I never could. My heart… my life… it’s always been hers. She is my home, my happiness, my family. I came here to understand a path I never walked, to see a life I could have had—but it’s not my life. Not anymore. My life… is with Y/N.”

Vision’s brow furrowed, his sarcasm faltering slightly as Wanda’s unwavering gaze met his. “It doesn’t matter what you say,” he murmured, more quietly now, the sting in his voice betraying his frustration. “You’ve made your choice.”

“Yes,” Wanda whispered, a mix of relief and sorrow threading through her words. “I have. And it’s always been hers. Always Y/N.”

Her resolve solidified with every heartbeat. The dream of a life with Vision was over, and the only life she truly wanted—the only eternity she wanted—was waiting for her back in the Junction.

---

Wanda ran through the quiet streets of the little town, her chest heaving, her breath ragged, every step fueled by a growing, desperate panic. She reached the softly glowing gate—the same one she and Vision had passed through to enter this recreated eternity—and lunged toward it, her hands trembling as if sheer will could undo the past.

“I—I have to go back!” she shouted, her voice breaking. “Please! I made a mistake! I need to go back! I didn’t choose this! I need… I need Y/N!”

Two ethereal guards appeared in a shimmer of light, their forms silent and imposing. The taller one stepped forward, his face unreadable, his tone calm yet chillingly final.

“You cannot,” he said. “Once a soul has chosen their eternity, that choice is binding. Eternity… as its name implies… lasts forever.”

“No!” Wanda screamed, stumbling forward, her hands grasping at the air, at the glowing edges of the gate, as if she could tear herself back into the Junction. Her knees buckled, and she fell to the ground, shaking violently. “No! This isn’t my life! This isn’t mine! My home… my heart… my life is with Y/N! I didn’t want this! I—please! Let me go back!”

The second guard hovered near her, but did not touch, his presence calm and unyielding. “Your heart may long elsewhere, but the path you chose is sealed. You cannot return.”

Wanda’s hands clawed at the floor, her tears falling freely. Her voice cracked into a scream, raw and unrestrained. “I don’t care about your rules! I don’t care about eternity! I can’t… I can’t stay here! My life… my love… my children… Y/N… they’re all waiting for me! Please! Please!”

Her body trembled, her sobs echoing through the silent town. Panic twisted in her chest like a living thing, suffocating, unrelenting. She felt as if the world had collapsed around her, the walls of her dream-life closing in, trapping her in a golden prison of her own making.

And in that moment, the cruel, unbearable truth sank in like ice, the choice she had made—whether through hope, curiosity, or longing—had locked her out of the life she truly belonged to. She had glimpsed her true home, her true love, and now it was out of reach forever.

Wanda fell forward, burying her face in her hands, trembling, her heart shattering with every sob. “Y/N… I’m so sorry… I just… I just wanted to see… I just wanted to see what could have been…”

The guards said nothing. They remained silent, unmoving. And as Wanda’s desperate cries faded into shuddering whimpers, the weight of eternity pressed down on her like a merciless, unyielding shadow.

---

Days passed—or at least, it felt like days, though time had a strange quality here—and Wanda stayed at the glowing gate, her hair tangled, her hands raw from clutching the edges of the shimmering barrier. She refused to leave. Her voice grew hoarse from shouting, from pleading, from crying into the cold, unyielding air.

“Please! Please! Let me go back! I don’t belong here! I need… I need Y/N!” she screamed, her sobs echoing through the empty streets of the recreated town. “I don’t care about rules! I don’t care about eternity! I made a mistake! I made a terrible mistake! Please! I can’t stay here! I won’t stay here!”

She fell to her knees again, clawing at the glowing surface of the gate. Her tears ran freely now, streaking the dirt beneath her, and her chest ached with a raw, desperate emptiness. “Y/N! I love you! I need you! I never should have left you! Please! I’ll do anything! I’ll do anything! Just let me go back!”

The guards remained silently at her sides, their faces calm, unyielding. Their presence did nothing to soothe her panic; it only made the weight of finality feel heavier, more suffocating.

Wanda’s voice grew hoarse, then quiet, then broken into small, strangled whimpers. She curled into herself on the cold ground, trembling, rocking slightly as the reality sank in: she was trapped. The eternity she had chosen with Vision, once a dream, had become a cage.

Her mind flashed to Y/N—Y/N’s bright smile, her laughter, the warmth of her hand in hers, the children they had raised, the life they had built together. Each memory stabbed at Wanda with unbearable longing, each one a reminder of what she had almost thrown away, what she could not touch now.

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry… I never wanted this… I just…” Her words trailed into a shuddering whisper, carried away by the empty streets.

And there she remained, day after day, at the glowing gate, a figure of desperation and heartbreak, trapped in a golden prison of a life she had once thought she wanted, while her true home, her true love, waited just beyond reach.

---

After countless days of pleading and despair, Wanda’s trembling voice finally found enough strength to ask the guards a single question.

“Is… is Y/N still in the Junction?” she whispered, her heart hammering painfully in her chest.

The guards exchanged a long, contemplative look. After a pause that stretched like eternity itself, the taller one nodded slowly. “Yes… she is.”

Wanda’s chest tightened, hope and fear colliding in a bitter mix.

The second guard raised a hand, and a shimmering screen of light appeared before her. On it, she saw a room—the familiar space she had shared with Y/N for so many years. There was Y/N, standing quietly, her hands lightly resting on a framed photograph of Wanda, her eyes soft, distant, full of longing. Wanda’s breath caught in her throat, a sob threatening to escape.

“The soul you love,” the taller guard said gently, “has chosen you for her eternity. Y/N’s heart belongs to you, completely.”

Wanda’s hands trembled as she watched. “But… I’m here. I chose…”

The guard’s voice was firm, almost sorrowful. “And because you have already entered your chosen eternity… Y/N is bound to the Junction. Eternity is not merely a place, it is a state of being. She waits for you, as she always has.”

Then, unexpectedly, a figure entered the room on the screen. Wanda’s eyes widened in shock. “Tommy…” she whispered, unable to believe what she was seeing. He looked as he had at eighteen, tall and strong, yet carrying the same mischievous spark in his eyes.

The guards spoke softly, as if the words themselves were fragile. “Tommy… Billy… Lyla… they have already passed. They chose to remain with Y/N, bound to her as she is bound to the Junction. All of them… have chosen her.”

Wanda’s hands trembled as she stared at the screen, her chest tightening with a raw, suffocating ache. “How… how have they already… died?” Her voice was barely more than a strangled whisper, panic clawing at her throat. “It’s only been… a few months since I entered this eternity. How is this possible?”

The taller guard’s voice was steady, almost cruel in its calmness. “Time flows differently here, Wanda. In the Junction… decades have passed. Fifty years have gone by. Your children… they lived their lives until their nineties before going to the junction, and when their time came to choose their eternity, they chose to remain with her.”

The words struck Wanda like a blow to the chest. Her hands flew to her face as if she could block out the reality. Fifty years. Fifty years of laughter, of love, of moments she would never again touch. All because of her choice.

She staggered backward, her voice rising, raw with desperation and guilt. “No… no! This isn’t… this isn’t fair! I was supposed to… I was supposed to be with them! I… I should have—”

The second guard’s words fell over her like ice. “Once a soul has entered their chosen eternity, there is no returning. The rules cannot be broken. Even for those they love, even for family… you cannot go back.”

Wanda sank to the ground, trembling violently, her sobs ripping through her chest. “No… no! I—I was wrong! I was so wrong! Y/N… Y/N is my home! My life! My everything! And I—” She buried her face in her hands, rocking back and forth, as the reality crashed over her like a wave. She had abandoned the one she had loved through decades, the one who had built her a life filled with laughter, warmth, and family.

“I… I left you… for a dream… for a memory… for him!” she wailed, the words sharp and bitter on her tongue. “I was supposed to stay with you, Y/N! I knew… I always knew… you are my heart! My soul! My everything!”

The sobs came faster now, raw and unrestrained. She clawed at the floor, at the glowing edges of the gate, anything to undo the impossibility, anything to tear herself back to Y/N. “I—please! I can’t lose you! I can’t lose our life! I can’t! I can’t! I was wrong… so wrong!”

Her gaze fell on the screen again, on Y/N, still and gentle, holding the picture of her. Wanda’s heart ached in ways she had never known. She saw Tommy, Billy, Lyla… all of them alive in spirit, bound to Y/N, their love and choices a stark mirror of her own failure.

Everything she had thought she wanted—the dream-life with Vision—felt empty, hollow, and unbearable. She had traded the warmth of a lifetime, of true, enduring love, for a fleeting illusion. And now, she was alone, trapped in a life that could never fill the void Y/N had always been.

Wanda fell forward, sobbing uncontrollably, her body wracked with guilt and heartbreak. “Y/N… I—please… forgive me… I never should have left you… I never… never…”

The guards remained silent, unyielding, leaving Wanda alone with the crushing weight of her mistake, the bitter knowledge that she had lost the life and the love that had always been hers.

Wanda buried her face in her hands, rocking slightly, her sobs echoing through the quiet streets of the recreated town. The weight of decades lost, of the life and love she had almost abandoned, pressed on her chest like a stone.

One of the guards stepped closer, their voice calm but carrying an undeniable gravity. “This… this is why the coordinators warned you, Wanda. Eternity is a long time for regrets.”

The words struck her like a dagger. She froze, trembling, lifting her tear-streaked face toward them. “Regrets…? You mean… I—” Her voice cracked, choking on the truth she had tried to deny. “I chose my own hell by choosing this… by leaving my Y/N?”

The taller guard’s tone was steady, almost merciless in its clarity. “Yes. You chose to step into one eternity with Vision. And now… the life you truly belong to waits elsewhere, beyond your reach. The moments you could have spent… the love you could have shared… are gone from your grasp for now. Eternity does not allow for second chances once a choice is made.”

Wanda’s knees gave way beneath her. She sank to the ground, her hands clawing at the glowing floor as if she could tear open reality and undo her mistake. “No… no… this isn’t fair! I knew… I knew Y/N was my everything! My heart! My life! And I—”

The sobs came faster, raw and unrelenting. She pressed her forehead to the ground, whispering through gasps of grief, “I was so wrong… so wrong… I should have stayed… I should have never left you… Y/N…”

The guards said nothing, their silence almost unbearable. Their words, earlier and now, echoed in her mind with cruel precision: eternity is a long time for regrets. And for Wanda, every heartbeat of that eternity now pulsed with the bitter, aching weight of hers.

Vision appeared at the edge of the recreated town more than once, his calm expression tinged with concern. “Wanda,” he said softly the first time, reaching out a hand as if to bridge the distance between them. “You don’t have to stay here alone. Come with me. We can—”

Wanda flinched, her hands tightening into fists. “No,” she snapped, her voice sharp, bitter. “Don’t. Just… forget me.”

He hesitated, confusion flickering in his eyes. “Wanda… what are you saying? I only want to—”

“Forget me,” she repeated, cutting him off. Her voice cracked, heavy with grief and anger. “Because of you… I lost her. Because I chose you… I lost my soulmate. The life I had with Y/N… the life I truly wanted… it’s gone. Don’t think for a second I want you now. Don’t think for a second I forgive myself. Just… leave me.”

Vision’s mouth opened, then closed again. He took a step closer, voice quieter, pleading. “But Wanda… we can still—”

She shook her head violently, tears streaming down her cheeks. “No! Stop. I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to hear you. You took her from me—well, not you exactly, but I let you. And now it’s too late. You’re nothing to me. Nothing. Leave me here alone.”

His expression softened, pain flickering in his eyes, but he said nothing further. Wanda turned her back to him, collapsing to the ground, her sobs shaking her body. Each visit, each attempt from Vision to reach her only reminded her of her mistake, only carved the ache in her chest deeper.

She had chosen a fleeting dream over the life that had always been hers—and now, she was left with nothing but regret, the bitter taste of the choice she made over her true eternity.

---

No happy endings this time...

[fatecast]

she followed anyways ──── wanda x fem!reader

After an argument, you try to reach out to Wanda but the maid interrupts, and later Wanda follows you outside to quietly reconcile.

warnings ⚘. estblashed relationship (married), ceo!wanda, fluff, hurt/comfort, a kiss at the end

The front door clicked softly as Wanda stepped inside, the sharp scent of her perfume lingering in the air like a gentle reminder of the day she’d just left behind. Her blazer was still crisp, the kind of precise armor she wore to conquer the boardroom.

In the kitchen, you stood by the stove, stirring slowly, the soft scrape of the spoon against the pot the only sound. Your back was to her, shoulders stiff, jaw tight. The usual warmth in your eyes was nowhere to be found.

“Hey,” Wanda’s voice was low, careful—like testing the surface of a fragile glass. “Are you alright?”

Without turning, you answered flatly, “Yeah. I’m fine.”

She stepped closer, a trace of concern knitting her brow. “Really? You don’t seem fine.”

You didn’t pause, but the edge in your voice sharpened. “God, Wanda, yes! I’m fine!”

Her eyes flickered, surprised by the sudden flare. “Why are you so angry? I was just checking on you.”

You turned then, frustration boiling up. “Can you just... leave me alone?”

For a heartbeat, Wanda’s gaze held yours—quiet, steady. Then, almost imperceptibly, she nodded.

“Fine,” she said, voice soft but firm, almost a whisper.

Without another word, she turned and walked away, the soft click of her heels fading as she disappeared down the hallway toward her office, leaving you alone with the simmering silence and the steady scrape of the spoon against the pot.

The bedroom was dim, curtains drawn against the creeping night outside. Wanda sat propped against the headboard, laptop balanced on her lap, fingers gliding over the keys with practiced ease. She didn’t look up as you entered, eyes fixed on the screen, brows knit just slightly—an expression you’d rarely seen on her, especially not directed at you.

Your heart dropped. Wanda wasn’t the type to hold onto anger for long; she was usually patient, warm, steady. But now, this quiet distance felt like a wall you hadn’t expected.

You hesitated at the doorway, then moved slowly to the edge of the bed and sat down. Your gaze dropped to your hands for a long moment before you finally glanced up, reaching out with a tentative hand toward her arm. The familiar comfort you usually found in her presence felt fragile, almost out of reach.

Just as your fingers brushed the soft fabric of her sleeve, the bedroom door creaked open.

You froze.

The maid stepped inside, eyes apologetic as she caught your gaze. Wanda didn’t even flinch.

The moment shattered.

The moment the door creaked open, your fingers snapped back like they’d burned you. A sudden sting bloomed behind your eyes — tears threatening to spill. You swallowed hard, unwilling to let them fall, and quickly stood.

“I... I’m sorry,” you muttered, voice breaking as you hurried past the maid and Wanda, your steps uneven as you rushed out of the room.

Wanda’s eyes followed you, the fragile mask she wore cracking just a little, a shadow of pain flickering across her face.

The maid’s soft voice followed after you, “I’m so sorry, ma’am,” her apology barely audible over the quick beat of your retreating footsteps.

You didn’t respond. You just kept walking, Wanda silently trailing behind you, the distance between you heavy but closing.

It felt hard to breathe. You’d never had an argument with Wanda before—never this cold, this distant. And now, the maid might know. The thought made your cheeks burn with embarrassment. You’d almost been honest, almost reached out for the comfort you so desperately needed, only to be interrupted and exposed.

You didn’t want anyone to see you like this—vulnerable, fractured.

Without another word, you stepped out onto the back patio, the cool night air hitting your face like a splash of reality. The city lights flickered softly in the distance, but all you could focus on was the tightness in your chest.

Your hands gripped the railing, knuckles whitening, as you took a deep, shuddering breath—trying to calm the storm inside you, trying to find your footing again.

The door behind you clicked softly, and before you could speak or move, Wanda stepped out onto the patio. The night wrapped around her like a cloak, but her presence was warm, steady. She paused behind you, then gently rested a hand on your shoulder, a quiet reassurance in the cool air.

Without a word, she shifted to stand beside you, her body close, safe. Slowly, she pulled you into her, a soft embrace that promised you weren’t alone.

You turned into her, tears spilling quietly, the sobs muffled against the fabric of her jacket. She held you gently, as if you might break, and kissed your forehead—soft, tender, grounding.

Wanda’s hand moved gently to your cheek, her thumb tracing tender circles as she leaned in and pressed her lips softly to yours. The kiss was warm and slow, grounding you in the moment, like an unspoken apology and a promise all at once.

She pulled back just enough to brush her thumb lightly over your tears, wiping them away with delicate care.

In the hush of the night, a soft smile tugged at your lips—small, shy, but real. Wanda caught it and returned it with a smile just as gentle.

“You’re so pretty when you smile like that,” she murmured, voice low and filled with affection.

You blinked, heart fluttering, and felt the tightness inside ease, if only a little, wrapped in the quiet comfort of her presence.

notes ⚘. sorry for the disappointment it's not smut lmao im in a fluff/hurt/comfort mood

[kaziee2]

Omg, Buff Rumi literally has me on a choke hold 😍

I heard that Rumi has an 8-pack. That she is shredded...

[softlymaximoff]

Always and forever

18+ ONLY! MEN & MINORS DN/ (blank blogs will be blocked you do not have my permission to republish my work onto any platform.

Summary: when Agatha and Rio come back from vacation they stir up a bratty little bunny in the hands of their neighbours Wanda and Natasha. Their patience with your attitude and quips is running dangerously thin. Nat finds it amusing to an extent but Wanda’s having none of it.

Characters: Mommy!Wanda, Daddy!Nat x brat!fem!reader || neighbours!AgathaRio

Warnings: lots of fingering, mentions of choking, gentle sub space and aftercare, mean Wanda, biting, mentions of oral fixation, overstim, begging, spreader bar, vibrators, edging, traffic light system/ safe word check ins. I THINK THATS IT!

Word Count: 4.5k words

Patience was never your strong suit, neither Natasha’s nor Wanda’s. Particularly when you were in a mood from having their attention taken away from you during conversations with Agatha and Rio over the fence. The five of you were good friends, great friends even. The coupled neighbours were familiar and safe company, having been invited to many of their hosted dinners, lunches, brunches you name it. Today however, you had been helping Wanda in her garden picking out fresh berries and vegetables for the week when Rio ever the friendly neighbour chimed in. “If that isn’t the cutest thing I’ve seen this week. Apart from Agatha failing to make me brownies yesterday” her voice was smug and full of mischief.

Your ears perked up and went to thank her before you realised she was practically eye fucking Wanda. A low sound vibrated within your chest and in the corner of your eye you saw Nat lean against the doorframe leading inside. She had heard Agatha’s car pull up and Rio’s voice trail off towards the side of their house. They normally never split up and Nat was a spy after all, she knew Rio all too well, she wanted something, or better yet, cause a playful stir. “Oh look and there’s your precious little bunny too. Hi sweetheart” she cooed sickly sweet to you and as much as you fawn over praise, this time it just felt condescending.

“Rio, ever a joy to see” Wanda paid you no mind as she chuckled and discarded her gloves before heading over to the fence where Rio was coyly waiting with her arms out. The hug was a quick exchange but to you felt like a thousand years. Your eyes narrowed as you then saw Agatha walk down their back steps to also greet Wanda. This was supposed to be your time with her. She had just come back from an avengers meeting yesterday and by the time she got home you were fast asleep so ultimately you hadn’t seen her for ever and you wanted her and her only.

A hand on the small of your back snapped you back into reality and Natasha had a knowing smirk plastered on her stupidly perfect lips. “Calm down. They’ve been away for weeks. Wanda’s just catching up” the Russian murmured with a controlled tone and your shoulders slumped slightly. “Mine” you grumbled and picked at the hem of your shorts, a quirk Natasha had grown to scold you for over the months of your relationship. All Natasha did was hum in amusement knowing you weren’t actually feeling upset just jealous and possessive. “C’mon let’s say hi” she took your hand in hers and left you no room for argument as she walked with confidence to the fence, your stubborn footsteps echoing behind hers.

“Ladies” Nat greeted them the same way Wanda did and gave your hand a gentle warning squeeze. “Hi” you waved to them and felt Wanda’s eyes on you. “Behave” her voice echoed in your head and you glared at her when their attention was on the Russian. You wriggled out of Natasha’s grip and stood as close as you could to Wanda, to the point where some would think you were actually glued together. Your hand found Wanda’s hands and immediately started fiddling with her rings. “And you doll, how are you?” Agatha turned her attention to you but all you could see was the way Rio was pushing her chest out and staring Wanda down like she was prey.

“Mine” you growled defensively, completely ignoring Agatha’s question and locking onto Rio. All she did was smirk, and purse her lips. Wanda on the other hand, gave your hip a warning pinch and a reassuring kiss to your jaw. “Always and forever. Rio stop riling her up, you know how she gets when you start shit she can’t handle” Wanda rolled her eyes at the scene and Rio chuckled before easing up and giving Agatha a kiss on the lips. “Well it was nice catching up quickly we should all do something over the weekend. Put our pool and your great cookings skills to use” Agatha pointed a teasing finger in Wandas direction and the Sokovian nodded quickly in agreement.

As the five of you bid goodbyes, Wanda’s finger’s were nimbly playing with one of your belt loops. Natasha’s hand swinging your free one back and forth absentmindedly. “I’d say they had a good trip” Natasha concluded from the conversation over the fence and Wanda hummed sweetly. “If Rio’s neck were any more littered with Agatha’s trademark you’d think she’d lost a fight against a mountain lion” Wanda smirked at the way your chest rose ever so slightly at the mention of her name. Natasha also caught it. “Yeah in bed” the Russian’s response was witty and quick, paying no mind to your current jealousy. “You’re awfully quiet devochka-krolik (bunny girl)” Wanda feigned her sympathy as the three of you finally stepped into the house.

You ignored her comment and kicked your shoes off, slipping onto the couch grumpily. Natasha rolled her eyes at your attitude and sat next to you, wordlessly moving you so you were plastered in the middle of the couch. Wanda joined the two of you shortly after she put her herbs in the kitchen for a later task, sitting on the other side of you. Wanda raised an eyebrow and Natasha smirked lazily. “Hello? Earth to my favourite bunny?” Wanda tried again but received a glare from you. Natasha’s hands were tracing small patterns on the outside of your thigh, attempting to alleviate the building tantrum.

“I don’t like the way she gives you ‘fuck me’ eyes every goddamn time when she sees me with you. Be friends with a witch they say, trust a witch they say. Yeah, well that fucking witch is a bitch” you glared at the seams of the couch and growled at the confession as the exchange kept replaying in your head. “Watch your fucking tone little one” Wanda’s hands were instantly cupping your jaw and tilting your head up to meet her eyes. Your scowl however never left and she squeezed a little more. “Fix your attitude or I will. That’s a fucking promise” she threatened in a low voice, her green eyes piercing into yours under the warm morning light. It was a tense few seconds before you shrugged your face out of her palm and rolled your eyes. Now that, that made Natasha chime in.

She lowered her head slightly and she brought her lips to the shell of your ear, “I wouldn’t even think about pushing it malen’kiy parshivets (little brat)” its like her voice was coated in honey with a sinful taste. The Russian language always made you feel a certain way and they knew exactly when to use it. A low whine left your lips and you kicked your feet, heels hitting the couch lightly but purposely. “It’s not fair! They flirt, you flirt back! You’re mine!” A desperate and jealous plea fell from your lips as your arms crossed and lips turned into another scowl. “Honey, they’re just being friendly. The four of us go way back you know that. They know that we’re yours” Natasha chuckled humorously and gave you a fake pout when you grumbled.

“Not with the way Rio was fucking throwing her tits in Wanda’s face. The nerve that witch has I swear to god I’ll make a goddamn point that you’re mine next time I see her” you spat dangerously and Wanda’s eyes locked onto you. “Watch your words little girl” the witch growled and brought her hand up again to rest on the base of your neck, thumb brushing just under your jaw. “You’ve got all of three seconds to fix your tantrum so we can forget about it and have a day night together like I had planned” her tone was clipped and daring you to disobey, something you did best when you got like this, jealous and stubborn. “Why don’t you plan a day with Rio since you’re defending that fucking manipulative witch anyway.” it slipped out before you could realise. The room was an eerie quiet. “Wanda I’m-” you rushed out but the look she gave you was enough to make you cower ever so slightly.

“Upstairs now. Do not make me wait or repeat” her voice was laced with control and a little bit of hurt and god did you want to take it all back but you just couldn’t. She was sending you off before she could say anything hurtful or mean, you knew that and yet your jealousy was bigger than your sympathy at this point. With a frustrated huff you slinked away from the living room and into your shared bedroom. Did she want you to strip? Kneel? Sit on the bed? You hadn’t been given any other instructions other than going upstairs. You could faintly make out their conversation from downstairs and your cheeks flushed when you heard a few stray words being repeated from your outburst only moments before. After an agonising five minutes you decided to perch yourself up on the end of the bed, criss cross applesauce style and fiddled with the loose strands from your shorts. Now sitting in your thoughts, an anxious feeling gnawed at you as they still hadn’t come up to you.

Did you push them to their limit? Did you actually fuck up for real? Was Wanda okay? Did she hate you? Does she still want to be your girlfriend? Your thoughts were so loud, almost deafening and you hadn’t noticed the tremble in your hands or the way your heart was sporadically beating now. “Colour?” A soft voice made you jump and your head shot up to the intruder. There, standing in the doorway was Nat, Wanda was no where in sight which made you panic even more. “Green I think, Where’s Wanda?” A slight raise in octave in your voice and Natasha knew you were starting to spiral. “Take a breath for me, she still loves you she’s just cooling off for a minute.” The Russian padded across the floor and joined you at the end of the bed standing in front of you.

“Arms up” she murmured softly and you complied quite easily despite everything. She took her time in taking your top and bra off, running a delicate hand across your front just getting lost in you. “Shorts off devochka-krolik (bunny girl)” another soft command left her lips as she stepped back for you to stand and you were in no rush as she admired you. Once fully bare, she pulled you in for a slow but dominant kiss, one hand on your neck the other snaking it’s way between your legs. She made no effort in giving you what you wanted though, she just ran a teasing finger across the inside of your thigh. “Colour” she pulled away as you struggled to form a sentence. “Green but I want Wanda” you sighed into the junction of her collarbone and neck.

“And I told you she was cooling off, lie down on the bed zaya (bunny)” Natasha cooed as she turned you around and motioned for you to get up on the bed. “Do you want the black silk or red ribbon” she asked as she started to remove her own clothes, your mind went blank as she stripped, eyes glued every little detail of her body. “Don’t ignore me” she sing songed in with a smirk. “Ribbon please” you squeaked out as she made her way on the bed and traced your thighs with precision and control. “Red just like Mommy, how sweet” Wanda’s voice interrupted the quiet and you immediately went to greet her but Natasha was quicker and placed a stern hand on your chest as she straddled your middle. “Stay still” she warned and you fought every urge to disobey. “Daddy’s gonna tie your hands and Mommy’s gonna have her turn to play with you” Natasha whispered against your ear as she started tying your wrists together to the headboard and a small whine left your lips.

The sound of your whine made Wanda roll her eyes unamusedly. Not at all fazed at your behaviour or attitude. “What a shame that you can be our perfect little bunny with the fucking attitude of a needy little brat” Wanda’s lips pursed together and she ran a calculated finger across your lower tummy. “Maybe if you listened for once in your life you’d get the reward you hoped for. Mommy’s gonna fuck Daddy right here while she’s on top of you.” Wanda mused as she casually slipped two fingers through your folds, emphasising the word. The Russian chuckled at your frown and kissed the pout away, arching her back just enough for her chest to hover over your sensitive nipples. Wanda pulled Natasha down a little further so she was directly in line with you and the spy released a tense breath when Wanda started slow circles on her clit. “How pretty, Daddy and her bratty bunny all exposed for me” Wanda hummed as she slipped a teasing finger through Natasha’s folds. “Don’t fucking tease Wanda” Natasha almost growled but let out a groan when Wanda unapologetically slapped her ass as a warning.

“I’m not the one lying naked right now. Behave or our bunny won’t be the only one with a sore ass tomorrow” Wanda narrowed her eyes but kept her ministrations up. “God Nat, you’re literally dripping onto her” Wanda let out almost an animalistic growl at the sight and grinned when Natasha ground her hips down onto you. “Mommy please” you whimpered, you needed to feel something, anything and they knew it. They were just being mean. “Aw look at that, now you want to use manners” Wanda cooed and removed her fingers from Natasha, wasting no time to push them straight into you, fingering you lazily like she had all the time in the world. The fact that you knew her fingers were coated in Natasha made your head spin. “So fucking messy” Wanda murmured at the sight in front of her. Natasha was making a mess just above your pussy and you were making a mess down your own thighs. A strangled moan escaped your lips as Nat wrapped her lips under your jaw and sucked, hard.

“yebuchaya shlyukha (fucking slut)” Wanda chuckled darkly as you tried to raise your hips in hope of getting more attention. You let out a frustrated huff as Wanda pulled out completely and moved to the side of the bed to face you. She grabbed your jaw with her clean hand and locked eyes with you, bringing her slick coated fingers to her mouth, sucking them clean. “Mommy” you whined frustratedly. It was one of your favourite things to do, normally they’d make you clean their fingers off. This wasn’t fair! “Keep her entertained Nat, I need to get a few things” Wanda let go of your face and patted your cheek condescendingly before she disappeared into the closet. “Looks like it’s just you and me devochka-krolik (bunny girl)” the red head murmured as she sat up, running her hands across your bare chest, skimming over your nipples. “I wonder what would happen if Daddy did this?” Natasha asked in faux suspicion as her fingers traced your nipples, leaning down to wrap her lips around one while twisting the other one gently.

Your back arched as she sucked deliberately, teeth grazing and soothing it with a swirl of her tongue. “I’d say by that reaction you enjoyed it, but we can’t leave the other one out can we?” She mocked sympathy and gave you the same treatment, if not more intense to your other nipple. “Such a sensitive little bunny hmm?” She teased and rolled her eyes as you glared at her. “Pretty fucking hard not to be” you barked back and in an instant, her hand was wrapped around the base of your throat. “Watch your fucking mouth dorogaya, you’re already on a thin line” she snarled lowly and you flicked your eyes off her piercing green ones. With a satisfied smirk, she let go of your throat and dragged her hands down the front of your chest just drawing silly patterns until Wanda came back with a vibrator and spreader bar. “Spread your legs zaya (bunny)” Wanda ordered and you complied quickly, not wanting to ruin your chances of an orgasm any more than you already have.

Once tied securely on the bar, Wanda brought Nat down again and the widow grinned at what her girlfriend had planned. “Once Daddy cums then you can. If you cum before her that’ll be the only time tonight.” Wanda warned as she turned the vibrator on and positioned it between the two of you. The second it made contact with your clit you involuntarily bucked your hips upwards, pushing it further onto Natasha’s clit. “Oh god” the spy groaned and started grinding her hips down into you, taking back the control. Wanda ever the tease started working Natasha open, two fingers steadily pumping in her pussy as she collected more of her slick. “Messy messy girls” she hummed and curled her fingers ever so slightly against Natasha’s walls. You were panting and squirming, attempting to close your legs against the spreader bar and Wanda held in a chuckle. “Is it too much sweet girl? What’s your colour zaya” She pouted and left an open palm smack right onto your pussy. “Green Mommy” you tugged at your wrists trying to free them but to no avail and Natasha laughed breathlessly into the crook of your neck. “Next time don’t be a brat” she stuttered out as Wanda raised the intensity of the vibrator.

A sharp smack echoed out into the bedroom and a muffled moan followed it. Wanda had also taken advantage of Natasha’s position and delivered another open palm smack on the rear of her ass, the widow jolting into you and the vibrator. Your head was spinning, the weight of Natasha onto you and the vibrator nestled right between made that smack feel like the gateway to an orgasm. “Do it again Wanda, you almost broke her” Natasha giggled darkly and Wanda had a wicked grin plastered across her face. You barely had two seconds to recover when another smack rained down on Natasha rippling into you. “Mphf Mommy- please-” you whined but hitched your breath when Wanda ignored you and did it again, this time Natasha added a subtle hip roll to experiment. Your hips bucked up into her violently and you cried out weak profanities. “Aw Natasha, posmotri na nashu malen'kuyu shlyukhu (look at our little whore)” Wanda cooed and you blinked at her, your brain foggy and your pussy clenching around nothing. Natasha knew how to control her orgasms she still had a little more in her, you however were a complete mess.

Your eyes shot to Wanda when you felt her fingers slip in between the two of you and turn the vibrator off, pulling it away. “No! Mommy please-” you pleaded desperately but got cut off when Natasha shut you up with a messy and hungry kiss. You bit down onto her lip when Wanda shoved three fingers into you and Natasha ground her hips simultaneously. The widow groaned at the faint taste of blood and pulled away a fraction off your lips “fucking vampire” she mumbled and went back in to continue her sloppy make out session with you. You gasped into the kiss when you felt Wanda’s tongue lick a bold stripe against your pussy, meeting Natasha’s while she rolled her hips into you. “God the two of you taste absolutely delicious. Colours?” the witch mumbled against the two of you and Natasha shuddered lightly.

“Green! Mommy please!” You cried out as you struggled to find any friction while Natasha tried to control her breathing against your neck. “Green Wanda. If you don’t fucking-” Natasha groaned breathlessly as Wanda slipped her tongue inside Natasha’s folds, sucking gently when her tongue traced up to her clit. You were trapped underneath and couldn’t do anything about it other than whine and hope they give you some attention. Natasha’s composure was slowly crumbling as she attached her lips to your neck and tried to conceal her moans with messy and sloppy kisses. A particularly harsh suck from Wanda caught Natasha off guard and she bit down into the soft skin of your neck, the mix between pain and pleasure sending you into a complete frenzy. “Please please please-” you chanted, head thrown back, arms pulled tight against the ribbon, neck littered with deep blues and purples and all Wanda did was slip one finger into your soaked folds, both from Natasha’s slick, Wanda’s spit and your own slick. “I think Daddy’s close don’t you devochka-krolik (bunny girl)” the witch mumbled into Nat and you cried out. “Yes! I do! Daddy’s close please Mommy! Please please please!” You were absolutely desperate, pleading like reciting a prayer. “Wanda I swear to fucking god-” Natasha panted and held onto the last bit of control she could before Wanda mumbled an ‘okay’ into her and used every skill she had to bring Natasha over the edge.

Wanda never let up on her pace, lapping up every bit she could as Natasha trembled on top of you. Her breathing was laboured as Wanda helped ride out her high, tongue idly teasing and tasting every bit of her. It wasn’t until Natasha tried to wriggle off you that Wanda realised you were waiting for their permission to cum. You had your eyes closed and your chest was rising up and down shakily. “Does our bunny need some help?” She pouted and slipped her middle finger into your soaked, palm flat against your clit and kept it still. “If you want it so bad do it yourself” she shrugged absentmindedly as Natasha retreated to the bathroom to grab a washcloth for later. You whined and panted as she stuck to her word and didn’t help in the slightest, your hips were aggressively grinding down on her palm but the bar was pissing you off. “Need- out- bar off-” you screwed your eyes shut and arched your back trying anything and everything to get some sort of rhythm. Wanda seemed to take pity on you as she sighed and made quick work of untying you from the restraint, your legs locking her in place as you attempted to chase your high. It still never came.

“Mommy please!” You wailed out for the last time, tears rolling freely down your cheeks and the witch smirked before giving you everything. Her tongue wrapped around your clit and she sucked it hungrily, three fingers pumping in your now over sensitive folds as she pretty much made out with your pussy. “Mommy, mommy, mommy” you chanted as she sent you flying over the edge blindly. She was greedy, almost sadistically greedy, always was when she has her lips on both you and Nat. You don’t even know when Natasha came back with a washcloth or when she went downstairs to grab water. Wanda was still in between your legs, making the most of how pliable you were and just how fucking good you taste. It was only when Natasha grabbed a fistful of Wanda’s hair to pull her off you that she saw just how pussy drunk Wanda was. “Kiss me” Natasha whispered and without missing a beat, Wanda pulled her in, the spy groaning at the taste of you on Wanda’s lips. “Babe you killed her” Natasha murmured after the two of them pulled away flushed and heightened.

Wanda turned around to see your chest rising and falling rapidly with your eyes closed. She rolled her eyes playfully and carefully crawled on top of you to untie your wrists, kissing them as they slumped down on either side of your head and a huff left your lips. “Thank you for grabbing all that” Wanda mused as she spotted everything her girlfriend brought back and the Russian smiled softly. “Someone had to do it and you’re too greedy to give up. Didn’t even get naked what a shame” she chuckled and joined the two of you on the bed, bringing over the washcloth. Wanda lifted you up slightly so she could shuffle behind you, your back resting on her still clothed chest. Natasha delicately ran the cloth over your pussy and you whined tiredly, unintentionally kicking your legs. The Russian shushed your fuss and made quick work of getting you cleaned up the best she could before you could attack her any more. “C’mon my love you gotta drink a little water for me” Wanda spoke softly, resting the glass to your lips but you groaned and turned your head into her neck.

Aftercare was a big thing between the three of you and you knew they specifically fawn over you more so Wanda grabbed your jaw gently and repeated her words. This time you opened your mouth ever so slightly making Wanda narrow her gaze, not that you were watching but it came naturally to her. She tipped the glass just enough for some water to drop it and she mumbled a few praises as you lazily gulped the mouthful down. “Good girls do swallow” Natasha snickered from somewhere next to you and she fake gasped as your heavy hands turned into a middle finger. “Don’t poke the bear Nat” Wanda warned playfully and she carded you off to Nat as she herself stripped off and joined the two of you in bed moments later. A midday nay never hurt anyone right? Natasha was slowly but surely dozing off behind you and Wanda was mindlessly scrolling on her phone, looking at some texts sent earlier today from Agatha. A few photos of Agathe and Rio on their holiday, some random videos of Rio chasing squirrels with Agatha telling her off in the background, Agatha’s poorly made brownies. A soft giggle left her lips as a particular photo showed both neighbouring witches with flour and brownie dough painting their faces.

What she didn’t anticipate was a hand lazily swatting away her phone. Her head snapped towards you and she couldn’t help but hold in a chuckle. You had a pout quite evident on your face and another middle finger held up, eyes still closed. “Mine” you mumbled through your haze and Wanda booped your nose, placing her phone on the nightstand as she sandwiched you between her and Natasha. “Always and forever bunny” she kissed your lips softly and your body melted even more than she could imagine. You were purely in a soft sleepy fucked out haze and she wouldn’t change it for the world.

[micjimbles777]

I LOVE MY WIFE I LOVE MY WIFE I LOVE MY WIFE I LOVE MY WIFE I LOVE MY WIFE I LOVE MY WIFE I LOVE MY WIFE I LOVE MY WIFE I LOVE MY WIFE I LOVE MY WIFE

My Number One Witchy Woman!!! She’s My Everything Truly

Also Shout out to My Amazing twin Step Son f/os Billy & Tommy

[shadyfestivalperfection]

Peter: The lights are flickering!!

Y/N: It’s probably a ghost.

Sam: Don’t say that.

Y/N: Ghosts love me. I’m hot and chaotic.

Wanda (floating behind them): She’s not wrong.

[wandaverse]

meet me in the pale moonlight.

vampire countess!wanda x human painter!reader

summary: In the early 1870s, the young and renowned Y/N arrives in the bustling New York City looking for a new start. Little does she know that a creature of the night lurks in the shadows and that there’s something sinister about the woman she’s become enamoured of, the elusive Countess Maximoff.

warnings/tags: dom!wanda, fem sub!reader, smut, oral, cunniIingus, fingering, mas0chism, blood klnk, hints of humiliation and praise klnk, thigh and foot riding, age gap if you squint, wanda calls r pet, 18+ / MINORS DNI

word count: 10,284

moodboard

Clipping your bag safely back onto your belt, you bid the kind dressmaker farewell and motion to leave her Madison Avenue boutique.

Several days ago and after a rather lengthy trip aboard a steamship across the Atlantic, you finally arrived in the hustling and bustling New York City, the city of dreams in the land of opportunity.

Over the years, you have developed quite a respectable reputation as a commissioned portrait artist for the wealthy with an admired talent that both boosts their egos as well as your own wealth. After a lifetime of travelling across the European continent, you decided to migrate to the Americas in search of a new opportunity, or rather a muse to reignite your inspiration and maybe for a little fun on the side too.

The dressmaker quickly assures you that she’ll have your clothes ready by the end of the week, a welcome relief since you’re still waiting for your remaining belongings to arrive by sea.

On your way out of the boutique, you thank her one last time, not paying attention to your surroundings and distractedly bumping into another woman with a fright.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry! Are you quite alright?” the esteemed lady apologises profusely.

You swiftly regain your bearings and brush her off. “It is no problem at all. I apologise as well for not watching where I was going,” you say guiltily.

The instant you both glance up though, she seemingly forgets about the entire ordeal. You recognise immediately the starstruck look on her face that can only mean that she somehow knows who you are, that word of your talents has already travelled across the seas through migrated aristocrats and the like.

“My word! You’re Y/N Y/L/N, aren’t you?” she asks breathlessly.

With a smirk that you try your best to mask as humble, you can’t deny the pride of being so quickly recognised in this new city.

“Indeed I am, a pleasure to make your acquaintance Ms…?”

“Agatha Harkness, dear, but my friends call me Agnes. It’s lovely to meet you,” she introduces with a shake of your extended hand. “Say, I don’t believe I heard word that you were in our fine city. And I assure you, I would have if it were known. No news gets past me. If anything, I’m always the first to know.”

You bet she is, you nod overwhelmed, quietly taking in the words of someone who is clearly a gossip.

There’s an odd and rather manic intensity about her, you notice. You brush it off as the typical artificial friendliness of the elite and especially of the nouveau riche, which you suspect Agnes is.

And yet, it still feels like something is off about her, like she’s not quite herself, a peculiar strain in her smile and an emptiness behind her eyes. How odd.

“I only arrived a few days ago, is why. All my luggage hasn’t even arrived yet.”

“I see… if that’s the case, why I don’t suppose I could commission you then? Be the first American to have their very own Y/L/N painting?” she requests giddily.

Her excitement rubs off on you, no matter how eerie, and you can’t deny her. “Well, I don’t see why not. I’ll have my people be in contact with you to sort out the details soon.”

“My, I can’t believe my luck!” she celebrates. “Oh! You must attend my gala tonight. Please, be my guest of the evening. Let me have the honour of being the one to introduce you to our society here.”

Once again, you’re charmed by her fierce enthusiasm. “Of course, the honour shall be mine.”

Frankly, you don’t really think it’ll be any different from the circles you traversed in Europe, but who knows, maybe you’ll meet someone intriguing.

—

Later that evening, long after the sun has already set, you step out of your personal carriage at Harkness Hall, located in the newer district of the Upper East Side.

Politely being escorted through the manor, you finally arrive at the ballroom and when the grand doors open, all eyes instantly land on you as you are faced with similar expressions of recognition as Agnes’. Said woman speedily and yet somehow elegantly races up the steps, rushing to your side.

Delicately tapping a fork against the side of her champagne glass, she easily silences the commotion in the crowd below. “Might I have your attention, my friends, to introduce you to my esteemed guest of the evening, the wonderfully talented Miss Y/N Y/L/N.”

As soon as she finishes, a rush of wealthy men and women alike gasp and rush to the foot of the stairs. Agnes proudly links her arm around yours, as if you were childhood friends instead of mere acquaintances, and leads you down the stairs into the pit that awaits you. For a second, and only a second, a rush of anxiety ambushes you but you mask it with some well-practiced charm.

For the next while, Agnes personally introduces you to all the socialites interested in portraits of their own, showing off the fact that she is your first client.

You quickly tire of their suffocating attention and it’s only when you peer past the crowd that you notice that one lone woman hasn’t so much as flinched at your presence, instead remaining in the shadows along the walls and gracing you with only a mere glance.

As the night rages on, you curiously observe the intriguing woman from across the ballroom. With a keen eye, you take note of her every detail. Of her deep burgundy gown so dark it almost resembles blood when illuminated in the light, of her thin black birdcage veil that covers her eyes behind the intricate lace, and committing it all to memory.

She moves with a certain refined grace you’ve only seen few nobles possess and despite primarily keeping to herself, exudes an intimidating and rather domineering aura felt throughout the hall. Only a few dare to approach her, some men who don’t know any better and a few attendants who don’t have any other choice. Every so often, she catches your gaze and you almost feel the air leave your lungs.

When the crowd eventually disperses, you pull at the link between your and Agnes’ arms and inquire about your newest interest. “Agnes, might I ask, that woman over there standing alone by the fireplace, who is she?”

“Ahh, why that would be the elusive Countess Maximoff. Our Lady Wanda hails from a distant European kingdom, or so she says. Frankly, she could be anyone from anywhere in the world considering how little we all know about her,” she briefly explains.

Countess Wanda Maximoff, you recite in your mind. A fascinating yet beautiful name for an equally as alluring woman.

“She’s a well-known and respected socialite in this city. In fact, she might even be the richest of all of us, but no one knows for sure, just as no one knows exactly what she is a Countess of,” Agnes continues, unprompted. Internally, you thank her for being so nosy.

“I must apologise, unfortunately that is really all I know about her. She was already residing in New York when I arrived from Salem many months ago,” she admits. “I do know, however, that she has no husband or family of her own. The rumours are that she had a husband once and that he either died or simply disappeared. Either way, she isn’t a typical woman of our society.”

Lost in thought, you take in her words, all serving to only interest you more and more in the stunning yet seemingly solitary woman.

“Miss Y/N,” Agnes calls, breaking you out of your intense trance as you stare at the mysterious woman. “I must tell you, Lady Maximoff is actually currently staying as a guest at Harkness Hall. For a few days now actually, and for the next while when you complete my portrait.”

Oh?

Why doesn’t that make things all the more interesting…

“Y/N, it’s best that you stay away from her. Trust me, there’s something unusual about her that one must not associate themselves with,” Agnes warns you seriously, a stark contrast from the enthusiastic and bubbly person you’ve become familiar with today.

You turn to her and look in her eyes again. For the first time today, you detect a clarity in them, a genuineness that only confuses you more.

“Agnes, may I ask, why did you accept her as a guest if you dislike her so?” you question.

“No one says no to Wanda Maximoff,” Agnes replies ominously. “Every so often, she requests to stay with one of her ‘friends’ for a short while. It turns out that this time I drew the short straw. She always has some sort of excuse, she told me that her estate is undergoing works, but I’m certain she has other properties. All I know is you don’t disobey a woman like her.”

You give some thought to Agnes’ words, to her warnings and the seeping fear that comes through. And yet, the idea of such a strange woman, defiant to the strict norms of high society, who you don’t disobey, only intrigues you more and more.

You regard the woman in red and decide in the moment that no matter what, you’re going to solve the mystery of the elusive Wanda Maximoff, even if it kills you.

Dismissing Agnes’ warnings and brushing off her arm that attempts to pull you back, you waltz across the room and beeline toward Wanda. In the corner of your eye, you spot horrified looks from the other socialites around the room, but ignore them all the same and focus only on the woman in front of you watching you approach her with an amused yet impressed eye.

And you’re glad you do because up close, the Lady Maximoff is absolutely and entirely striking, breathtaking and enchanting and every other word you would use if you were a poet instead of an artist staring at her new muse.

Her milky skin is notably pale and perfectly contrasts against her chocolate brown hair, so soft you almost want to run your hands through the layered strands. Studying her bone structure, you note that it’s incredibly sharp and accentuated by the shadows, making her resemble a sculpture carved from marble come to life. Even under the lace veil, her eyes are enchanting, a clear sage green that complements her dark maroon dress.

For the first second or two, you find yourself rather speechless, the entire English language suddenly disappearing from your vocabulary as you take in her beauty.

In the same second, you notice offhandedly that she too rakes her eyes up and down your form. Feeling a shiver run down your spine under the weight of her gaze, you hope she appreciates the sight as much as you appreciate yours.

“Hello, Y/N Y/L/N, my lady,” you manage to say and extend your hand towards her.

“I know,” she replies with a smirk, seemingly entertained by your courage (or stupidity). “You’ve been quite popular tonight, among the ladies especially. The woman of the evening I hear.”

A part of you is secretly delighted. That means she’s noticed you just as much as you’ve noticed her. The other part is dazedly captivated by the deep lilt in her accent, hinting at whichever secretive European land she originates from, a part of the mystery you seek to soon unravel.

“And whose company do I have the pleasure of being graced with, might I ask?” you tease.

In response, she simply smirks at your charming attempts and finally accepts your hand. “Countess Wanda Maximoff,” she formally introduces, “but I’m sure you already knew that too.”

Delicately, you clasp her gloved hand in yours and place an innocent kiss below the back of her silk-covered knuckles. Proudly, you earn another smile from her at the endearing impropriety of a young girl pressing a gentlemanly kiss on the back of her hand.

“You’re awfully bold, aren’t you?” she remarks with a cock of her head.

“Artists love beautiful things,” you smirk. “It just so happens I’ve found the most beautiful of all.”

She scrunches her nose as she cringes at your flirtatious attempt. You don’t regret your words though when you mean it so sincerely.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Miss Y/L/N?” she asks, skipping the pretenses. “I’m sure you’ve already heard all the things they say about me.”

“I don’t care about them and what they have to say. I’d rather hear it all from you instead,” you profess.

Peering down at her wine glass, she smiles again at your attempts to charm her. This one seems a little more genuine though, a sign that your persistence (and perhaps, foolishness) is slowly piercing through her walls.

She looks back up at you and seemingly ponders your unsaid request as she pensively sips her wine. At last, she says, “Alright then, what would you like to know?”

You grin cheekily at having so easily won her favour. “Well for starters, pray tell me, which land do you come from?”

“Europe,” she answers simply.

You both know that you already knew that, both because Agnes already told you as well as the evident hints of Slavic you identify in her accent.

“Where might one find your county of ownership though, my Countess?” you attempt to press.

“I’m sure you’d like to know,” she teases with another smirk, just as mysterious and secretive as Agnes described.

You’ve spent your entire life travelling through Europe’s High Societies, from the Parisian aristocracy to Florence’s art scene, and yet you’ve never heard of or seen her before this night. And you’d certainly remember if you did, she’s not a face one forgets.

“So, we’re playing this game, are we?”

“You started it, Miss Y/L/N,” she matches your teasing tone.

You’ve noticed that she only calls you by your name formally, keeping a distance between the two of you despite having let you in more than anyone else tonight.

You’re even more aware of all the eyes on you, watching like hawks as your interaction plays out. How odd of a pair you must be, a sight to behold you’re sure. You’re keenly aware of how you’re likely equally as intriguing and alien as she is. How your existence defies the rigid social norms; a girl of your standing able to dance through high society while working to accumulate your own wealth and remaining single at a less than conventional age. You wonder if perchance, in this way, you interest her as much as she interests you.

Clearing your throat, you decide to accept that this is as much as you’ll learn about her tonight. “Agnes tells me you’re staying as a guest at Harkness Hall,” you segue instead.

Tilting her head once again, she lifts an eyebrow in curiosity. “That would be correct.”

“As I’m sure you’ve heard by now, I have been commissioned to paint a portrait for Ms Harkness.” Gently, you once again place a kiss on the back of her resting hand. “I suppose we’ll be seeing more of each other then,” you quietly bid farewell before walking away, not turning back although you know she’s following you with a curious eye.

Later throughout the night, the other cautious elites approach you one by one, all warning you to stay away from Wanda. There’s a certain look in their eyes that you can’t quite decipher yet, resembling that of Agnes’ expression if you really think about it. Something akin to fear or intimidation or something in between and like they’re trying to tell you something they can’t say with words. Their warnings only serve to further interest you in the Countess and the mystery that surrounds her though.

Returning your gaze to the woman before you depart for the evening, you find her already staring fervently at you with a smile you can only describe as devilish. Her pearly white teeth seem to sparkle under the chandelier’s light and you swear that from this side of the ballroom, you spot a glimmer of red in her eyes under the veil.

But, when you remember her beautiful green eyes, you suppose it’s simply a trick of the light.

—

The day after the next, you return to Harkness Hall for your first session with Agnes.

The moment you step foot through the doors, you instantly search for Wanda but are dismayed to fail in your pursuit, not even hearing word of her throughout the entire day. From morning to night, while you’re painting in Agnes’ drawing room or enjoying lunch with her in the garden, you never see Wanda even once.

You suppose it’s a large estate so it’s not hard to believe that your paths wouldn’t cross, but the thought does nothing to dispel the persistent pout on your face.

You honestly try your very hardest to focus on the woman posing in front of you, but the task is near impossible. You almost want to ask Agnes about Wanda, where she is and what she’s doing, but you suppose that would be highly improper. Not that you would typically care, you’d just rather not let it be known how taken you’ve become with her.

It’s only later that evening when you walk through the estate to take your leave, around the eleventh hour after the sun has already set and the hustle and bustle of Harkness Hall has come to a standstill, that your eyes once again find the Countess’ solitary form.

Bathed in the moonlight, the Lady sits by herself in the courtyard facing away from you. You’re once again struck by her beauty. In this pure light and under the night sky, her ivory skin almost glows. You briefly ponder the idea that she could be an angel descended from the heavens above.

Seemingly sensing your presence, despite how stealthily you’d hidden yourself behind the doorway, she spins around faster than you can blink and catches you.

“Miss Y/L/N,” she remarks with a drawl and that sinisterness that makes you think that more accurately, she must be a fallen angel sent to this world by the devil himself.

Matching your intense gaze, she simply says, “Come,” beckoning you to her side.

And you obey without a single objection, padding across the courtyard and placing yourself in the seat beside her obediently.

“I heard you were here painting Agnes today,” she brings up cordially.

Your eyes drop down and you notice her drinking something in her glass that oddly looks a little too dark and thick to be wine, that leaves a deep cherry stain on her lips that would otherwise be an unusual lipstick shade. You equally notice that despite her attempts at pleasant small talk, she doesn’t make any attempts to offer you a glass of whatever it is she’s drinking.

“I was,” you affirm. “I was….” hoping to see you, you trail off and keep to yourself, not wanting to seem desperate in her eyes despite how desperate for her attention you truly are.

She smiles to herself, seemingly hearing your confession all the same. She has a way of reading you without you saying a word.

“And how are you finding it so far?”

“It’s going as well as it can. Agnes is a wonderful subject,” you share, hiding the fact that the only woman you wanted to paint today was her.

A beat of silence passes, only the soft breeze of winter heard in the space you share.

“Have you ever sat for a portrait before?” you ask.

Shaking her head thoughtfully, she answers “No, never.”

“Why, might I ask? Your beauty is one I’m sure hundreds would flock to capture on canvas and stone.”

Inwardly, she smirks at your unrelenting boldness. “Yes… be that as it may, it’s not one I’m happy to share with the world for all to see,” she answers just as cryptically as everything else she’s told you thus far.

You suspect there’s a deeper and very real reason to it, but don’t question further. You’re happy to take as much as she gives you, as little as it is.

“Would you let me paint you one day?” you ask honestly.

Wistfully, she turns to glance up at the scattered stars in the clear sky, musing on your offer. “Perhaps,” she finally turns to look at you again, “if you’re a good girl.”

A fierce blush rushes to your cheeks as she gets up and caresses your chin with her gloved hand before leaning down and placing a fleeting kiss on the very cheek reddened by her teasing. As she saunters away from you, you watch her go and dazedly wonder if whatever she was drinking left its own stain on your skin.

Only when she walks past a statement mirror in the hallway are you pulled out of your trance. You can’t see her reflection, you remark.

Confused, you give it little thought before reasoning that it must be your tired eyes playing a trick on you.

—

Over the coming days, you return to Harkness Hall for your work with Agnes and continue seeking Wanda’s company.

Every time though, you only ever locate her after the sun’s gone down or alone in some secluded space like the library or tea room with the windows shut.

This time, you lose the fight and ask Agnes about her peculiar behaviour. She tells you that the Countess typically goes out at night and only returns in the early hours of the morning. Otherwise, during the day she either slumbers until the early afternoon or rests indoors.

Agnes doesn’t quite understand it either, but she’s neither questioning it nor complaining when it makes it a little easier for her to avoid the Lady. You thank her for her explanation (gossip), but it only piques your curiosity more and more, as does everything else you learn about Wanda.

Every time you do cross her path though, she always invites you to sit with her. Most of the time, she nurses a glass of the too-dark-and-too-thick wine. You never ask for a glass of your own or a taste and she never offers.

And every time, you find yourself entranced by her beauty for at least a minute or two or typically, much more. At times, you think she must be from another world, one so delicate and divine that man cannot and must not touch it lest it be corrupted. Other times you think her beauty is simply not human and must be a form of corruption of its own. But maybe that’s just the dramatic artist in you.

You’re saddened to say that after all this time though, you still don’t know much more about her, the mystery still largely unsolved. You know that she’s rich, she’s alone, and she’s the most beautiful woman you’ve ever laid your eyes on, which is essentially everything you already knew from the first night you met her.

She does occasionally share some stories with you though, of her life when she was younger in the foreign Slavic land you still haven’t identified. She tells you of growing up in a castle at the top of a mountain, of being bathed in the riches of love. “I’ve lost all the family I’ve ever known,” she confesses the next evening after you share stories of your own rough upbringing.

As always, she remains cryptically vague with every word she offers you, never giving you details and always leaving you wanting more.

Sometimes, she even reveals glimpses of her other facets like her interests and apparent appreciation for the theatre. “There’s a new musical on Broadway that I believe you’d enjoy,” she remarks offhandedly. Despite your attempts to suppress it, you feel a fluttering sensation within you at the prospect of seeing the Countess outside the walls of Harkness Hall, of even courting her if she allowed.

You’d like to think that you’re the only one honoured to hear these words from her, that you’re someone special to her as she is to you.

Other times when you come upon wherever she’s hiding and she doesn’t instantly detect you, you watch her quietly from the shadows, hiding away and observing her peaceful form. You fetch your pocket pad from the bag on your waist and roughly sketch her reading, birdwatching, embroidering or simply gazing at the night sky.

Then, you return home and paint her as accurately from memory as you can, attempting to capture her beauty with oil paints and canvas.

One day, you hope you’ll have a chance to show her how she’s become your muse and how you see her unlike anyone else.

—

Almost a week has passed since you started painting Agnes and you only know because you’ve been committing every encounter with the Lady Maximoff to memory.

Over the days, you’ve become comfortable and developed a routine of sorts for yourself. Around mid-morning, you arrive at Agnes’ manor and recommence work right away. Once noon comes, you have lunch with her in her expansive garden and enjoy tea with Wanda in the mid-afternoon if you can locate her, otherwise you greet her on your departure in the evening.

For the short while, you develop a new normal, which makes it all the weirder when a sense of unease overcomes the city and its inhabitants. From your own maids and coachmen to Agnes and the other elites you come across, everyone all of a sudden seems on edge. Almost like a blanket of doom and gloom has been laid over the city.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, it’s only Wanda who seems normal and unperturbed when you find her in her usual lounge chair in the courtyard under the moonlit sky. Once again, you obediently take the seat beside her.

Tonight, you can’t help but notice that she’s not nursing her favoured drink and if it were possible, she appears more pale than ever. You want to ask if she is well, but instead of overstepping, you decide to ask why everyone seems so off.

Pensively, she oddly smiles at your question and peer up at the sky. You follow her line of sight and see that the moon tonight is full and bright.

“Be careful, Miss Y/L/N,” is all she says as you turn to her again. There’s an unsettling look in her eye, like she knows something you don’t.

“You never know what’s hiding in the shadows, what creatures of the night lurk in the dark,” she warns ominously before turning to you and flashing a blinding smile. “One wouldn’t want something to happen to a pretty young thing like you.”

You gulp at her forbidding words and sudden predatory appearance, left only more confused and unnerved than ever. Flustered, you avert your gaze and miss the flash of crimson in her eyes.

—

The following evening, you’re half asleep in your carriage home when you abruptly realise you forgot a broken easel that you wanted to have fixed at Harkness Hall. Having requested your coachman retrieve it for you, you now patiently wait in your carriage in front of the estate.

Leaning your cheek on the window with a pout, you’re a little saddened since you didn’t see Wanda at all today, the first time it’s happened all week.

When you asked one of Agnes’ maids where the Lady was, she said she hadn’t seen Wanda all day either which meant she must’ve still been asleep since she didn’t hear her return until just before dawn. But then even on your way out a few moments ago, you still couldn’t find her in any of her usual hiding spots to your dismay. 

Staring out solemnly at the Upper East Side streets, you notice that it’s a lot quieter than usual. This district is typically much busier, even at this late hour with the wealthy enjoying their night on the town. 

However, it seems everyone is as on edge as they were the previous day. Most people have opted to stay inside with the windows shut, leaving the streets mostly empty barring a few passersby and dimly lit lamp posts. Even your coachman seemed a little less willing than usual to fulfil your request, as if he just wanted to rush the both of you home to safety. From what, you’re not too sure.

Sleepily, you lift your gaze and stare at the moon, slightly fuller and even brighter than it was the night before, having just reached the peak of its cycle. 

You admire its alluring beauty for a brief second until something in the alley across the road from your carriage catches your eye; a lone man and woman hidden in the shadows. You think they must be one of the only people who don’t fear what everyone else does to be lingering in the darkness like this. 

Intrigued, you study the pair when something strikes you. The woman throws her head back laughing and you catch a glimpse of her canines, so pearly and sharp you’re almost sure they look like fangs.

It’s only when you narrow your eyes and the woman leans forward out of the shadows into the light that you realise with a start, it’s Wanda.

—

When the sun rises and morning comes, you wake up safe in your bed but just as shaken.

With the calming of your heart, you reason that the events of the night before must have been a dream or even a hallucination of your tired mind. But you’ve been making the same excuse a lot lately and the image is etched so realistically in your memory it must be real.

In a daze, you ready yourself for the day and go to the dining room for the breakfast awaiting you. Perhaps some food in your stomach will wake you up from whatever this is, you think.

You’re distractedly munching on some berries when your handmaiden enters the room with a boiled kettle for your morning tea. It seems that the water isn’t the only thing bubbling this morning though.

“Miss! Have you heard the news?” she asks worriedly.

“I can’t say I have,” you answer, shaking your head. “What appears to have happened?”

“My, there’s been a murder! In an alley near Harkness Hall!”

Your blood instantly runs cold and you freeze like a bucket of cold water has been thrown on you.

“W-what?”

“A young man in his early 20s, foolish enough to stay out late on a full moon. They say his body was otherwise unmarked except for two puncture wounds in his neck. The sheriffs think it’s the Moonlit Killer again!” she frantically explains, every word striking your shaky bones.

“The Moonlit Killer?” you whisper to yourself in thought. “Who is that?”

“The city, no the state’s, very own serial killer, miss! No one knows who it is and they haven’t been caught yet, but for over a year now there have been murders across New York every full moon,” she tells you, the kettle completely forgotten as well as your breakfast which you know for certain you can no longer stomach with the tightening of your throat.

“The victims always match each other too, always young men taken in dark alleys and left with only two punctures in their necks.”

Like fangs…, you piece together.

It all makes sense now, why everyone was so on edge with the arrival of the full moon.

Quietly, you think back to what you witnessed last night. You’re sure it was Wanda. You would recognise her anywhere, in a crowded ballroom or even a… dark alleyway.

An image forms in your mind and you quickly race to your studio, ignoring the concerned calls of your handmaiden. You pull out a fresh canvas and your brushes and you paint and paint and paint.

You paint Wanda’s unusually pale ivory skin. You paint her red irises that you’ve seen on occasion. And lastly, you paint the sharp fangs you saw last night that lie where any other person’s canines would.

Once you’ve finished, you step back to take in your rough portrait and drop your brush in shock.

It can’t be…

You’ve only heard tales of them during your travels when instances similar to last night’s rocked the cities you visited. You’ve only seen frightening drawings of them in books that told farfetched legends of the undead.

Creatures of the night, skin as pale as the moon, pearly white fangs as sharp as blades, and most of all, eyes the colour of scarlet.

Everything suddenly makes sense now, pieces fall into place as the mystery is finally solved.

The glasses she’s always drinking of some liquid that looks too dark and thick to be wine must have been blood all this time and her main source of sustenance since you’ve never seen her eat a single crumb.

The way she oddly sleeps during the day and always shies away from sunlight, because if she didn’t she would quite literally be burned.

How you’re sure you’ve never seen her reflection in mirrors or water or windows because she doesn’t in fact have a soul to reflect.

Why no matter how much you asked around or researched about the elusive Countess, you could never obtain any information dating back earlier than over a year ago, precisely when the Moonlit Killer started taking their victims.

And how you’re certain that if you matched the homes of the other aristocrats she stayed with to the locations of the killings, it would all line up perfectly.

Countess Maximoff is… a vampire.

With the realisation, you’re filled with frightening clarity, both proudly smug at having unearthed her secret and slightly fearful at the true nature of the woman you’ve become enamoured of. Foolishly, you thought it was your eyes playing tricks or simple coincidences, but it’s too much to be.

For a second, you even think you must be going crazy to be entertaining this thought. Wanda… the beautiful, alluring, and bewitching woman… is a vampire. A monster? How could someone so enchanting be so horrific, though? So cruel…

But then you remember the old wives’ tales about sirens and succubi and creatures of sin that seduce and corrupt with their otherworldly beauty and frankly, now you’re only more sure of your discovery.

And that’s when it hits you… there’s only one way to test your theory.

—

That evening, you put your plan into motion. You haven’t much time. You figure in a few days she’ll announce her departure from Harkness Hall and return to her estate until she has to hunt for the next full moon, so why wait to confirm something you’re already so sure of.

In the dead of night, you pad through her designated wing and sneak into her bedchambers, awaiting her eventual return in the early morning. Earlier, you sent your carriage home with a feigned excuse and listened carefully to confirm that Agnes had retired for the evening.

Making yourself comfortable on Wanda’s loveseat, you patiently survey the door and await her arrival, alone in the dark room lit only by a few ruby candles and the bright moonlight.

In the Winter night, you feel the cool breeze on your exposed skin and shiver, pulling your coat tighter around you. Beneath it, you wear nothing but a lace blood red nightgown that leaves your neck bare in hopes of enticing her.

As expected, she’s absent for most of the evening, you assume too preoccupied with hunting her prey. Tonight, the moon is at the absolute peak of its cycle. Her lust for blood must be uncontrollable, but the thought only excites you more.

You almost fall asleep against your hand propped up on the armrest when finally, sometime between the second and third hour, you hear a shuffle outside the door that instantly wakes you.

Creaking, the door opens to reveal the Countess you’ve been waiting for, clad in a black hooded cloak and dark burgundy dress. Dark enough to conceal any bloodstains, you realise.

You suspect the city will awake to news of another victim at the hand of the Moonlit Killer, but that’s for whatever awaits you after the sun rises. Right now, you have your mystery standing in front of you, surprised to say the least to see you in her bedchambers and especially at this hour.

In the dimly lit room, you can barely see her if it weren’t for her skin that seemingly glows under the moonlight and the fleeting glint of red in her eyes that show themselves when she lifts off her hood and removes her cloak.

She’s as beautiful to you now as she was before you knew what kind of creature she really is. The thought leaves you as breathless as the sight of her. You think you would have fallen for her no matter who, or rather what, she is.

Fully facing your standing figure now, she smirks, knowing that there is something different about you tonight and this encounter. A sense of pride fills you at her sinister expression.

“Miss Y/L/N, what a surprise to find you here. Have you gotten lost in the middle of the night, sweet thing? Sleepwalked from the other side of the city, perchance?” she asks playfully. There’s a hint of something new in her tone, something a little demeaning. You can’t say you hate it. No… not at all.

“No, my lady. There is something I wish to discuss with you.”

She simply lifts an eyebrow in response, signalling you to continue while she hangs up her cloak and only offers you part of her attention. You almost want to beg to have all of it.

“I’ve been watching you,” you admit.

“I know you have. And what have you so skillfully unearthed, Miss Y/L/N?”

With a nervous gulp, you confess, “I know your secret, what you hide from the others.” Her ears seem to perk up with interest at your admission, but she’s still unsettlingly calm about the revelation.

“I know why you sleep during the day and what you do during the night. I know why you avoid sunlight at all costs and why no one seems to know anything about you. I know what you are.”

At last, she turns to you and gives you her full and complete attention. As much as you previously desired it, you quickly find yourself wilting under the weight of her stare.

Crossing the room in three strides, she stands face-to-face before you. “Oh? And pray tell, what exactly am I?” she teases and finally unveils the true scarlet hue of her eyes with a tilt of her head, equally as stunning as the green if not more bewitching.

It leaves you in a state of vulnerable immobility like prey trapped in the clutch of its predator and you pull at the sleeves of your coat in an attempt to regain your courage. Distantly, you wonder if perhaps there’s more to her species that the myths don’t yet know about, that perhaps she wields sinister abilities to influence the mind which would explain the eerie nature of Agnes’ facade.

“You’re… you’re a…”

Intimidatingly, she stalks to you in a few weightless steps almost like a bat. Delicately pulling her satin gloves off and haphazardly tossing them to the wooden floor, she reveals her long sharp nails, claws really.

Getting closer in your space now, she takes your chin between her thumb and index finger and tilts your head up to face her, the chilled skin of a soulless body sends shivers through your bones.

Menacingly, she grins, no leers, at you and detracts her fangs, glistening in the moonlight and bared for you to see. Up close, it strikes you with an immediate fear, but also something equally as exciting that leaves a tightening sensation deep in your belly.

“Say it,” she whispers, her cool breath against your lips and sending a chill down your spine.

With a gulp, you finally bring yourself to say out loud, “You’re a vampire.”

If it were somehow possible, her grin grows even wider and more sinister and you briefly think that she might just eat you alive.

“Good girl, I knew you were a smart one the second I laid my eyes on you.” The term of praise, as proud as you are to have received it, only intensifies that feeling in your belly and for the first time this evening, you question if you’re actually capable of surviving a night with the vampire Countess.

Patting your cheek with her other hand and cocking her head amusedly, Wanda continues. “Although, you were foolish enough to have come here alone and approached me like this.”

Maybe she’s right…

“No one would know if I killed you right here and now. No one would even hear you scream before I sank my teeth in your neck.”

Or maybe, that’s exactly what you want from her.

In a heartbeat, you instantly regain all your confidence. You know her secret and you came here for a reason. It’s time to claim what you’re owed, what you came to this city searching for.

Hastily, you untie your coat and drop it to the floor, revealing your barely clothed body to her stunned eyes. A rush of excitement goes through your veins at the sight of her dilated pupils, a telling sign that she just might desire you as much as you desire her.

Placing your own hands atop the ones she still rests on your face, you confess, “I want to be yours.” She lifts her eyebrow in curiosity at your proposition. “You don’t need to feed on other people, or hunt when you’re desperate anymore… You can just feed on me.”

For the first time ever, you hear her laugh, throwing her head back with her imposing fangs on full display. A deep and maniacal sound that’s degrading and humiliating as you stand there before her exposed and yet, you decide you’d do anything to hear it again.

It takes a second or two for her to regain her composure and you think you spot tears in her eyes, only further reddening your blushing cheeks.

“You know,” she says in between huffed laughter. “I typically only drink animal blood, as I’m sure you’ve seen on occasion. It’s a lot more… convenient and certainly a lot less messy. But the real reason,” she confesses, whispering almost secretively as her ruby coloured irises stare into your blown out pupils, “is that blood from a human source is dangerously addictive. That’s why I only feed on humans on days like this when the moon’s pull is too strong. Because everyone I drink from ends up dead and somehow, I just know that if I drank yours… well I’d be addicted for eternity.”

But what if that’s exactly what you want?

Blindly reaching towards a nearby table, you grab what feels like a glass and smash it against the surface, successfully slicing your left palm and sending drops of blood rolling down your skin.

In the same heartbeat, Wanda instantly freezes, her enhanced sense of smell immediately picking up the intoxicating scent of your blood. Tightly closing her eyes and letting go of her hold on you, she takes two steps back from you, seemingly struggling to restrain herself.

Fearlessly, you take two steps towards her, crowding her space just as she crowded yours.

“Let go,” you tempt, lifting your bleeding hand in an attempt to flood her senses and lure her further into your trap. “Let me be yours,” you whisper teasingly into her ear.

In a second, her eyes burst open, now blazing scarlet and burning into you. Roughly, she wraps her hand around your throat and pushes you against the nearest wall, uncaring of how you wince at the strength with which she slams you.

Just as harshly, she finally kisses you, her icy lips meeting yours and moving against each other as one as she almost devours you in her eagerness. And just as eagerly, you let her, drowning in the rush of losing yourself in something so wrong that feels so right.

The cautiousness with which she treated you before has completely disappeared as she dangerously tightens her grip around your throat, claiming your lips over and over again.

In her lust-clouded haste, her sharp fangs faintly slice your bottom lip and you quickly start bleeding with a wince that’s promptly muffled by her soft lips. Her greedy tongue licks it all up and you’re blessed with her deep moans at the rich and teasing taste.

To your dismay, she pulls away and releases her grip on your throat. But when you look in her bloodshot eyes, pupils blown and glittering in the moonlight, you’re thrilled to see a complete lack of resistance, a surrender to the offer you’ve presented.

And yet, there’s a hidden question in them, if you’re really willing to cross this line with her. In the back of your mind, you wonder that perhaps you're the first person who’s ever shared this secret of hers, who's ever willingly given themselves to her.

You hope to be the only.

Without saying a word, you simply crane your awaiting neck towards her, offering the expanse of it to her on a golden platter.

“I’m yours,” you whisper into the night for only her to hear.

In the blink of an eye, she becomes a predator before you. Still trapped between her body and the wall, you watch in equal amounts of fear and lust as she bares her fangs and sinks them into your naked neck.

You scream in pain and tightly scrunch a hand in her hair until, almost like you're hearing yourself outside of your body, you realise that your screams have become moans, the pain in your neck abruptly replaced by pleasure racing through your bloodstream.

“Mine,” you hear her snarl in between your moans and you only barely manage to yell, “Yours”, back.

Wanda is equally disarmed as she buries her face in your neck. She drinks and drinks and drinks, and as predicted, loses herself in you. It’s a criminal understatement to say that your blood is the best she’s ever tasted in her centuries-long life and endless list of victims. It’s rich and thick and if you hadn’t already offered to become her pet for eternity, she would have stolen you away anyway.

She revels even more in the sounds of your very evident pleasure, which when mixed with her instant addiction to your taste leaves a tight sensation in her core.

As she continues feasting on you, she slots a knee between your open legs and tightly grips your waist in her hands, harshly thrusting you down on her leg and surely leaving bruises in her wake. Eagerly, you grind against her firm thigh, head lolling back and hitting the wall with a resounding thud.

Somehow, your unabashed moans get even louder as you feel your blood starting to drip across your chest. Distantly, you consider that maybe you should quieten yourself lest someone hear of your tryst, but that thought swiftly disappears when Wanda presses her knee against your core while pushing you down to grind against it and deepening her fangs in your neck.

She’s everywhere. Pressed against you, piercing you with her teeth, becoming one with you. Suddenly, the overwhelming sensations become too much and you come undone in her arms, climaxing unexpectedly from the equally consuming mix of pleasure and pain.

In a lust- and blood-drunk daze, Wanda takes little notice of your state and attempts to keep drinking every ounce of the red liquid left in your body. She feels you start to loosen your hold on her hair and slacken against her thigh though, so she reluctantly stops lest she loses her pet as quickly as she got her.

Regrettably, she pulls away from you but you’re glad she keeps her knee between your legs because you immediately slump against her from an exhaustive combination of the severe blood loss and intense climax.

Surprisingly tenderly, she captures you in her arms and holds you up against her and the wall. You take a second to regain your breath as your heart races to pump more blood through your veins.

“That was…” you trail off, dazed and half struggling to hold on to consciousness.

“Delicious,” she finishes for you.

You eventually manage to open your eyes and watch her sadly remove a hand from your waist to wipe your blood from her mouth with the pad of her thumb, serving to only spread it across her face even more.

The sight is more arousing than it should be and as you stare at her, you discover that with her porcelain moonlit skin, scarlet coloured eyes, snow white fangs, and mouth covered in your dark blood, she’s the most beautiful creature you’ve ever seen.

In the haze of the afterglow, your gaze lowers to her bloody lips and you briefly wonder how you taste. Somehow reading your thoughts as she always does, she places a surprisingly soft kiss on your lips and you’re equally surprised by the taste of your blood on her lips. It’s different from what you expected, not as jarringly metallic as when you bite the inside of your cheek but rather smooth and rich like a well-aged wine.

As you deepen the kiss searching for more, she returns the eagerness by tracing the surface of your lips with her tongue, easily parting them and entering your mouth. Distracting you with the feel of your tongues swirling against each other, she sneakily reaches behind your back and unties the fragile bow tying your nightgown together.

Pulling away, she lets the sheer fabric fall in a heap to the floor and leaves you chasing her lips like a lovesick fool. You feel even more foolish when you look up and find her staring intensely at your entirely exposed body while she remains fully clothed, almost moving to wrap your arms around your bare chest in an attempt to hide yourself from her scrutiny.

Just as quickly though, she captures your wrists and traps them beside you against the wall. “Don’t hide from me. You’re mine now, pet,” she whispers in her criminally deep voice.

Not to mention her apparent assignment of a new title for you, a stark contrast from the formal way with which she has been regarding you until now. A fierce blush rises to your cheeks at her choice and when combined with the sound of her voice, you think you could come from the short sentence alone.

Softly and slowly with all the time in the world, or at least the few hours left before the sun awakes, she places delicate kisses across your shaking body. Her icy cold touch cools every inch of your burning skin that it contacts, along the curve of your jawline up to the space below your ear, down your neck and especially taking care to lick your puncture wounds clean before travelling across your chest and licking up any blood that previously escaped her.

Taking your left nipple in her awaiting mouth, she latches on and sucks greedily before switching to the right. You squirm and try to free your hands wanting to touch her, but her bruising grip around your wrists unrelenting keeps you trapped. If she notices you continue to painfully twist yourself in her grasp anyway in an attempt to amass more marks as proof of her ownership of you, she doesn’t utter a single word.

A second later, she withdraws from your body and sighs against your wet skin, which when coupled with her chilled touch and the cool winter night leaves you shuddering with goosebumps.

Stepping back from you entirely now, she reaches behind herself and undoes her own dress. When it falls to the floor, so does your jaw as you shamelessly stare at the pale expanse of her skin, almost completely unblemished and illuminated by the moonlight.

You carefully place your hands on the curves of her waist, hidden beneath her burgundy corset. For a brief moment, she lets you admire her body like an artist admires their muse before she gets impatient and turns around in your arms.

Pulling her hair to her front, she demands, “Won’t you lend me a hand, pet?”

Wordlessly and obediently, you unlace her corset while leaving delicate kisses behind her ear and along her neck. She buries her hand in your hair and you almost let out a moan from the way she tugs at it. Under your breath, you curse the corset for being so intricate as your shaking hands struggle against the detailed binds.

Luckily for you though, it finally becomes undone and drops to the floor with the rest of your clothes. With your hands returning to her waist again, now soft and bare, you turn her around to face you and almost collapse.

You’re not sure how it’s possible, but she continues to take your breath away. She’s more beautiful than anything you’ve ever seen in your lifelong travels. More than any of the marble Grecian sculptures or oil paintings of Aphrodite.

Just as she did, you take your time peppering kisses over her ivory and cool skin. You gently kiss every inch from right under her jawline to the dips of her collarbones and down along her chest to the mole of her left breast, from the curve of her shoulder down to the edge of her fingers and even lightly sucking your blood off her thumb.

Delicately, you devote yourself to kissing her perfect skin marked only by a few moles littered across her body, mapping them like constellations, and licking away any of your blood that stains the porcelain surface of her chin and neck.

Here and there, when you get to a particularly sensitive spot like the space under her jawline, she writhes in your arms and lets out a breathless gasp. You continue sucking on the same spot lightly, proudly drawing pleasure out of her as she did with you, but only lightly and not harsh enough to mark her flawless skin.

Internally, you think you could spend an eternity worshipping her body if she let you. You wouldn’t mind all the pain if you had the pleasure of being hers.

As you take your time exploring her body, her thin patience finally runs out and she roughly wraps your hair around her hand, pushing you down to exactly where she needs you.

“On your knees, pet,” she demands breathlessly and you instantly obey, falling to your knees with a thud and ignoring the bruising pain, proudly collecting more evidence of your tryst.

Diligently, you continue trailing your kisses down between the centre of her chest and her taut stomach until you reach her core, which you brazenly pass in favour of nibbling her inner thigh.

Roughly yanking your hair though, Wanda makes her annoyance known. “Oh, don’t be like that now, sweetheart. I thought it was clear who’s in charge here,” she bends down and sneers in your face.

“‘Mm sorry…” you frantically nod and apologise while keeping the enticing idea of disobeying and testing her patience in the back of your mind for another time. Right now, though, you desperately want to taste her.

Lifting her leg over your shoulder, she increases your accessibility or rather traps you and pushes your head back towards her centre.

“Be a good pet now won’t you, darling?”

You don’t need to be told twice, swiftly diving in between her thighs. You’re pleasantly delighted to feel how wet for you she already is, probably since the moment she sank her teeth in your neck.

Burying yourself against her core, you greedily part her folds with your tongue and lap up all her juices. Immediately drunk on her taste, you moan against her and the resounding vibrations apparently stimulate her even more as she whimpers above you and tightens her grip on your hair.

As you eagerly stroke your tongue against her pussy and brush your nose against her clit, you decide that between her legs must be the best place on Earth. And if anything, you so quickly become addicted to her sweet essence just as she was with your rich blood.

Almost crazed, you both want her everywhere and to be all over her, meticulously switching between placing kitty licks between her folds and latching onto her bulb.

Losing herself in you, Wanda somehow pushes the back of your head even deeper against her and bucks against your face. “Good girl… just like that,” she murmurs.

If your mouth wasn’t so preoccupied, you would’ve begged her to pull your hair harder.

Glancing up as you devour her, you realise that she truly is a fallen angel sent from the depths of hell to corrupt you. As you stare at her lust hazed eyes and domineering form stalked over you, you find yourself getting pleasure just from her pleasure alone.

You think that whether she suffocated you between her thighs or sucked out all your blood with her fangs in your neck, you’d be honoured to die by her hand.

With her moans getting louder and her body writhing above you, you catch on to her rapidly increasing need for more and raise your right hand to rub her clit with the pads of two fingers.

Catching her off guard, you swiftly thrust the same two fingers between her folds and earn a blissed out scream. You fit perfectly inside her as she clenches around you, sending a tightening sensation to your own core.

Latching onto her clit with your mouth again while your fingers slide in and out of her, you proudly smile against her at the tightening grip on your hair.

“Faster,” she manages to demand and you once again obey, pistoning your fingers in and out of her even faster and setting a ruthless rhythm. Soon after, your fingertips locate her g-spot so you curl the ends of your two fingers, hitting the spot with every thrust.

As you watch her, you notice that her hands are preoccupied with gripping the back of your head in pleasure and her bedpost in an attempt to stay standing.

With so much of her immaculate body shamefully left unattended, you reach your sliced hand back up her still cool body and cup her breast. As you massage the supple mound, the pain of the fresh cut stings your skin but you hear yourself whimper in time with her own moans.

You’re everywhere and the stimulation of your touch starts to make Wanda go crazy. Releasing her hold on your hair, she glides it down your back and scratches the skin below your shoulders with her claws in an attempt to pull you even closer.

Shuddering against her, you wince at the pain but proudly add the scratches to your long list of scars from tonight.

With her hand on your back, she feels you pathetically grind down against nothing and decides to take pity on you, placing her foot below your core. Finally getting some much needed friction, you rub yourself against her in a frenzy and practically ride her foot.

In a daze, she peers down at you and is entranced by the sight of you on your knees for her, looking up obediently at her with doe-like eyes, your face covered in her juices and skin covered in bite marks and hickeys she placed haphazardly, all while servicing her every demand and devoting yourself to her every need.

Unable to hold herself back anymore, she climaxes. Feeling her clench around your fingers and hearing her scream, you quickly follow and come against her foot. Bewitched, you see her arch her back in satisfaction and let her ride out her high against your face.

Once she calms down, you greedily lick up all her cum and clean up her centre just as you did with your blood on her skin. When your mission is complete and she pushes you away, overstimulated by your persistent touch, you stare into her eyes as you slide the same two fingers that were just inside her mere second ago into your own mouth, sucking them clean and taking care to not leave even a single drop.

If it were possible, her already blown out pupils dilate even more as she watches the show you put on for her. Pulling you up with a strength that’s probably owed to her inhumane cells, she tugs you into a kiss once again, tasting her essence on your tongue just as you did with your blood on hers.

Fitting your waist in her hands again, she hastily throws you on her bed before straddling your hips and pressing you against the mattress. She wastes no time and leans down to reclaim your lips, carelessly letting her fangs nick your lips again.

In the corner of your sleepy eyes, you see the glowing moonlight illuminate the stars in the night sky outside, the sun still a lifetime away. For this next little while, all that matters is the cool feel of her touch against your scorched skin and the pleasure of the pain she brings.

For under the full moon, you are completely and irrevocably hers; a vampire’s pet for better or worse.

[natsarrownecklacx]

Doctor Maximoff Masterlist

Summary: You never expect to fall for an older woman, especially not your boss but that doesn’t change the fact that you have and that she completes you in a way you didn’t know you needed.

This will be a mini series with stories of Doctor Wanda Maximoff and her top resident Dr. Y/n Y/l/n

Warning: Probable inaccurate medical jargon, older Wanda maximoff, mommy issues, illusion to an absent/ abusive parents. Each part will have its own warnings.

Main Parts:

Dr. Maximoff

Let Me

To be continued…

Drabbles:

A Quick Procedure

Home Is Where You Are

To be continued…

Mood boards:

One

[claramelooo]

Loving Twice (1/??)

— season 2 of Woven Fates

Hey, babies! Let's start this new adventure?? Hehe

Important to say, we'll going through a great change. I have intentions to post once in a month (yes, it's sad, but I'm going through a lot this days)

Anyway, you can always ask for hints or sneaky peeks to mommy.

Woven Fate's R will be called screenwriter or veteran. I've decided not choice how much time passed, so you can choose her age and if she's older or younger than Loving Twice's R

Enjoy it!!

MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT

Warnings: bullying.

Pairing: Actress! Wanda Maximoff x Agent! Natasha Romanoff

Summary: Your first day on Hollywood

Who are you?

The studio was much bigger than it looked on YouTube. Up close, it felt like a living organism: cables snaked across the floor like exposed veins, spotlights hung like artificial suns, and people rushed past clutching clipboards, walkie-talkies, and tense expressions, as if every lost second cost the world a piece of itself.

You tried to play it cool, but each step echoed inside you as a reminder: this was your first big film.

In the heart of Hollywood.

Loving the Wicked.

Directed by Agatha Harkness.

You had to admit: you were hopeless with names. But even you knew Agatha’s was one to admire—and fear. Not the moment to dwell on it; you’d barely stepped onto the lot.

You took in everything and everyone with a kind of wide-eyed, almost childlike curiosity—anyone could tell you were a rookie. 

You turned toward a set across the soundstage and… Bam. A solid body collided with yours, hard enough to knock you off balance, and strong hands caught your arms before you kissed the floor.

You blinked, stunned, and looked up. The owner of that touch was inches away.

A woman with a rigid expression, golden hair pulled into a tight bun, and a button-up undone shirt, not as much—just enough to frame her collarbone.

“Are you alright?" Her voice was low, clear, but without unnecessary warmth. It sounded more like a statement than genuine concern.

You nodded, regaining your balance, and she released you. “Yeah, I just… got distracted.” You cleared your throat, embarrassed. Slipping up on your first day? Could you be any more clumsy?

Her eyes—blue, almost gray—scanned you from head to toe. There was no lust in the look, just a clinical assessment. Every movement you made was being cataloged, as if she could measure your readiness just by how you breathed.

As if she already knew who you were.

“Do you have a badge?” She asked, still holding your gaze.

“Huh? What?”

“A badge. For identification. Unless you don’t work here, in which case I’ll have to ask you to—”

You didn’t wait for her to finish.

“Oh, it’s my first day here! First time on a set this big.”

She raised one eyebrow and crossed her arms just beneath her chest, pushing it forward slightly.

“I see,” she said, taking small, deliberate steps until her face was strategically close to your ear. The subtle, woody scent of her perfume was dizzying. “I get your excitement. But it’s not polite to interrupt your elders when they’re speaking.”

Oh, shit.

She said it, and walked away.

???

Without looking back.

???

What the hell was that? And why the hell was your chest pounding like a samba school parade?

[...]

A few minutes later, some assistants led you onto the Loving the Wicked set. It was mostly empty, just a couple of cameras and crew members adjusting scenery. You took it all in. Every corner. You still couldn’t quite believe it.

A throat cleared behind you, breaking your trance.

“Hey, are you our new star?”

You turned. The woman was young. Too young to be the director.

“You… you’re Agatha?” You murmured, confused.

The woman in front of you looked equally—extremely—confused, and you dropped your head in embarrassment. 

You should’ve done better research.

“Uh… no. I’m actually the screenwriter,” she said with a light laugh. “But it’s amazing that an actress doesn’t know who The Agatha Harkness is. And please! Never say that out loud. People in Hollywood have egos as fragile as glass.”

You nodded quickly. A rule you’d learned in college: when a veteran gives advice, you listen.

A noise pulled you out of your little bubble. A woman, older this time—maybe this time you’d guess right?—approached, her features strikingly sharp, maybe even a touch arrogant. She was beautiful. Blue eyes, a jawline and nose that looked carved.

What a woman…

Thankfully, your veteran buffer stepped in.

“Agatha.” She called. And oddly, the moment the name left her lips, the director turned immediately.

You watched.

“Yes, hon.”

Her voice was strong, yet sweet as honey when directed at the screenwriter.

“This is our girl.” She introduced you to Agatha, who finally fixed her gaze on you.

“Oh,” she said, surprise in her voice, though her face stayed unreadable. “Greg spoke very highly of you,” she added, referring to the casting director, and extended her hand in formal greeting. You took it. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for casting day. I had an… emergency.” She said the last part while looking directly at your veteran, who ignored it completely.

Ugh.

What a weird atmosphere...

“Well, I hope you’re excited, sweetie. How about I take you to meet your castmates?” She offered.

You frowned slightly. She barely knew you, yet was being so attentive… Maybe Agatha had told her to be extra polite? You shrugged internally and smiled.

“Yes, of course.”

She led you into a spacious room with a table of food, games, and a rack of costumes. Everyone looked young.

Extras, maybe?

“All right, everyone!” The screenwriter called. “Please take a seat, Greg has something to say.”

The group sat in chairs arranged in a circle as the casting director stepped into the middle.

“Okay, people, here’s the deal. We’ve never worked with such a young group before. We expect responsibility and commitment. This is the opportunity of your lives. Agatha has a reputation for being strict, but she’s not unfair. She’s got an incredible eye for talent. If you stand out, you’ll go far. Don’t waste this chance.”

His half-monologue ended with polite applause.

Minutes stretched into murmurs and tech adjustments, and you found yourself in a cluster of young actors—wide-eyed, clutching crumpled scripts, giving nervous laughs to hide the fear. They traded whispered survival tips: “When Agatha asks for emotion, don’t fake it, feel it”; “If she cuts the scene, pray it’s not because of you.” Six lines that doubled as a crash course in staying alive here.

You hit it off with a girl right away. You practiced tongue-twisting lines, corrected each other’s tone, and mimicked mannerisms you imagined might come up in scenes. A boy told a ridiculous story about fainting during his first table read—you all laughed, the sound more relief than amusement.

You laughed too, mostly to blend in, and used the moment to observe: someone’s bitten nails, the way another gripped their coffee, a quick eye tic when breath grew short. Little details that would mean nothing to anyone else, but here, felt like signs of who’d make it.

Then, the set doors swung open. The noise dropped like someone had pressed a mute button.

The entrance wasn’t flashy—no trumpets, no drama—and yet every eye turned. A long shadow crossed the floor; the click of heels marked deliberate steps; conversation died.

The woman was stunning.

Long, red hair framed her face in waves like fire. Her eyes—big, striking, and green. Very green. Her cheekbones were sharply defined, giving her an almost mystical look—maybe a siren? She wasn’t very tall, maybe your height. And the closer she came, the wider her smile grew. 

Sighs and murmurs rippled all around, making you frown.

“Hello, everyone!” She began, or rather, purred. She was so impossibly sexy you wished you could avoid drooling over her—but since everyone else was already doing it, well… that made it fine, right? “As the lead actress and a veteran of this industry, I’d like to welcome you all and set a few… expectations.” She ended with a smile as bright—and sharp—as a shark’s.

Then she glanced at Greg, who nodded like a well-trained subordinate, and you caught the screenwriter rubbing her hands over her face, as if bracing for impact.

The massacre was about to begin.

“First of all…” the woman started, pacing forward in slow, deliberate steps. “Hollywood is a place for predators. So you’d better get your claws out, or you’ll be swallowed whole by someone bigger.”

She was theatrical—spoke with her hands, shaped her mouth in ways that pulled you in. It was mesmerizing, yes, but it also made you wonder how much of her was performance and how much was real.

“Like Slither.io?”

A boy—brave or foolish—blurted it out, and the redhead instantly turned on him. You watched her give him a long, slow once-over, narrowing her eyes. She actually looked like she was trying to figure out what the hell “Slither.io” was, and you almost let a giggle slip.

Until she smiled, and it froze your soul. Thank God you weren’t him…

“Sweetheart, I have no idea how you passed the audition… maybe Greg felt sorry for you, or maybe he mistook you for the lunch delivery guy.” She flicked the brim of his cap.

A few people laughed, and the screenwriter tried to cut in. “Hey—”

“Silence!” The woman’s gaze snapped to her, the energy between them suddenly heavy. “Don’t interrupt me.” In the end, you just saw your veteran sigh, drained.

The redhead turned back to the boy, whose cocky smirk was long gone.

“This shirt…” she prowled around his chair like a lioness. She pinched the sleeve between her fingertips, as if it was dirty. “How many days in a row now?” She leaned close, sniffing dramatically. “Oh… I see.” She pulled back with a venomous smile. “Three.”

The boy tried to speak, but she raised her hand. “No need to explain, sweetheart. Just… don’t stand too close to me in any scenes, okay? I’m allergic to… filthy little boys like you.”

When she saw him frozen in place, she grinned in triumph and scanned the room—like she was hunting for her next prey.

“Hmmm… who’s next?” She sang, curling her fingers in a devilish little gesture.

God, this woman was a fucking bully.

You didn’t survive all of high school being chewed up just to go through it again as an adult. The thought alone made you sigh, glancing around—only for your eyes to land on the same figure who’d caught you earlier, stopping you from falling.

She was staring at you.

Unblinking.

You looked away fast, but you could still feel her gaze. And it was impossible to stop the heat that crept up your cheeks.

What was she even doing here? Was she an actress too?

“You!” The redhead barked, pointing at the girl beside you. “I don’t know who told you wearing a balloon dress was a good idea, sweetheart.”

“But… it just came back into style and I—”

“Back into style for who? People like you?”

Oh, hell no. That was it. The girl was nice, she’d been kind to you. She didn’t deserve this. You were furious, and no matter how hot the redhead was, she was still a damn tyrant.

Your only mistake was saying that last part out loud.

“What did you just say?”

Fuck.

Yep. Now you were the target. Curious eyes turned to you, and it felt like you were about to be thrown to the sharks.

“I…”

She studied you—but it wasn’t like the others. Her focus was on your face, not your clothes.

“What’s your name?” She asked, and she actually seemed interested.

You told her, and she smiled like she’d just won something.

“Oh, so you’re my partner?” she let out a surprised little laugh. “How’s the indie film life treating you, jobless girl?”

You frowned, feeling your blood heat, but you narrowed your eyes at her and let it slip—before common sense could stop you:

“And who exactly are you?”

~*~

Wanda forgives the girl, she doesn't know what she's doing...

TagList <3

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[ninus9607]

𝟣𝟤. 𝒜𝒾𝓇𝓅𝑜𝓇𝓉

Pairing(s): Civil War Wanda Maximoff x Female vampire! reader (OC)

Words: 5.2k

tags: l content/warnings: wanda maximoff x oc, resident evil x marvel, sapphic blood, fanfic, 18+, Violence, re8crossover, mention of death, mutal pinning, hurt/comfort, fluff, little angst, arguing, Weapons/Gun Violence

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡

𝑴𝒚 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒔, 𝒂 𝒏𝒆𝒘 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒊𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆!!!! 𝑺𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒄𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒔 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒈𝒖𝒏, 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒃𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒐𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒂 𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒌. 𝑨𝒅𝒅𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚, 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒍𝒐𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒎𝒚 𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒅𝒐𝒆𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒆𝒙𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒍𝒚 𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒄𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒊𝒍𝒎! 𝑰 𝒉𝒐𝒑𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒆𝒏𝒋𝒐𝒚 𝒊𝒕, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒅𝒐𝒏' 𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒈𝒆𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒈𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒂 𝒗𝒐𝒕𝒆, 𝒌𝒖𝒅𝒐𝒔 , 𝒐𝒓 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓.𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓 ♥

The night was awful. Every time I closed my eyes, I heard her voice.

I couldn't bear the silence of my own room. It crushed down, crushing me, so I surrendered to the darkness. The city was noisy. I moved through it like a shadow. Men who thought they were untouchable. I killed them quickly. Their blood was hot, bitter, and meaningless. No matter how many lives I took, I couldn't stop her scream in my head.

Her voice remains. Wanda. Always Wanda.

When dawn arrived, I was still awake. As I sat at my desk, gripping a pencil between my fingers. I should've slept. Instead, I drew her face multiple times. Disappointed, her lips parted. Her eyes were wide with emotion. I ripped the page to fragments, just to start over like a woman possessed. The bits scattered across the floor like ash.

I knew what I needed to do. An apology spoken would never be enough.

So I did something I hadn't done in decades. I stepped into a florist's shop. Despite the fact that my thoughts were in confusion, I moved with purpose. I had made a decision. Roses.

As I passed, the city streets hummed, with people's talk mixing into a meaningless murmur. But then I stopped. A small newspaper stand stood at the corner, and I noticed the headline.

"Captain America and Winter Soldier Wanted After Vienna Bombing."

Steve.

The photo taken was blurry yet distinct. Rogers is in handcuffs. Alongside him is Bucky Barnes.

I purchased the newspaper with a few bills. I took off my coat, and the seller was hardly looking at me. As I went, I opened it and read swiftly.

Held in Bucharest. A bombing is suspected in Vienna. Dozens have died, including Wakanda's King T'Chaka.

I paused on the sidewalk, the sound of cars swirling around me. My lips squeezed together in a narrow line.

I folded the paper under my arm, finally pushed myself on, until I entered the flower shop.

The smell was overwhelmingly fresh and overly sweet. I almost disliked it. Then I saw them. Roses as deep as blood. I bought them without hesitation, barely hearing the shopkeeper's pleasant conversation.

Avengers Tower 

"FRIDAY," I said, looking at the empty space. "Where are Wanda and Vis?"

The AI's tone was oddly calm. "Miss Maximoff and Vision are currently in the kitchen."

The roses felt heavier with each floor the elevator rose. I'd turned them over in my fingers so many times that the silk ribbon began to tear.

I pushed open the kitchen door and froze.

Vision hung still in the middle of the room, his body hard and blazing, wrapped in strands of blue energy that sparked and snapped against him. His face twisted from the tension.

"Vision - " I let out the roses slipping out of my grasp. They fell silently on the kitchen unit.

I stepped forward. "Wanda. What is happening here?"

I didn't know this man. Standing beside her, his bow hanging carelessly at his side, his hand brushing against her shoulder as if calming her.

The sound of Vision groaning from the strain. I got closer, my voice sharper now. "Let him go."

The man eventually turned to face me, his tone infuriatingly casual. "We don't have time for this."

The man kept an intense stare at me. "I'm Clint," he said clearly. "I'm here because Wanda needs to come with me. Captain needs us."

Before I could respond, Vision broke out.

The bonds around him exploded once, twice - before breaking with a crack that shook the floor.

Red light burst, striking into Vision's chest. His flight stopped then buckled, and in an instant, she tossed him down.. The entire floor collapsed beneath him, and Vision vanished into the level below with the sound of a bomb detonating.

Dirt lingered in the air. For a heartbeat, no one moved.

Then I did.

I was across the room before Clint could notch his arrow. My boot shattered into his bow, causing it to clang against the counter. He quickly recovered, grabbing another arrow from his quiver and spinning it up.

The arrow hissed past me, brushing my sleeve before lodging in the wall with a flash. I stopped it with my hand, staring at it before returning my gaze to him.

My lips curved into a strong grin. "Are you fucking Legolas or something?"

I smashed my heel into his chest. He staggered backward, crashing into his fridge and gasping for air. I followed, fangs bared, one hand already lifted to deliver a punch that would have left him broken on the ground.

And then

"Stop!"

Wanda's voice cut into me like a dagger. Her power erupted between us, forming a shimmering shield that melted on my skin. Her eyes were fixed on me now, begging, angry, and desperate.

I froze, my palm still in the air, Clint breathing just behind her power shield.

"Anastasia, that's enough," she said quietly, her hands trembling with power. "Let him go. I am leaving."

Her words cut like knives. I slowly turned to face her, my eyes narrowing.

"You know I can't let you."

Her jaw tightened, but her eyes urged me to understand.

"You don't understand," she stated softly. "I can't stay here, caged up like a prisoner. Steve needs me."

I took a step toward her, ignoring Clint as he groaned and tried to get up. "Then don't make me your jailer," I shouted. "Stay because you decide to. You know it's the best option."

Wanda's lips parted, as if the weight of the words had broken her will. She took another step, so close that I could feel the pulse of her chaotic magic caressing my skin and hear her heartbeat grow.

Behind me, Clint moved, grabbing for another arrow. My hand pulled out, sending a hard punch that sent him falling again. His bow clattered uselessly on the ground.

But I hardly saw him anymore.

Wanda stood in front of me, her power waning and her hands quivering as they lifted and held my face. Her palms were warm, and her fingers felt light against my jaw. The anger in my chest flickered and faded under that single touch.

"Wanda..."

Her eyes sparkled, caught between pain and desire. "I'm sorry."

And then she brushed her lips against mine.

The world paused for a heartbeat. The kiss was not gentle; it was chaotic and passionate. My hands trembled halfway to her waist.

But then, fire poured through me. A weird, drowsy feeling entered my veins, thick and attractive. My limbs weakened as I tried to cling to her and keep her there.

My last conscious thought was the taste of her kiss, the whisper of her breath against mine, before her power rushed through me like a lullaby, drawing me down into sleep.

The last thing I saw was her face above me, her eyes filled with sadness.

"I'm sorry, ljubav," she muttered again, just as the darkness overtook me...

The world showed up in shards of sound and light.

At first, I thought I had been buried alive again. Then a voice. Calm and irritatingly patient.

"Anastasia, wake up."

My eyelids drew open, and Vision's face showed up above me like a metal-carved holy saint.

"Oh, wonderful," I said, my throat dry as ash. "I died, and the afterlife looks like a toaster."

He blinked and tilted his head. "I will choose to ignore that."

I moaned and sat up slowly. Wanda's power was still clinging to my skin like frost. I remember her hands on my face, her lips on mine, and then nothing but darkness.

"Hours," Vision murmured, as if reading my mind. "You have been unconscious for about four hours. I feared you had suffered - "

" - a bruised ego?" I interrupted, rubbing my temples. "Actually, yes."

He did not grin, but his eyes softened, which was the closest he got. "I saw what happened after I dug myself back here; they probably stole the Quinjett, too."

"Fuck." I snarled, bitterness seeping through before I could control it.- "She kissed me, Vision. And then she wiped me out as if I were just a candle."

Silence. He did not respond since there was nothing to say

Vision straightened "Mr. Stark needs us in Berlin. Immediately. There have been changes."

"Berlin?" My voice was gravelly. "And how, exactly, do you advise we get to Berlin when our Quinjet has apparently vanished into thin air?"

"There is a second Quinjet in another compound. We can get there quickly if we fly."

I froze. "We?"

"Yes. I can carry you. Safely."

The hush lasted long enough that I considered murder. Finally, I got to my feet and stared him down. "Absolutely not."

His head tilted. "Why not?"

"Because," I muttered, "there is no universe in which I allow you to hold me in the sky. I will drive."

"But that's a slower option," he inquired bluntly.

"Yes!"

"Flying is easier."

"Still preferable."

He sighed, the closest he'd ever come to annoyance. "You are being irrational."

"And you," I shot back, tapping his chestplate with my finger, "are not throwing me around the clouds like luggage."

Ten minutes later, I was clinging to him like luggage.

The air blasted against my face, chilly enough to pinch. And my nails dug into the plating on his shoulder.

I murmured, "I hate you," into the wind.

"I am aware," he responded calmly.

By the time Vision lowered me to the earth, my legs were like water. I staggered as soon as my feet touched the asphalt, cursing beneath my breath.

"Never again," I murmured, staring up at him. "You ever try to carry me like that again, vis, and I'll rip your wires out and wear them as a necklace."

"Noted," he murmured calmly, though I think his mouth twitched.

The Quinjet appeared in the dark compound, Stark's failsafes activating as Vision's palm went over the scanner. The engines hummed to life, producing a low growl in the silence. I followed him up the ramp, throwing myself onto a seat as if it had personally offended me.

The anger in me was hotter than the jet's core. Wanda's emerald eyes and warm palms across my cheeks stuck with me. And then the cold betrayal of magic searing through me as she whispered I'm sorry.

I dug my nails into my palms and felt the skin split. It was easier than facing the truth: she had used me. A distraction. Dumb vampire who was too caught up in her emotions to understand what was about to happen. Or maybe what if she feels the same? 

"Stop glaring at the floor," Vision murmured gently from the pilot's seat. "You'll burn a hole through it."

"Don't," I mumbled. My voice came out harsh.

"You are not angry at me."

"Bloody observant, aren't you?"

The jet's faint hum was the only sound that broke the silence. My chest ached. My mind whispered. She kissed you. Then leave you. And yet, you'd forgive her in a heartbeat.

I despised myself for it.

Vision adjusted the buttons, and his voice was calm and even. "You should know what happened when you were... unconscious. Captain Rogers decided to act on his own. He believed Barnes was innocent, but instead of trusting the process, he escaped with him."

I snapped my head up. 

"They are now wanted. Mr. Stark has been directed to step in before the incident goes further."

"And us?" I asked.

Vision's gaze shifted back to me. "We plan to meet in Berlin. Stark believes they will pass through the airport. Our role is control."

Control.

I slumped back in my seat and pressed my fists to my eyes. My chest ached, stinging and hollow. Our Steve - was ripping the family apart with his bare hands.

"This is a nightmare," I mumbled.

Vision eventually turned in his seat and studied me with strange peace.

"You know she didn't mean to hurt you."

I laughed without humor. "Is that what you got from watching from the ground? Because, from where I was standing, it seemed pretty damn intended."

"She needed to leave. You were how do they call it? - an obstacle."

I glared at him. "Thanks. That makes me feel so much better."

He leaned forward, folding his hands neatly as if we were having afternoon tea rather than heading toward a battle.

"Anastasia, I know Wanda. She had felt uncomfortable since Lagos. She worries about herself and what others think of her. And now the world is blaming her."

"Yeah, tell me something I don't know."

"But she does not fear you."

I had to look away, blinking quickly before something dumb like tears exposed me. "You don't know that," I mumbled.

"Yes," he simply said, as if it were written in the sky. "I do."

I swallowed hard and gripped the edge of my seat till my knuckles turned white. I wanted to dispute and tear the argument apart, but all I could say was:

"Then why does it feel like she ripped my heart out? She could have just stayed with us, and we wouldn't need to fight right now."

 "You're way too wise for a guy who doesn't even eat."

" Perhaps," Vision said. "But someone must remind you that you are not as alone as you believe."

Berlin

The airfield stretched before us.. I followed close behind Vision. Steve entered first, shield strapped to his arm and jaw set like stone.

I flinched at the sound, my gaze leaping skyward just as Iron Man and War Machine dropped with jets buzzing. Typical Stark entrance.

"Wow," Tony murmured via the mask, his tone arrogant. "It's so weird how you run into people at the airport. Don't you think that's weird?"

Rhodey's voice followed. "Definitely weird."

Steve paused, "Hear me out, Tony. That doctor, the psychiatrist, he's behind all of this."

Before Tony could respond, a figure jumped gracefully over a nearby truck—T'Challa.

"Captain."

Steve gave a courteous nod. "Your highness."

Tony sighed. "Anyway, Ross gave me 36 hours to bring you in. That was 24 hours ago. Can you help a brother out?"

"You're after the wrong guy."

Tony's mask angled towards him. "Your judgment is askew. Your old war buddy killed innocent people yesterday."

"There are five more super soldiers just like him. I can't let the doctor find them first, Tony. I can't."

"Steve..." I spoke. He tilted his head slightly toward me but did not give me a complete glance. "You keep talking about what you cannot let happen. But what about what has already happened? People have died. People keep dying. And every time we try to clean things up, you're three steps ahead, saying no because you know better."

Tony looked at me sideways, almost astonished, as if he hadn't expected me to back him up like this.

Steven's jaw stiffened. "It's not that simple, Anastasia."

Natasha's voice sliced through the tension, "Steve... you know what's about to happen. Do you really wanna punch your way out of this one?"

But Tony's sigh indicated otherwise. He raised his hand, impatience flowing from him. "All right, I've run out of patience. Underoos!"

I blinked in confusion until a red blur flashed before my eyes. Webs tightened around Steve's shield, wrenching it from his hold before his wrists were tied in a tangle of silk.

My lips separated. "What in the - "

Then I saw him. A kid. He stood there in a goofy red-and-blue suit as if it were Comic-Con rather than a fight.

Tony smiled smugly. "Nice job, kid."

"Thanks," the boy said, his voice slightly muffled by his mask. "Well, I could have landed a little better. It's just a new suit. Well, Mr. Stark, it is nothing. It's perfect. Thank you."

I stared at him. "Are you out of your mind, Tony? How the fuck old is this kid?"

The boy froze, staring at me like a deer in headlights. "Uh - I'm... old enough?"

Tony threw me a stern, warning look. Do not destroy this for me.

"Yeah, we don't really need to start a conversation," Tony swiftly said.

"Okay." The child nodded, eager as a puppy. "Cap-Captain. Big fan, I'm Spider-Man."

Oh, God. He also had a name. "Yeah, we'll talk about it later," Tony mumbled. "Just..." He waved him off. "Good job."

"Hey, everyone," Spider-Kid laughed and gave the most awful little wave I had ever seen. I squeezed the bridge of my nose. A literal child.

Steve scowled at Tony, his hands still tangled in the webbing. "You've been busy."

Tony replied sharply. "And you've been a complete idiot. Dragging in Clint. 'Rescuing' Wanda from a place she doesn't even want to leave, a safe place. I'm trying to keep... I'm trying to keep you from tearing the Avengers apart."

Steve's answer hit like a hammer: "You did that when you signed."

"All right, we're done. You're gonna turn Barnes over, you're gonna come with us. NOW! Because it's us - or a squad of J-SOC guys with no compunction about being impolite. Come on."

Steve's jaw set, but his eyes flickered to the side

And then - his earpiece crackled. Sam's voice... "We found it. Their Quinjets's in hangar five, north runway."

"They're running," I muttered, low enough for only Vision to hear. My lips curled back slightly over my teeth, old instincts flaring.

He didn't respond. Of course, he did not. Instead, he raised his shackled hands. "All right, Lang."

Something stirred behind us. An odd, hesitant voice says, "Hey, guys, something - " Rhodes let out a startled curse. "Whoa. What the hell was that?"

And then, of all things, a man the size of an ant—and then not suddenly growing - tumbled forward, clutching Steve's shield.

He held it out with a silly little grin. "I believe this is yours, Captain America."

I looked at the sight with surprise.

"Unbelievable," I mumbled. "You guys are acting like idiots in a schoolyard brawl."

The field exploded into chaos. Voices jumbled in my ears, orders clashing as metal slammed against stone.

Tony's voice cut through the comms, "Oh, great. All right, there are two on the parking deck. One of them's Maximoff, I'm gonna grab her. Rhodey, you want to take Cap?"

Rhodey's response was all soldier: "Got two in the terminal, Wilson and Barnes."

"Barnes is mine!" T'Challa's growl rang through the air as he lunged like a shadow.

Meanwhile, alongside me, the Spider-Child spoke up: "Hey, Mr. Stark, what should I do?"

Tony did not even hesitate. "What we discussed. Keep your distance. Web them up."

My gaze swept across the battlefield: Steve bracing for T'Challa's wrath, Rhodey diving down with his weapon ready, and Clint fumbling with his ludicrous bow as if this were a medieval joust.

"Idiots," I mumbled as my jaw tightened. "All of them."

I looked at Peter, who was already bounding toward the terminal. "Kid," I yelled, my fangs nearly falling through from frustration. "We are on Barnes. You either keep up or stay down."

He nodded hesitantly, his webs breaking as he moved forward.

Inside the terminal, glass broke as Peter swung, connecting with Sam mid-flight.

Bucky whirled and raised his metal fist back.

Peter caught it in the middle of the swing, his eyes wild behind his mask. "Do you have a metal arm? That is awesome, dude!"

I rolled my eyes so hard they almost ached. "Focus, Spider!"

Sam struck again, Peter dodged, and the three of them fell into a tangle of fists, wings, and webs. I dashed in, my hand reaching out to push Bucky hard against the wall.

"Stay down, soldier," I shouted, "You're not running from this."

He snarled back, attempting to wriggle free, but Peter's web grabbed his arm again, jerking him backward.

Bucky strained against the webs, Sam pinned beside him, both looking amused and annoyed. Peter hopped on his toes, babbling quickly.

"...and by the way, that metal arm is the coolest thing I've ever seen. Is it like vibranium, titanium, or-?"

"Kid," I snapped, tugging his shoulder, "look at them, not their toys."

But Peter was not listening. He was still speaking. Sam rolled his eyes.

"Usually, there isn't this much commentary in a fight," Sam muttered, tugging on the webbing.

"I'm just excited," Peter said. "First big mission, gotta impress Mr. Stark, and..."

He didn't notice Bucky's knife flash until it had already cut cleanly through the webs.

Sam snapped his wings open, knocking Peter sprawling on his back. Bucky shoved off the fence and began pulling free. Both of them rushed through the smashed glass wall and disappeared into the chaos below.

Peter grumbled and lifted himself off the floor. "Oh, come on!"

"You had one job," I screamed, staring down at him.

"I-I almost had them!" he mumbled.

"You talked them free! Are you trying for the worst Avenger alive?" My voice was louder than I meant to be, but adrenaline was rushing through my veins.

Peter winced and rubbed the back of his head. "Mr. Stark is gonna kill me..."

"Forget Stark -" I growled and cut him off.

My gaze went toward the airfield.

The Quinjet.

Steve's team had broken through the line, rushing for escape. Wanda was beside them, her hands glowing scarlet as she protected Clint. The sight of her hit me harder than a punch. High neckline, corset hugging her figure, power sparking like a storm all around her. She's so beautiful.

"Come on!" Steve barked and waved them forward.

Steve's team came to an end and stopped. Vision loomed over the wreckage.

"Captain Rogers," he said calmly but clearly, "I know you believe what you're doing is correct. But for the collective good, you must surrender now."

Team regrouped and spread out. Rhodey, Natasha, Peter - I'm still standing on this side of the line. Wanda came across it.

I caught her gaze for the briefest of moments, my chest wrenching. She looked away first. Sam murmured, "What do we do, Cap?"

Steve's response was quick. "We fight."

I swore under my breath. Of course. "This will end well," Natasha muttered, brushing her hair.

The world dissolved into noise, with metal clashing, flames erupting, and the thunder of boots, fists, and power slamming. The barrier faded quickly, and teammates became enemies rather than friends.

Natasha was by my side. Clint rushed at us, arrows drawn, attempting to cover Steve's flank.

"I'll take Legolas," I mumbled as I sprinted.

Nat smirked. "Don't get cocky."

Clint fired three arrows in a heartbeat. I dodged left, felt one graze my arm, and closed the gap. My boot caught his bow mid-draw and snapped the string. He cursed and aimed a taser arrow at my chest, but Nat was there to deactivate it before it lit up.

"Two versus one? Kinda unfair," Clint grumbled.

"Yeah," I grinned, catching it mid-swing and yanking it from his grasp, "for you."

Nat's knife landed on his ribs, and I shoved him hard enough that he stumbled back, his breath knocked out. We got him

But then the red light burned the corner of my eyes. My stomach fell even before the power surged through me.

Wanda's energy burst through the air, ripping me and Natasha away from Clint and hurling us backward like rag dolls. I hit the ground hard, shaking every bone in my body. 

I should have gotten back on my feet and attacked her, but I didn't. My body screamed to move, but all I could do was stare, frozen in the pull she had on me. Anger crawled up my throat, bitter and burning, yet it was something I couldn't push down. Something made my chest hurt more than the fall ever could.

I dragged myself away from the road, rage pouring through my bones.

Steve was hurrying across the runway, shield up and body inclined, in a pose that shouted, "Don't try me."

So, of course, I went right for him.

"Steve!" I yelled, my voice ragged. "Enough running."

He turned, blue eyes narrowing, and for a brief moment, I thought he might stop. Then he charged.

The impact was bone-cracking. His shield crashed against my forearm, sending vibrations through my bones. I kicked him low, knocking him down, and then delivered a punch that could have broken stone. He hardly blocked.

The crack of the gun echoed throughout the airport. I looked down at my side, expecting flames and pain. However, the bullet went into me shallowly, hardly cutting into me. My lips curved back into a sneer. "Really? Is that your move?"

Bucky squinted his eyes and tightened his grip on the rifle, ready to fire again. Before he could blink, I was on him. My palm gripped the gun's barrel, crushing metal like paper, and with a jerk, I ripped it from him and tossed it halfway down the runway. "You think that can stop me?"

I pushed my fist into his chest and tossed him. His body collided with the side of a carrier truck, causing the metal to crack.

He jumped up, the metal arm flashing. He swung quickly and brutally, but I caught his wrist midair. The ground broke beneath our feet as I spun, forcing him to his knees.

"You're nothing." I spat, pushing him back. "And I've killed worse."

Bucky lunged again. I did not hesitate. With a shout, I grabbed him around the waist and tossed him across the ground. He landed and tumbled, leaving a trail of dust behind him.

Adrenaline was like fire in my veins. But then...

I was thrown off my feet, the world spinning as Wanda's magic wrapped around my body, flinging me backward. I tried to stop myself, but the power was too strong. I smacked into the ground hard.

The skyscraper above me creaked. Vision's blast had already sliced through some of the building. Wanda's push sent me straight onto the fault line. Metal exploded, walls bent, and everything collapsed.

No sound. No pain. No light. Only cold quiet pressed down on me, like the grave I'd been pushed into more times than I remember.

And then, like a match struck in the dark, my body finally woke up again.

As I clawed upward, stone and steel cracked beneath my fists, allowing air to return to my lungs. Dust stung my throat, blood flowed down my lip, but my vision and senses were sharper. My heart raced with frustration.

Above me, the world was in chaos.

"Where is she?!"

"Over here - I saw her falling this way!" Rhodey yelled back, pieces shifting as his armored gloves ripped through the ruins.

"Anastasia!" Vision's voice sounds frightened. I could hear him scanning and phasing through the walls. Even Peter's little voice crackled with anxiety.

And beneath it all, footsteps pound away. Fast and steady. Steve. Bucky. Running. Taking advantage of the confusion to go closer to the Quinjet. Of course.

My lip twisted as I moved free from the ruin. I listened through the ringing in my ears and the aching of bones still trying to heal. Her heartbeat. I needed her to stop fighting, because we couldn't stop them.

I went silently, saw her behind the corner of a collapsed wall, her back turned, her head whipping as she searched the wreckage she had buried me under. She did not see me.

My hand reached out, fingers tightening around her throat, not crushing but strong. She gasped, eyes wide, red crackling reflexively in her fingers.

"Stop," I hissed, my voice low. My fangs ached at the corners of my lips, and my eyes remained red from the near-death haze. I drew her closer, my lips nearly touching her ear. "No more fight. You're done."

Her lips parted, shock transformed into fear, and then something else. Guilt. Her hands tremble, and the red light flickers as she stares at me, unsure whether she should fight or fall into me.

"I-I didn't mean-" Wanda's voice broke. Her eyes were wet, "I didn't want to hurt you. I swear, Ana..."

Her knees buckled before she had finished. The red color drained from her palms like dying flames. She stumbled, her weight folding beneath her, and I had to catch her before she collapsed on the ground.

"Damn it, Wanda..." I mumbled as I slowly lowered her onto the damaged cement. Her body trembled, not from fear, but from tiredness, her eyes lowered but yet looking for mine.

Her fingers brushed lightly across my wrist, not pushing me away but clinging on. "I'm sorry," she said again, but this time softly, as if admitting a sin. "I never wanted to..." Her lashes fluttered shut, and her head rested lightly against my arm.

For a minute, all I could do was stare at her. My anger split and weakened by the curve of her mouth and the thrill of her breath.

"Wanda..."

"Anastasia!"

Vision's voice broke through the fog, relief filling his face as he dropped through the mess. His eyes widened as he saw me clutching Wanda, alive but barely conscious. "You're all right."

I met his stare, "She'll live. Just...probably her powers exhausted her."

He crouched, worry etched over his flawless face. But then his head leaned slightly, almost guilty. "Captain and Bucky have made it to the Quinjet. If we move right now, maybe we can - "

"I'll go," I interrupted, carefully putting Wanda into his arms. I wiped a stray strand of hair from her cheek before letting her go, pushing myself to control my voice. "Take care of her. Don't let her leave."

Vision nodded and held her as if she were glass. His lips curved into a small smile. My gaze darted down the landing strip, toward the Quinjet engines that were already firing up.

As I reached the end of the runway, the rumble of engines vanished into the sky. My chest still heaved from the sprint. The Quinjet was already a tiny object taken up by clouds. Gone.

I stopped and looked at the boots dragging on the burnt pavement, and the first thing I noticed was T'Challa. The panther is on one knee. His muscles trembled furiously, betraying him, and his black suit flashed with blue sparks. He gasped and dug his claws into the floor in order to stay upright.

Natasha stood beside him. My anger was seething and crackling in my chest as I looked at Natasha. She stood with her chin up, her gaze steady despite the shame.

With a raspy voice, I yelled, "You don't get to just - just say sorry and walk away." Are you even aware of your actions? You gave him everything. You gave them everything."

She made a small line with her lips. "I know."

I let out a sharp sigh and dragged a hand down my face. "You piss me off," I whispered.

She tilted her head, almost surprised. "You think I don't piss myself off?"

I briefly laughed bitterly and sighed. Then, with T'Challa still on his knees and his body shaking from the Widow's Bite, I turned to face him. Even through the fog of suffering, his eyes were fixed on mine. He would remember this. He would remember everything. Natasha would be damned by that.

I knelt down in front of him and said, "Sleep, and forget me. Forget I was here."

The fighting left him as if someone had plucked the threads from his body, and his eyes closed. The King of Wakanda fell to the ground a moment later, unconscious but still alive.

As if to relieve myself of its burden, I stood up and wiped my palms against my thighs. Natasha was staring at me.

I said, "You don't have to run. I can also make them forget. Stark. Rhodey. Each and every one. Nobody will be aware of what you did."

She shook her head after that. "For that, it's too late. They will be aware. They may not do so now, but they will." After pausing, she moved closer while speaking in a quiet, determined voice. "And when the time comes, I'll handle it."

But I understood. I got it, damn it. Despite her many qualities, Natasha Romanoff was not a coward.

I grabbed her wrist, tight but not unkind. "Then go. Now. Before they realize."

She simply stared at me for a moment. She then gave me the tiniest nod. When I released her hand, she turned and vanished before the smoke cleared, vanishing into the darkness at the runway's edge....

[scarletnhoney]

Just playing with Wanda's rings in the smallest of moments, zoning out everything else as your fingers just twist at the cold metal as you allow your mind to just drift away.

"What are you thinking of moya lyubov?" Her nose nuzzling your hair as she already knows, but she always loves to hear it from you, as you squirm at the thought of saying it.

[fatecast]

the summer I fell in love ─── wanda x fem!reader

When a dedicated aquarium worker meets a brilliant but guarded marine biologist, their shared love for the ocean pulls them into a deep and unexpected connection.

warnings ⚘. slow burn romance, suggestive (make out session), marine biologist/vet!wanda, aquarium worker!reader, hurt/comfort, happy ending, fluff, slight injury (r sustaining), age gap

You know you're better than this.

Falling for someone when you don't even know their name—that’s the kind of thing you'd scold a teenager for, not something you'd expect from yourself. And yet, they say a crush is just infatuation without information. If that's true, then you're already in deeper than you'd like to admit.

You don’t know who she is—not really. Just the woman in the lab with sleek sunglasses and her hair always pulled back into a lazy bun. You catch glimpses of her in passing, your paths crossing in quiet hallways and crowded labs. Sometimes there’s a soft "excuse me," barely spoken. Sometimes nothing at all.

Your father—the owner of the aquarium—mentions her name occasionally over dinner. Casual updates. Project progress. Grant approvals. Nothing ever personal. Still, it's embarrassing how quickly you tune in, pretending not to care while hanging on every word, hoping for some small glimpse into who she really is.

At the very least, she makes coming to work interesting.

It’s late when you find her.

The lights in the main habitat building are low, just a soft amber glow spilling out through the wide viewing windows. Outside, the air is cooler than expected, briny and quiet, the hum of the filtration system steady like a heartbeat in the background.

You’re here to do the last feed—a simple task, one you’ve done a hundred times. But tonight, the pool isn't empty.

She’s standing near the edge of the dolphin tank, chart in hand, glasses perched low on her nose. You hesitate, one step shy of the door.

You could leave her to it. You should. But instead, you shift the bucket in your hands and push the door open, quietly enough that the hinges don't creak. She doesn’t look up when you enter—even as you try to start a conversation.

You linger a moment longer, then speak, softly:

“Didn’t expect anyone else to be here this late.”

She doesn't flinch, doesn't turn. Just finishes writing whatever she was noting, her voice calm when she finally replies.

“I could say the same.”

You step closer, careful not to startle the dolphin—or her.

“Feeding rotation,” you say, lifting the bucket slightly like proof. “Last round.”

She hums a quiet acknowledgment, still watching the dolphin. “He’s been circling more than usual. I wanted to keep an eye on him.”

“You glance over at the animal, its sleek body cutting lazy arcs through the water. Then, your eyes drift back to her.

‘He likes you,’ you murmur.

This time, she does glance over. Briefly.

‘And you can tell that from a few circles?’

You shrug, letting the quiet stretch a little. The dolphin surfaces with a soft puff of breath, then sinks again.

‘They don’t waste energy on people they don’t trust,’ you say.

She doesn’t respond right away. Her eyes are back on the water, but there’s something softer in her posture now—less clinical.

‘It’s not trust,’ she says eventually. ‘It’s pattern recognition. I feed him. I stand here. He loops. It’s habit.’

You watch her for a second, then offer, ‘That’s a very unromantic way of looking at it.’

‘Romance is inefficient,’ she says, but there’s the faintest curve at the corner of her mouth now, like she knows she’s being a little difficult on purpose.

You’re quiet for a beat, then ask, more gently, “Why marine biology?”

She doesn't answer right away. Just watches the dolphin swim a slow, deliberate loop, then scratches something onto her clipboard. When she finally speaks, it’s simple.

“It interested me.”

Nothing more.

She doesn’t elaborate, and you don’t push. The way she says it—calm, clipped—makes it clear that’s all she’s willing to offer. At least for now.

A moment passes.

“What about you?” she asks, eyes still on the tank. “You don’t strike me as a lifer.”

You toss a fish toward the dolphin, who catches it mid-arc with practiced ease. “My dad owns the place,” you say. “So… part-time, here and there. Feeding shifts. Habitat checks. Whatever needs doing.”

That earns you a glance. Just a flick of her eyes, but it feels like something.

“And that interested you?”

You grin faintly. “Not at first. But it pays. And the company’s improving.”

That almost gets a smile. Almost.

The next day, you see her in the hallway.

She's walking out of one of the back rooms, clipboard tucked under her arm, talking quietly with someone from the research team. You almost don’t notice her at first—too busy trying to not look like you’re looking for her.

But then she spots you.

And for the first time, she doesn’t just glance past. She sees you.

A small smile tugs at her lips—soft, real. Recognition.

It hits you harder than you expect, that smile. Like something inside you skips, then juts sharp against your ribs. You give a nod, casual, like it’s nothing.

You’re on your way out when you see the light still on in the lab.

Most of the building’s already gone dark—night mode humming in the tanks, offices empty, the air quieter in that particular way that only happens after hours. You’re halfway past the glass wall before you spot her inside.

Wanda.

She's the only one there, seated at one of the long stainless-steel counters, elbows resting beside a shallow tank. There’s a soft blue glow coming off the water, casting flickers of light across her face. You stop in the doorway.

She’s studying a crab. A small one—brightly colored, legs twitching as it explores the corner of its enclosure. She watches it with that same focused stillness you’ve seen before, one hand loosely holding a pen, the other tucked beneath her chin. A notebook is open beside her, half-filled with scribbles and diagrams you can’t quite make out.

She doesn’t look up when she says, “You’re still here.”

Her voice is calm, like she expected you.

You step inside, hands in your pockets. “Was heading out. Saw the light. Thought maybe you forgot to clock out.”

“I didn’t,” she says, still watching the crab. It taps delicately at the glass, like it’s testing it. “I just needed a few more minutes.”

You drift closer, careful not to crowd her. “What is it?”

“Fiddler crab,” she says. “Male. We found him near the inlet this morning. His claw’s damaged. I wanted to see if he’s adjusting to the rehab tank.”

You lean over slightly, watching the crab scuttle sideways, its one oversized claw held awkwardly aloft.

“Looks like he’s holding onto a grudge.”

That earns you a small exhale—almost a laugh. “Probably.”

You glance at her.

Her hair’s loose tonight, falling over one shoulder, and the tiredness in her posture looks a little softer than before. The crab keeps pacing in its little tank, quiet between you.

“I could make sure he gets his dinner before I go?” you offer.

Wanda raises an eyebrow, then slides the container of feed pellets your way without a word. You take that as a yes.

You open the small lid on the tank, reaching in carefully to sprinkle the pellets in the shallow water. The crab immediately scrambles toward the movement—quicker than you expect.

You don’t even notice how close it is until you feel a snap of pressure on your finger.

“Shit—!”

You jerk your hand back, cradling it instinctively. The crab, thoroughly unfazed, continues its meal.

Wanda lifts her head fully this time, eyes narrowing as she sees you pulling away.

“You got pinched?”

You look down. A small but sharp mark just below your knuckle is already pooling with a thin thread of blood.

You hold it up slightly. “Apparently he’s not a fan of being hand-fed.”

There’s a pause. Then, unexpectedly, Wanda laughs.

Not just a breath—but an actual laugh, soft and low, caught somewhere between amusement and surprise. It makes you look at her more than the pain does.

“You’re not supposed to stick your fingers in the tank,” she says, rising from her stool.

“Thanks. I’ll remember that next time.”

She’s already crossing the lab, opening a drawer and pulling out a first-aid kit with practiced ease.

“Sit,” she says, nodding toward the stool she just vacated.

You hesitate, half-smiling. “You’re gonna patch me up?”

“I can’t let you bleed out in front of the crab,” she says dryly, already snapping open the kit.

You sit, and she takes your hand without fanfare, fingers surprisingly gentle as she turns it palm-up.

The antiseptic stings more than the crab did. You wince. She doesn’t comment—just dabs carefully, then wraps gauze around your finger with quick, efficient movements.

“You’ve done this before,” you murmur.

She glances up at you, just briefly. “I work with sharp tools and aggressive animals. Comes with the territory.”

“Guess I’m in good company, then.”

This time, she doesn’t laugh—but you see the ghost of it in her eyes.

She finishes the wrap, tucking the end neatly, then holds your hand a moment longer than necessary. Not long enough to say anything. Just long enough to feel it.

“Try not to antagonize the wildlife next time,” she says, stepping back.

Over the weeks, you and Wanda formed a small friendship—quiet and unspoken, but full of gentle sparks. There was a rhythm to it: playful banter during late shifts, subtle smiles exchanged over shared tasks, and moments so soft they almost felt like a secret language between you.

You learned to read the little cues—the way she’d tease you about your clumsy feeding skills, or how her eyes would linger just a second longer when she thought you weren’t looking. It was easy to forget the walls she kept up, because in those moments, it felt like maybe you were breaking through.

But then, one morning, you walk into work and everything has shifted.

It’s like the beginning all over again—only colder. She doesn’t look for you, doesn’t smile or even glance your way. The warmth you thought was growing between you disappears without explanation, leaving a quiet space that feels heavier than silence.

And just like that, you’re the one searching again—walking through every room, hoping for a glimpse of the woman who once seemed so close.

Dinner feels heavier than usual. When your father mentions her name, it’s like a cold wave crashing over you. You shut down, retreating inside yourself as the words hang in the air.

The hurt twists slowly into bitterness, sharp and bitter, filling the space between you and everyone else at the table.

Later, in the quiet halls of the aquarium, you pass by the lab where she’s still there—alone, bathed in the pale glow of the tanks. You feel the weight of the moment pressing down on you, but you don’t stop.

You shove past with more force than necessary, not sparing her a glance, not meeting her eyes. The distance between you grows wider in that instant, unspoken and aching.

You’re standing by one of the shark enclosures, listening to a coworker explain the details of an injury the animal sustained. The conversation is technical, but you’re only half paying attention.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you see her.

Wanda.

She’s there—calm, composed, but distant—leaning against the railing just a few feet away.

Your friend notices and nudges you gently. “Hey, I want you to meet someone.”

Before you can protest, they guide you toward her.

“This is Wanda,” they say, smiling. “She’s one of our marine biologists here at the company."

You nod, forcing a grin. “Still the last one here, huh?”

You say, “Still the last one here, huh?”

She looks up briefly, calm and unbothered. “Yeah.”

You don’t say anything. But inside, something snaps.

Why won’t she even look at me anymore? What’s her problem? Why is she such a bitch?

The anger twists tight in your chest, hot and sharp, and suddenly the quiet sting feels too much.

You blink hard, the edge of tears burning behind your eyes. Without another word, you turn and storm away, the distance between you growing wider with every step.

The night air is cool and salty, the wind teasing at your hair as it sweeps across the sand. The steady, soothing crash of waves rolls in rhythmically, under a pale, silver moon hanging low in the sky.

You sit on the sand, knees pulled tight to your chest, back resting against the rough bark of a weathered tree. The world feels vast and empty around you—like you’re both nowhere and everywhere all at once.

Somewhere in the darkness, soft footsteps shuffle closer, crunching lightly on the sand. You don’t turn around. They stop just behind you.

She lowers herself onto the sand beside you, the grains cool and damp beneath her. You don’t turn your head—your eyes remain fixed on the restless shimmer of moonlight spilling over the waves, the steady rhythm of the ocean swallowing the silence between you.

After what feels like an eternity, her voice breaks through—soft, tentative, almost a fragile confession carried on the night breeze.

“I’m sorry.”

The words hang in the air, bare and honest, like a delicate offering she’s been rehearsing in her mind for too long.

She swallows hard, the quiet weight of her breath mingling with the salt-tinged wind.

“I didn’t know how to say it before. Or if I even should have. But I felt—” Her voice falters for a heartbeat, then steadies. “I felt like this… whatever it was between us… wasn’t good. Not for a million reasons.”

You still don’t look at her. You can hear the slight catch in her throat, the way her breath hitching like she’s trying to push the words out, piece by careful piece.

“I could sense how much you were into me. How much you cared. And I was scared. Scared of falling in. Scared of what it might mean—not just for me, but for you, too.”

She pauses, letting the words settle, the silence wrapping around them like a shroud.

“The age difference. Your dad. His expectations, his disapproval. The way our worlds don’t exactly fit together.”

Her voice lowers further, almost confessional.

“I’m not making excuses. I’m not trying to justify how I pulled away or how it hurt you. But I needed you to understand why I did.”

You hear her shift slightly, the soft scrape of sand as she adjusts her weight.

“I thought distancing myself was the safest thing to do—for both of us. But now… now I’m here. Sitting next to you in the dark, under the same sky, and I want you to know I’m sorry. I never meant to be so cold. Or to make you feel invisible.”

She lets out a breath, slow and steady, as if exhaling a long-held tension.

“I don’t know what comes next. I don’t know if this changes anything. But I needed to say that.”

The waves keep rolling, endless and patient, and for the first time, the silence between you feels a little less heavy.

Your fingers start to play with the sand, sifting it slowly through your hands, feeling the grains slip away like the moments you wish you could rewind.

“I get it,” you say quietly, voice rough with something close to frustration. “I really do. But… honestly? I think you’re being stupid.”

You glance over at her, catching the faintest flicker of surprise.

“You didn’t have to pull away like that. I wish you’d just come to me. Say how you felt. Talk it through instead of shutting me out.”

The words settle between you like a confession.

“I've only really known you a month, and already you mean a lot to me,” you admit, voice softer now, more open. “And… I want to get to know you better. I’m interested—truly,”

You finally lift your eyes to hers, searching.

Her eyes don't waver as she lifts her hand, fingertips trailing like a whisper across your cheek. The warmth of her touch contrasts sharply with the cool night air, grounding you in the moment. You feel the faint roughness of her skin against yours, delicate yet insistent, like a quiet plea.

Time seems to stretch, the world falling away until it's just the two of you beneath the silver glow of the moon.

Her breath mingles with yours, soft and steady, carrying the faint scent of salt and something uniquely hers—something you've been aching to understand.

Then she leans in, slow and deliberate, closing the small distance with a tenderness that catches you off guard. Her lips meet yours—gentle at first, a tentative exploration, like the first stroke of a brush on a blank canvas.

But there's more beneath that softness: a raw, unspoken urgency that speaks of longing, apology, and hope all tangled together.

Your eyes flutter closed, senses sharpening—the taste of her, the warmth radiating from her, the steady rhythm of her breath syncing with your own. One hand finds her waist, the other tangling in her hair as you deepen the kiss.

She responds with a soft moan, her body pressing closer, eliminating any remaining space between you. Her fingers thread through your hair, tilting your head to angle the kiss differently, delving deeper.

The taste of her is intoxicating, addictive. You can't get enough. Your tongue traces the seam of her lips, seeking entrance, and she grants it eagerly, tangling with yours in a sensual dance.

Her fingers tighten in your hair, tugging just enough to send a shiver down your spine. The ache between your legs intensifies, your body pulsing with need.

She pulls back just enough to nip at your bottom lip before soothing the sting with her tongue. "We should stop," she whispers against your mouth, even as her hands roam your body, stoking the flames higher.

But you're too far gone to listen to reason. "No," you breathe, capturing her lips again, lost in the feel of her, in the desire burning through your veins.

She groans, resistance crumbling, surrendering to the hunger between you. Clothes are shoved aside in a frenzy, barriers eliminated. She pushes you back onto the sand, covering your body with hers, kissing you breathless.

Your fingers tangle in her hair, tilting her head to deepen the angle, delving into the sweetness of her mouth. She meets you eagerly, tongue tangling with yours in a sensual dance.

Hips grind together, seeking friction, ache building low in your belly. Her teeth scrape along your jaw, nipping at the sensitive skin, marking you as hers. You gasp at the slight sting, arching into her touch, craving more.

She trails kisses down your neck, tongue flicking out to taste your skin, leaving a hot, wet path in her wake. Her hands roam your body, caressing and squeezing, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

The rational part of your brain screams that this is a bad idea, that you should stop before things go too far. But your body throbs with need, aching to be touched, to be filled, to be claimed.

With a final burst of willpower, she tears her mouth from yours, chest heaving. "We can't," she pants, fingers digging into your hips. "Not here."

You nod, even as your body protests the loss of contact. She rolls off you, settling beside you on the sand, hand resting over your racing heart.

For a long moment, you simply breathe, grounding yourself in the rhythm of her heartbeat beneath your palm. Then she turns her head, capturing your gaze with her own.

"Come on," she says, tugging you to your feet. “I’d like to take you on a date first,” she says softly, the faintest smile playing at the corner of her lips.

You follow willingly, anticipation building with each step. Whatever happens next, you know it will be worth the wait.

note ─── I know it's Sept 1... but what's ONE LAST summer fic...

[r0sesandthprns]

how i think each one would hold your hand in bed

(not my art!!)

[randomshyperson]

practical magic - wanda maximoff oneshots

summary: study nights with wanda were supposed to be all about magic theory… until you discover the private magic Wanda’s been exploring - and what she’s been using it for.

warnings: smut, bottom!wanda, enchanted strap; overstimulation; suggestive dialogue; fingering; creampie; vampire feeding; mild roughness; humorous, soft aftercare; friends to lovers; emotional intimacy; reader is a vampire | words: 6.388k

a/n-> accidentally posted the unfished version before, just pretend i didn't. this was written with a mission, we need more bottom wanda fics.

General Masterlist | AO3 |

-&-

You've been friends with Wanda for a little over three years now.

When she officially joined the Avengers, you were still elbow-deep in the impossible task of recruiting more witches for what was not-quite-yet a coven. Agatha refused to call it that - “a nosy vampire and three witches who had one joint spell session does not a coven make,” she'd scoffed.

She had a point. The so-called group was mostly chaos: Agatha and the girls argued every other day, Jen technically wasn’t doing magic anymore, and Lilia had a rather violent aversion to the concept of community, possibly because of the whole plague situation. Still, you were trying. Someone had to.

So when the new Avengers were announced and vampire networks started buzzing about humans playing gods again, it wasn’t just politics or prophecy that drew your attention. It was the unmistakable pulse of magic laced in Wanda’s powers, bright and wild and untrained.

The others warned you against mingling with the superhero crowd, especially dragging magic into mortal affairs. But as usual, you ignored them. You knocked on the Tower’s door anyway - literally - and extended an invitation to the witch who didn’t yet know she was one.

Wanda had resisted the label as much as your group had resisted hers. But something softened over time. Bit by bit, routine rooted itself in the quiet moments: delivering spellbooks to the Avengers Tower every week, practicing basics on quiet Sunday mornings, sharing rituals and stories passed down through your centuries-long memory.

You grew close. Agatha would tease - “maybe too close,” always with that knowing lilt - but you both pretended not to hear her.

Which is how you found yourself, for the fourth time this week, sprawled across Wanda’s bed like you belonged there, magical books open in a circle around you. One hand flipped a page absently while the other nursed a stolen blood bag (donation room, New York Hospital - nobody missed it).

You looked up just as the door creaked open. Wanda entered slowly, flushed from her last training session of the day. Hair tousled, breath caught halfway between a sigh and a laugh, she offered you a soft, worn-out smile.

“I guess you don’t do doors anymore, huh?” she asked, voice light but teasing.

You paused mid-drink, fangs still out, mouth curved in a guilty little grin that made her look away too fast. She found sudden interest in the dirt on her sneakers.

“Portals are more efficient,” you said with a lazy blink.

Wanda smiled despite herself, that warm kind of smile she tried to hide. “Make yourself at home,” she muttered, already peeling her hoodie off, adding over her shoulder as she headed to the bathroom, “As usual.”

You mumbled something back - half smirk, half acknowledgment - but your attention had already started to slip.

The blood was sweet, warm enough to relax every taut line in your shoulders. You let your head tip back, fangs still buried in plastic, arm tucked under your neck, legs crossed at the ankles in the middle of her bed like you lived there.

Maybe you did, in a way.

You didn’t mean to listen. You didn’t try to notice the way her footsteps padded across the carpet, or the soft rustle of clothing falling to the floor. You didn’t mean to hear the sigh she let out as the hot water hit her back - or the way the scent of soap slowly replaced sweat, steam curling through the air like incense.

But you noticed anyway.

It wasn’t the first time you found yourself a little too aware of Wanda. Of the way her energy shifted when she entered a room. Of how the scent of her skin after a shower made your brain short-circuit for reasons you refused to unpack.

You blamed the blood. It was easier.

You discarded the empty bag in the container she’d sweetly labeled for you months ago - “blood trash 🩸🗑️ only” - and made a valiant effort to gather the books. Your limbs felt too relaxed to cooperate. Your brain, fogged with warmth and the remnants of adrenaline, wandered somewhere it shouldn’t.

She could skip tonight’s lesson. You weren’t really in a teaching mood, anyway. A movie under the covers sounded more tempting by the second.

By the time Wanda stepped back into the room, towel around her neck and damp hair dripping onto her collarbone, you’d transformed the bed into a cozy nest. Pillows fluffed, blankets piled just right, snacks from the Tower kitchen arranged with near reverence on a tray between the two of you.

Wanda’s gaze softened instantly.

“You spoil me, you know that?” she murmured, walking past you with bare feet and warm skin. One hand ruffled her damp hair, while the other reached out to give your shoulder a playful squeeze. The casual intimacy of it sent a flutter through your chest you definitely ignored.

She climbed into bed with a tired sigh, half-buried herself under the covers, and smiled at the little altar of treats you’d made for her.

“Although I love it… if I keep skipping our lessons like this, I’ll only learn the fundamentals by the time I’m thirty.”

You smile at her, the corners of your mouth twitching with playful softness as you click your tongue.

“We can do a whole day of studying tomorrow,” you say, voice low and warm as your fingers move to the buttons of your shirt. “Tonight, I can sense the exhaustion in your skin, sweetheart. You deserve a break.”

There’s the faintest blush on her cheeks at the nickname - she pretends to focus on drying her hair, but you catch the way her eyes flick toward your hands.  Your shirt is halfway unbuttoned now, revealing a smooth stretch of skin.

Wanda’s brow furrows almost instantly.

“What are you doing?” she asks, eyes narrowing as if trying to read your intentions.

You shrug, lips twitching upward in mock innocence. “Getting more comfortable for bed?”

She lets out a breath of a laugh, light but incredulous, her gaze trailing, just for a second, along the exposed line of your collarbone before she catches herself and lifts a finger in warning.

“I know you came here straight from one of your vampire errands. There is no way you’re sleeping in my bed with whatever blood-slicked demon germs you picked up tonight.”

“But I was already in there - ”

Her look is sharp. Final. You sigh, dramatic and defiant, arms dropping to your sides.

“Fine,” you mutter, letting your shirt fall open completely as you pad toward the bathroom. She calls after you, “Towels are in the bottom drawer!” - with a grin in her voice that only deepens when you growl back, “I know where the goddamn towels are.”

Wanda’s still chuckling softly to herself when her eyes catch a glimpse of your silhouette in the ajar door.

She was not expecting the sound of the shower to affect her the way it does - soft splashes, the shift of your body behind thin walls, steam curling like lazy magic through the cracks. Her mouth goes dry. She tells herself to focus on the screen. Instead, she finds herself watching the way your shadow moves behind the glass.

By the time you return, the scent of her shampoo lingers on your skin, mingling with the heat of the shower in a way that’s almost intimate. Familiar. Her breath catches when she glances up - and then immediately flicks her gaze away again.

You step into the room like it’s yours, skin still damp, droplets trailing down your collarbone and disappearing beneath the towel slung low around your waist. You hum under your breath, hair dripping onto your shoulders, leaving little wet marks on her floor.

Wanda makes the mistake of looking again - just a peek - and nearly chokes on her own breath.

You don’t seem to notice. Or maybe you do. It’s hard to tell with you.

A low chuckle slips from your throat as you move toward her dresser, digging through drawers like you’ve done a hundred times. “What the hell are you watching, Maximoff?”

Her eyes go wide, a guilty flush creeping up her neck. She thinks you caught her - thinks the heat in her chest must be visible somehow. But you add, casual as ever, “Your heart just skipped. Don’t tell me you’re scaring yourself with horror movies again.”

Lucky. Very lucky.

Wanda exhales, relief blooming like smoke. “Guilty,” she says quickly, flashing a nervous smile as she gestures to the screen. It’s some old monster flick - practical effects, over-the-top gore, and all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Something Natasha lent her as a joke.

You glance over your shoulder and laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. “That’s what got you riled up? Weak.”

She’s about to retort, something equally sarcastic on the tip of her tongue, when you let the towel drop.

Wanda stops breathing.

There’s nothing between her and the sight of your bare back, the elegant lines of muscle, the quiet strength carved into your form like poetry.

She’s seen you naked before. You were once a maid, then a pirate after your transformation - sharing cramped quarters with others became second nature, which explains your complete lack of modesty when it comes to nudity. But for Wanda, lately, it’s felt less like a habit and more like a divine trial of restraint.

You don’t seem bothered. Not at all. You stretch, slow and cat-like, and turn just enough for her to see the faint veins beneath your skin beginning to darken, the glow in your eyes blooming red for a heartbeat.

“Honestly,” you say, voice lower now, more playful, “I don’t know why you’re impressed. You’ve seen me transform a hundred times. Real-life horror movie, free show just for you.”

To prove your point, you flash her a half-formed vampiric grin - sharp fangs, darkened veins webbing lightly across your cheeks, just enough to make her pulse stutter.

Wanda groans, her thighs pressing together under the blankets as she throws herself dramatically onto the pillows. “Don’t do that,” she mutters, eyes squeezing shut. “You’re gonna give me nightmares.”

You laugh again, completely unbothered.

What she doesn’t see - what she misses, because she’s too busy pretending she’s annoyed and not aroused - is the way your eyes linger on her just a second longer than necessary. The way your smile softens when she hides her face in the pillows. The way your hands move a little slower now, as if savoring the comfort of being here, in her space, like it’s something sacred.

Wanda makes the mistake of not noticing where your hands are searching now. She’s too distracted by her own thoughts - by the fire licking at her skin, the way her body is betraying her with every heartbeat.

You find a shirt that’s comfortably oversized - definitely Wanda’s - and pull it over your head. As you fold a few other pieces and rummage through the drawer for something else to borrow, your fingers close around something far too structured to be clothing.

You freeze for a second. Then a slow, wicked grin curls your lips.

You’ve shared a house with Agatha Harkness for more than a century - there are very few enchanted accessories you haven’t seen. And besides, you lived through the entire pro-discovery, post-puritan, human-rights-to-sexuality era, so your fingers wrap around the leather strap with practiced curiosity rather than shock.

But enchanted magical straps? Those are always tethered to the witch who conjured them.

So when your hand tightens around it and lifts it ever so slightly from the drawer, you don’t miss the snap of Wanda’s head in your direction - eyes wide, mouth parting slightly in panic, cheeks already flushed a deep rose.

“Well, well,” you begin, voice dripping amusement, “what do we have here - ”

Before you can finish the sentence, the item yanks itself from your hand with a rush of scarlet magic and flies back into the drawer, which slams shut with finality.

You burst into laughter, fully delighted.

“Oh my god, Wanda. You don’t have to panic like that!”

“Shut up,” she hisses, crossing the room fast - but her voice is trembling and her face is practically glowing red. “Not a word about this!”

“Too late,” you grin, teasing mercilessly. “I love that you’re getting creative with your magic. Really taking your spellwork into… practical territory.”

She groans, turning away from you, face buried in her hands for a moment.

“I knew Agatha would be a terrible influence when I brought you into the coven,” you continue, folding your arms, expression mock-thoughtful.

Wanda wheels around, cheeks still pink. “Agatha has actually been… very mature about this. Extremely helpful.” She points at you, flustered but trying to sound stern. “You’re the one being insufferable.”

Your grin only widens as her hands press to your shoulders, gently but insistently trying to steer you away from the closet. You’re still laughing, still half-dressed, still entirely enjoying yourself.

But then you cheat.

Vampire speed kicks in, and in a blur, you’ve crossed the room, the object once again dangling from your fingers. Wanda’s horrified gasp echoes off the walls.

“Y/N!”

You hold it up between two fingers, smile cocky, eyes glittering with mischief. “You do know Agatha invented this spell, right? I’m just curious - did she teach you all the tricks, or just the basics?”

Wanda groans in frustration. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”

But she doesn’t use her magic to pin you down, not yet. She’s chasing you the mortal way, half-hearted, half-laughing through her mortification, her fingers swiping at the air just inches from your hand every time you dodge.

“Come on,” you tease, voice lilting. “We’re all adults here. Sex is natural. Magic-enhanced sex? Even better.”

“You’re the absolute worst. Worse than Agatha.”

You laugh harder, and that’s when she finally has enough - her magic tugs sharply at your wrist, yanking your arm down and finally letting her seize the toy. But as her fingers close over it, so do yours. Neither of you lets go.

Your eyes meet.

There’s a sudden shift - like the breath is sucked from the room. The laughter lingers on your lips, but something deeper pulses underneath. You tilt your head slightly, tone dropping lower, velvety.

“As your mentor, Wanda… It’s only natural I keep up with the kinds of spells you’ve been exploring.” Your voice is a caress now, the teasing thick with heat. “I just want to make sure you’re reaching your full potential.”

Her breath hitches - she feels the pulse of magic through the toy, the heat it responds to like a heartbeat. Her heartbeat.

You step a little closer, gaze locked to hers. “I could’ve helped you, you know. If you’d told me about this. We could’ve crafted something together. Something designed just for you.”

Her fingers tremble where they hold the object. She tries to speak, but it comes out as a half-broken, “I - I…”

You let go of the strap and take her wrist instead, the shift in contact gentle but commanding. Your other hand rises slowly, carefully, to cup her cheek, and she leans into the touch before she can stop herself.

Your thumb strokes her jaw, and when you speak again, your voice is barely a whisper, warm with sincerity beneath the sultry lilt.

“It’s no problem, really. I still know a few tricks… and I’d be more than happy to teach you. If you want me to.”

There’s a question in your eyes - no pressure, no assumption, just quiet patience. Wanda stares at you, breath shallow, caught between the rhythm of her own desire and the weight of her affection for you. You’re looking at her like she hung the stars, like you’d follow her anywhere if she only asked.

Her voice fails her again. So she nods, slowly.

And the way your smile shifts - softer, sweeter, reverent - makes her stomach flip.

“Oh, Wanda,” you murmur, voice like a promise. “The things I’d do for you... If you only asked.”

Her heart skips.

The hand you still have around her wrist begins to guide hers lower, slowly, deliberately - until it rests just above your waist. Wanda’s breath catches, her lungs refusing to function properly under the pressure of what that might mean. Her mind is racing ahead, heart in her throat, and nothing - nothing - prepares her for what you do instead.

“We’ll have time for you to lead another night,” you murmur, your voice raspy, grounding, commanding in the softest way. “Right now, I’m the one in charge.”

It’s only then that Wanda looks down to where her hand connects with yours, and the sight stops her breath entirely.

The strap, deep crimson and laced with faint magical etchings, is no longer simply something she was holding. It’s now fastened snugly to your body, the enchanted harness shimmering with scarlet runes, secured perfectly around your hips like it belonged there all along. Magic. Old, tailored magic. Magic that listens to arousal.

Her fingers twitch, then squeeze instinctively - and your body jolts forward slightly with a soft, fractured groan.

Wanda’s mouth falls open.

“I bet she didn’t teach you this trick,” you manage through your teeth, your smile strained by the pleasure that flashes visibly across your features.

Wanda doesn’t reply right away. She just releases the strap, palms sliding up to your shoulders instead - firm, grounding, trembling with adrenaline and something deeper. Her eyes lock with yours, voice low but resolute.

“Please stop talking about other people.”

And you’d agree to anything she asked in that moment.

The kiss she gives you is tentative at first, almost uncertain - like she’s afraid you’ll pull away, even though she’s the one fully dressed and you’re still barefoot and mostly naked in her bedroom. Her lips brush yours gently, a silent question.

But when she pulls back, cheeks flushed, eyes searching your face for any flicker of hesitation, you only stare at her like she’s the answer to a question you’ve been afraid to ask for centuries. You don’t need telepathy to know what she’s thinking: Am I crossing a line?

You don’t let her linger in that doubt. Your hands are already cupping her face, guiding her back to you. This time, the kiss is deeper, hungry in the way repressed feelings always are, tender in the way confessions often feel.

It’s the kind of kiss that anchors you. That rewrites the air in the room.

You lose yourselves in it for a while, long minutes of breath shared, lips parting slowly, tongues moving with lazy, reverent rhythm. Wanda's fingers twist into your hair, nails grazing your scalp in ways that make your knees threaten betrayal. And yet it’s the way her hips start pressing forward, restless and seeking friction, that truly tests your restraint.

She’s beautiful like this - messy and warm and open. Lips swollen from your mouth, skin flushed from the weight of wanting. Her whole body hums against yours.

When you finally pull back, it’s only to bury your face in the slope of her neck, placing slow, burning kisses along her collarbone, each one landing with weight. She shudders, fingers tightening around your arms. You feel her lean into you, legs weakening.

Then your fang grazes her skin - barely, a passing scrape - but Wanda’s response is immediate: a high, needy whimper that stokes something primal in you.

“You can feed,” she whispers, breath hot in your ear as she tilts her neck for you. “I don’t mind.”

You close your eyes, inhaling slowly as your grip on her waist tightens. The scent of her skin, still laced with soap and arousal, clouds your thoughts.

“I already have,” you murmur against her throat, voice hushed with restraint. “I don’t really need more tonight.”

Your tongue replaces the fang, a slow, wet stroke against her pulse point - soothing. Grounding.

But Wanda doesn’t want you grounded.

She reaches down suddenly, hand wrapping firmly around the base of the strap between you. The pressure is immediate - blinding - and the groan that rips from your chest is not subtle.

Her voice drops an octave. Confident now. Taunting even.

“I’m offering,” she says, eyes gleaming. “Don’t be rude.”

The enchantment responds at once, feeding off her arousal and yours, sending waves of stimulation back into your body. Your knees nearly buckle at the sensation, and your fingers dig into her hips just to stay steady.

The room spins slightly, heat swirling around you like smoke, thick with magic and want. You swallow hard, regaining your footing - but your fangs have already dropped, lips parting as you hover at her neck again.

There’s something sacred about the way she leans in, baring her throat to you like it’s instinct.

And something dangerous about how much you want her.

She whines sharply and low,  the sound of it vibrating in your throat like a tether pulled too tight. Her back arches into you, desperate for friction, and just as your fangs sink into her neck with controlled precision, her fingers move again - this time teasing the very tip of the strap.

It’s too much. Too much.

A sharp jolt runs through you, spine tightening, and you lose your rhythm in feeding as your hips press forward on instinct. Wanda gasps, not from pain but from impact, because the two of you stumble across the room, limbs clumsy and tangled, until her back hits the wall with a dull thud.

You try. You try to keep your fangs in her skin, your lips at her throat, to hold your body in check and drink without falling apart - but she’s a natural at destruction. Her grip on the toy doesn’t loosen. She keeps moving her hand with shameless precision, masturbating you through the strap like she knows exactly what she’s doing. And maybe she does.

You’re panting against her throat now, ragged and struggling, blood thick on your tongue and arousal hotter than anything you’ve felt in decades. Her power sings under your skin, and it’s not magic, it’s her. Wanda.

She giggles - soft but wicked - and the sound is a spark to dry kindling.

“Go ahead, sweetheart,” she purrs in your ear, voice molten. “Let go.”

Your fangs scrape her skin again, unintentionally, because your whole body is shaking from how tightly you’re holding the knot low in your belly.

“I want to see the big, bad vampire break for me.”

Then her tongue flicks your earlobe, her breath warm and wet. Her hand tightens once, twice - and it’s done.

You come undone in her hand with a raw, guttural groan. Your body convulses, the force of it dragging a cry from deep in your chest. One of your hands slams against the wall for balance, the strength behind it splintering the paint, your fingers flexing as your release pulses through you hard and hot. You’re left shaking, panting, head bowed against her shoulder, clinging to her waist like she’s the only thing keeping you from burning alive.

Wanda giggles again, and it’s unfair how pleased she sounds - mischief and something softer curled around her smile. Her hand finally goes still, slick with your cum, and when she lifts her palm to look at it, her expression flickers with something curious.

“I wasn’t sure that would happen,” she says, a little breathless, a little stunned. “But I’m definitely not disappointed.”

It takes a moment for your brain to connect the dots. She's not talking about the sex. Not exactly.

Her eyes flick back to yours, questioning but hesitant. “Is it…?”

She doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t have to.

Still catching your breath, you manage a nod and a rough, low reply.

“Mine. Real. Yes.” Your voice is hoarse, but steady now. “Functions like the traditional kind… if you want it to. Witches have very creative, non-male methods for building families.”

You kiss her quickly, nothing but warmth, grounding yourself, then pull back, fingers pried from the wall with effort. Cracked drywall and bruised pride. But worth it.

Wanda’s biting her lip, the implications of your words flickering behind her eyes. It makes her look so devastatingly her -  intellect and feelings always working together. You use that second of distraction to inhale, gathering some of the control she just stole from you.

Not because you mind her leading. You don’t. You love it. But you're not about to let yourself lose control of your strength - not in this space. Not with her. She deserves better than unbridled force. She deserves intention.

You let the back of your knees find the bed, falling into a seated position, legs spread, arms behind you for balance.

The enchanted strap is still vibrating faintly between your thighs - hard and slick, pulsing in tune with the magic it fed off. A bit of your cum leaks down your thigh, gleaming in the soft lamplight.

You look up at her.

“Take off your clothes, darling.”

The flush that blooms over her cheeks spreads down her neck. Still, she doesn’t look away. Her hands move to the waistband of her pajama bottoms, fumbling slightly, awkward in a way that makes your stomach ache with affection.

You sigh, all heat and hunger.

“If you take too long,” you warn, “I’ll rip them off you.”

That gets her.

Wanda swallows hard, visibly trembling. She lets go, magic sparking in the air around her, and in one motion she’s out of her shorts. But her panties are still clinging to her hips when your patience runs out completely.

Your hand reaches up, fast, closing gently but firmly around her wrist. In one motion, you pull her down into your lap, chest to chest.

Centuries old. You've fought monsters, conquered cities, danced with death, and kissed gods. But nothing - nothing - compares to the feeling of Wanda Maximoff grinding into you, panting into your mouth, whispering your name like it’s holy and begging to be fucked.

Your grip on her waist tightens, enough to bruise if you weren't careful, but you’ve never been anything but careful with her. It’s hard when she’s like this, moving her hips in frantic circles, riding the enchanted strap nestled between your legs like her life depends on it.

You manage a breath, a brief second of stillness, just enough to let your mouth travel down her body. Open-mouthed kisses trace along her collarbones, then lower, tongue teasing one nipple, then the other. You suck her tits until she's trembling above you, grinding halted, too overwhelmed to do anything but shake and whimper under the weight of your mouth. Her hands dig into your hair, and her chest heaves, breaths ragged. You didn’t expect her to be this close already.

But because the strap is magically connected to her arousal, her orgasm takes you out of orbit. You don't come physically - but you feel it, the echo of it, the way the spell is designed to drag you along with her, the throbbing ache of your own desire flaring bright. Your hips jolt. You groan into her chest.

She whines, too, writhing, overwhelmed, and pretty sure she's going to combust if you don’t fuck her now.

“I need- ” she pants, trying to pull away just enough to yank off her panties, still in the way because you were too impatient before. But you grab her hips and hold her against the strap, grinding her down onto it. “I’m just - just trying to-”

You rip the fabric with a single swipe of your hand.

“Really?” she protests, glaring for a second. “Those were nice.”

But you’ve already flipped her onto her back, pinning her against the pillows. “I’ll buy you new ones,” you promise, eyes flicking down as your hands part her thighs. “I’ll buy you everything. The whole damn world if you want it.”

Wanda laughs, cheeks flushed. “God, you’re such a sweet talker.”

Scarlet sparks hum around her fingers as they tug your shirt away. Her hands hover nervously at her sides, the way they always do when she’s trying not to tremble.

“I’m not,” you murmur, gaze locked between her legs. You’re barely listening, distracted by the sight of her - dripping, swollen, aching for you. “I’m cranky. Suspicious. You just bring out the version of me worth loving.”

Her expression softens, and she reaches for you, not for a kiss, not for your hand.

No, she’s guiding you. Down, between her legs, until your fingers find her heat and sink inside with an obscene wet sound. She moans, breath hitching.

You take your time with this, one finger, slow and deliberate. Then two. Twisting, curling, finding the spot that makes her clench around you with a cry.

“I want- ”

“I know, baby.” You hush her, your voice thick. “Just stretching you first. You’ll take me easily like this.”

She mewls, hips stuttering, her hands clenching the sheets. And just as you're adjusting, the strap between your legs pulses hard - your body jerks, gasping. Wanda came again.

It’s fast, sharp - her body is too sensitive now - but it still rocks through her like a wave. Her cunt flutters around your fingers, and you don’t know how much longer you can wait.

“Please,” she begs, voice high and thin. “Please, I can’t-”

“I know, shh,” you murmur, soothing her while you line up the strap with her soaked entrance. You press the tip against her, barely nudging inside, dragging it through her slickness just to hear her whine. “You’re so ready for me. You’ve been ready.”

You try to keep teasing her, only because you can. Because centuries have taught you patience in the face of primal hunger.

But then-

Scarlet sparks push at your back, a rough shove that drives your hips forward. You sink in, deep, with a single sharp thrust.

Both of you cry out.

The strap fills her completely, pulsing with her magic, thick and hard and vibrating just enough to keep you both panting. Her heat wraps around you, squeezing like her body’s trying to keep you there forever. And you're a goner.

The bed creaks violently with each thrust. Your hips snap forward, steady and punishing. Wanda claws at your back - literal blood under her nails - but you barely feel it. She's shaking, gasping, her legs wrapped around your waist so tightly there's no air between your bodies.

You don’t relent.

Your pace is ruthless, fucking her deep, fucking her through it. The room smells like sex and magic and sweat, and your hand finds her clit mid-thrust. She sobs at the contact.

"Fuck-!" Her whole body jerks, her fourth orgasm slamming into her so hard the lights above flicker.

You falter, nearly losing rhythm, groaning against her throat. “Wanda-fuck-where should I-?”

“W-What?” she gasps, dazed.

“Should I pull out?” you manage. “Or - ”

“What?” she says again, this time angry. Offended. “Don’t you dare fucking stop, Y/N.”

Her ankles lock around you.

You don't argue. You can’t.

You slam into her, thrusting hard as your orgasm rushes through your whole body. You bury your face in her neck, a long, drawn-out groan leaving you as your hips roll forward, grinding deep inside.

The strap pulses, spilling your cum into her in thick, slow waves that make you both tremble.

Her cunt is a soaked mess around the toy, slick and clenching, and when your hips roll again just to stay grounded in her warmth, the wet noise that follows is so obscenely loud it makes her eyes roll back.

And still, she doesn’t let go of you. Doesn’t let you pull away. Her legs hold you in place, her magic curling around your spine.

You're both still struggling to breathe, lungs heavy with the weight of satisfaction, limbs warm and slack after the intensity of climax. But you fight the sleepiness clawing at your body - fight it hard - because Wanda lets out a soft, desperate whine when you try to pull away.

“I gotta pull out, sweetheart,” you murmur, biting back a groan when she clenches around the strap, undeniably on purpose. You push gently against her hips, trying to ease out of her hold.

“I don’t want you to,” she breathes, less demanding now, her voice languid and soaked in exhaustion. Her ankles have slipped from behind your back, but the longing in her tone still tugs at something primal inside you.

You laugh, quiet, honey-sweet and it makes her blush. So does the tender kiss you press just beneath her ear.

“Oh, I know you don’t, baby,” you whisper, adjusting slightly. The enchanted toy slides out of her, and you both sigh at the loss, overstimulated nerves fluttering. Your voice drops, playful but rough with restraint. “But this kind of magic runs on intention. And I’m having all sorts of unholy thoughts right now. I’d rather not knock you up by accident.”

Wanda chuckles breathily at that, but doesn’t protest further. Her body, well-fucked and trembling, is already past its limit. Even your gentlest touch now makes her flinch more than melt.

You slip the strap off with the same ease you'd show removing a coat, as though tonight - the spellbound lust, the raw confessions, the whole fucking-your-best-friend-into-the-mattress thing - was just another Thursday.

“Don’t fall asleep on me just yet, Maximoff,” you tease, catching her eyelids fluttering. Her tired smile is pure surrender. She tries to respond, but her body’s already slipping. “We made a mess, sweetheart,” you murmur, brushing her sweat-damp hair back from her face. “Don’t you want me to-”

Scarlet sparks answer you before she does, pulling you back down and holding you there, face resting on your chest, her magic clinging to your skin like a second blanket. That’s all the answer you get.

And honestly? It’s more than enough.

You settle in with her, bodies tangled, her breath steadying into your collarbone. She’s asleep within seconds.

It doesn’t take long for you to follow.

-

It isn’t the warmth of the sun that wakes Wanda  -  it’s the absence of yours.

The chill that slips into the sheets in your place is subtle but unmistakable. Still tangled in sleep, her hand stretches across the linen instinctively, searching for your body. When she finds only the faint impression of your form on the mattress, her brows knit together in a drowsy frown.

Footsteps shuffle across the wooden floor. The sound is light, familiar. The rustle of fabric follows  -  and something in Wanda's sleepy brain registers it as you.

"It's too damn early, Y/N," she rasps, voice rough with sleep, eyes only half-open. But she doesn’t flinch from the light bleeding through the window  -  because even as her voice breaks the silence, she sees you standing there, reaching up to draw the heavy curtains closed.

"I know, sweetie. That's exactly why I got up," you reply gently, not looking over your shoulder, too focused on shielding the room. "We forgot to close the curtains last night."

It takes a second  -  two, maybe  -  before her still-sleep-fogged mind catches up to the words. Vampire best friend. Sunlight. Her eyes snap fully open.

“Sorry,” she mutters, suddenly wide awake, guilt flooding her features as she tries to sit up.

But you're already crossing the now-dim room, waving off her concern with a shake of your head. “It’s alright. Didn’t get me,” you reassure her with a soft smile, and she breathes out, easing back into the pillows just as you crawl up onto the bed  -  and settle on her waist.

It’s a position that feels far too natural for something so new. And Wanda feels her cheeks bloom red at the thought  -  at how much she wants you to stay exactly like that.

"I know I promised you a day of studying," you murmur, eyes drinking her in like you haven’t seen her in years, “but I was thinking… maybe I could take you on a date instead? What do you say?”

Her answer doesn’t come in words  -  it comes in the small sound she makes when your lips press against hers, hungry and warm and deeply familiar. It steals her breath. She only manages a weak, dazed nod as you pull back with a teasing laugh.

You lean closer to press another kiss to her cheek, but your gaze lingers, catching sight of the scattered constellation of hickeys and bite marks blooming across her collarbone. It makes you pause, and your voice drops as you murmur, “I’ll be gentler next time. I promise.”

Wanda immediately frowns. “Don’t you dare,” she counters, and you snort at the conviction in her sleepy voice.

"Very kinky of you." You grin, and she rolls her eyes, sticking her tongue out at you like a defiant schoolgirl  -  except her fingers are already curling around your hips, pulling you down against her again.

“Don’t pretend you don’t like it,” she says, gaze sharp despite the blush on her cheeks. “I know how much you like leaving your mark, Miss Vampire. The thought of showing me off must drive you crazy.”

You raise an eyebrow at her smugness, and the glint in your eye is all the warning she gets before you strike  -  fast, fluid, effortlessly dominant.

You pin her wrists above her head, your palms encasing her wrists like cuffs of silk and fire. She gasps, startled, and then gasps again as your hips grind into hers with calculated force.

“Oh?” you purr, low and dangerous, “You’ve been reading my mind, you naughty witch?”

She flushes, caught between embarrassment and arousal, unable  -  or unwilling  -  to deny it. Her thighs shift beneath yours, trying to find friction, but you don’t let her.

You adjust your position, sliding your thigh between hers. The slow, deliberate pressure makes Wanda moan  -  long and breathless  -  as her hips press down against you.

“Just practicing what you taught me,” she whispers, voice trembling, eyes wide with want.

“Let me teach you more, then,” you say, tone dipped in velvet, watching as she tries again to grind against you  -  only for you to shift back just enough to make her whimper.

“This,” you say, voice thick and sinfully sweet, “is called edging.”

Wanda's breath hitches. She opens her mouth to ask  -  what it is, why you’re doing it, maybe even to protest  -  but your lips are already back on hers, and your next words are spoken against her mouth like a spell:

“Questions are only allowed at the end of class.”

[natalianovnas]

❛❛ to 𝐁𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐏𝐔𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐒 ❛❛

  ꩜ ۫ . SUMMARY :: based on this lovely request by @mrsmothermaximoff ;)

  ꩜ ۫ . PAIRING :: ceo!wanda x reader

  ꩜ ۫ . WARNING :: 'enemies' to lovers trope, cold and slightly mean wanda (in the beginning), forced contract marriage.

꩜ ۫ . WORDS COUNT :: 6.5k || masterlist

author's note ; i apologise for the delay but it's here now & i'm not relly proud of how it turned out despite the insane amount of times i spent rewriting this but enjoy :)

You were sure there was a special place in hell for Wanda Maximoff.

Probably right next to the printer that never worked unless you whispered sweet nothings to it, and directly above the coffee machine that hated you. But even then, Wanda would rule supreme. Ice-cold. Iron-spined. A goddess in a power suit who made your life absolutely miserable, day after endless day.

And yet—you never quit.

You were overworked, underappreciated, and absolutely exhausted. But the pay was good, the benefits better, and your rent unforgiving. So you survived on caffeine, spite, and a tiny scrap of pride that wouldn’t let Wanda win.

“Miss Y/L/N,” came that voice—low, smooth, and dipped in condescension.

You didn’t look up from your screen. Not immediately. Wanda hated when you made her wait, but she hated desperation more. And if you had anything left in this war, it was your ability to pretend she didn’t affect you.

“Yes, Miss Maximoff?” you finally replied, tone clipped but professional.

Her heels clicked against the marble floor, each step a countdown to your next aneurysm. She stood behind your desk, all sharp cheekbones and sharper eyes, dressed in navy with lipstick the color of fresh blood.

“My schedule for this afternoon is… missing details,” she said, gesturing to the tablet in her hand. “Are you slacking off, or simply testing my patience?”

You swallowed. “The update was sent thirty minutes ago, along with the attached files. You haven’t refreshed your calendar, Ma'am.”

A pause. You watched her nostrils flare the tiniest bit.

“Fix it,” she snapped anyway, as if you hadn’t already done exactly that. “And bring me the corrected briefing in my office. Now.”

She turned and walked away before you could reply.

You didn’t mutter a curse—but only because HR was one more complaint away from calling you in for a “tone check.”

Wanda Maximoff was also a tyrant.

There was no other word for it. She was brilliant, yes—built Maximoff Industries from the ground up after moving from Sokovia at nineteen. She was also relentless, poised, and terrifyingly beautiful in that rich, untouchable kind of way that made you feel like a peasant in a fairytale. But she had no sense of mercy.

You’d been her assistant for two years. Not her executive assistant—just her assistant. The one she assigned overtime to without warning. The one she emailed at 2 a.m. with subject lines like URGENT: color-coding is embarrassing. The one who, despite having a degree and enough ambition to fill a boardroom, was stuck being her glorified punching bag.

Sometimes, you wondered if she even knew your first name.

Most times, you knew she did—and just enjoyed saying it as little as possible.

“Something crawled up her spine and built a condo,” you muttered under your breath as you passed Peter in the break room, cradling your third cup of coffee like it owed you child support.

Peter raised a brow. “Maximoff?”

You gave him a look. “She’s on a warpath. And I think I’m the first casualty.”

He chuckled, but it didn’t last. “Yeah, she’s… not great today.”

“She’s never great, Peter.”

“Okay, true. But this?” He lowered his voice, glancing around to make sure no one else was near. “This isn’t normal. Not even for her.”

You leaned against the counter, crossing your arms. “What’s the deal, then? Mercury in retrograde? Her espresso machine died?”

Peter hesitated, chewing the inside of his cheek.

You tilted your head. “Spill. You know something.”

He sighed, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “Alright, look. Keep this to yourself, but… her visa’s expiring soon.”

You blinked. “Visa?”

“She’s still technically on a special investor visa from Sokovia. It got renewed a few times, but the latest application hit a snag. Bureaucracy crap. She has a few months, tops.”

You blinked again, slower. “But… she’s Wanda Maximoff. Her name is on the goddamn building. She’s a millionaire. You’re telling me she might have to—what—pack up and go home?”

Peter nodded grimly. “Unless she finds a permanent solution fast. And, well… you know how she gets when things feel out of her control.”

You stared into your coffee, the bitterness suddenly matching your mood.

It made sense now—the extra tension, the unusual edge in her voice, the way she barked orders like she was trying to distract herself from something worse.

.     .     .

You should’ve seen it coming.

The moment you stepped into Wanda’s office that afternoon—called in via a sharp, one-line email with no subject—your instincts screamed at you to run. But you didn’t. Because you never did.

Because even if she was fire and knives and deadlines wrapped in silk, you always showed up.

She didn’t look up when you entered. She was at her desk, eyes on her laptop, long fingers tapping something out fast. Deliberate. You waited, silently, in front of her desk, clutching the tablet with her updated itinerary—because that’s what she asked for.

Finally, she spoke. “Close the door.”

Your heart skipped.

Obeying, you turned, shut it quietly, and turned back. She gestured to the chair across from her without looking.

You sat.

And waited.

Wanda finally looked up—and the moment her eyes met yours, you felt something shift.

She looked… tired.

Not unkempt. Not messy. She was never those things. But there was a tension in her jaw that wasn’t always there, a strain behind the eyes like she hadn’t slept. And worse: a flicker of vulnerability trying to pass for detachment.

“I’m going to make this simple,” she said at last. “I need something. And you’re going to give it to me.”

You blinked. “You always make things sound like you’re about to blackmail me.”

She didn’t smile. “You’re not wrong.”

Your fingers tightened around the tablet.

“You’ve worked here long enough,” she went on, “to know how I operate. I like control. Precision. Solutions. And I don’t like my time wasted with unnecessary questions.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Is that your way of asking for a favor?”

“No.” Her gaze sharpened. “It’s my way of giving you an opportunity.”

You couldn’t help the dry laugh that escaped. “God, you’re really committing to the Bond villain routine, huh?”

Her jaw flexed. “I’m offering you a deal. You can either hear it, or I can accept your resignation.”

You went still.

“You’re kidding,” you said flatly. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I need to stay in the country,” she said. “Legally. My visa situation is deteriorating faster than I expected, and every other avenue is closing. I’ve been advised that the fastest way to lock in my residency and maintain the company without interruption… is to marry a U.S. citizen.”

Your lips parted. Then closed again. Then opened.

“You’re telling me this why?”

“Because,” she said coolly, “it’s either you, or someone I don’t trust. And I’d rather marry someone I can predict. Someone who already knows how to survive my world.”

You gaped. “Survive—? Wanda, I’m your assistant. I bring you coffee and tolerate your daily tantrums. I’m not your—your fake wife!”

“You’ll be compensated,” she said, like she hadn’t just threatened your career. “A year’s salary, upfront. Your debt cleared. Paid leave after the interviews. A guaranteed recommendation from me. You’ll live with me, play the part, attend events when needed. Three months minimum. One year ideal.”

Your throat went dry. “And if I say no?”

She folded her hands on the desk. “Then you’ll receive a generous severance and be free to look for employment somewhere else. I won’t lie—I’ll make sure it’s somewhere far from this industry.”

You stared at her, heart pounding. “You’re seriously threatening me into marriage.”

“No,” she said evenly. “I’m giving you a choice. It just happens to come with consequences.”

You stood suddenly, knocking the chair back a few inches. “You are unbelievable.”

“And you’re an intelligent woman who knows a once-in-a-lifetime offer when she sees it.”

Your eyes stung, but you blinked fast. You wouldn’t cry in front of her. You never had—and today wasn’t going to be the day you broke.

“Why me?” you asked, quieter now. “You’ve treated me like shit for two years.”

Wanda’s gaze faltered.

For the first time in a very long time, she looked… conflicted.

“Because I know you won’t lie to me,” she said finally. “Because I know you’re loyal even when I don’t deserve it. And because I—”

She stopped herself. Her fingers curled on the desk.

You stepped back slowly. “You don’t get to manipulate me, Wanda. Not with guilt. Not with perks. Not with desperation.”

She stood too. Slowly.

“Twenty-four hours,” she said. “Think about it.”

You stared at her a moment longer—at the way she held herself stiffly, like a soldier refusing to show injury. And for just a breath, you saw something else flicker behind her practiced calm.

Fear.

You turned and walked out without another word.

But even as the door shut behind you, her voice echoed in your mind:

“You’re the only one I trust to do this right.”

And god help you—some part of you wanted to say yes.

.     .     .

You stared at your ceiling for most of the night. Wanda Maximoff, your boss, had proposed—no, offered—you marriage. Like it was a project to manage. A transaction. A contract. Just another calendar entry she could control.

Marry me or lose your job.

You replayed the words again and again, the ice in her tone, the half-glint of desperation in her otherwise impenetrable eyes.

She hadn’t said please. She hadn’t even asked. And still… you couldn’t shake the way her voice faltered when she said:

“Because I know you won’t lie to me.”

That wasn’t the Wanda Maximoff you knew.

And it haunted you.

---

“You’re not actually considering this,” Peter said, nearly choking on his pastry the next morning.

You’d asked him to meet before work. Neutral ground. Coffee shop. Public enough that he couldn’t yell at you.

You gave a long sigh into your cup. “I didn’t say that.”

“Oh my God,” he muttered, leaning across the table. “You are. You are considering it.”

“I haven’t agreed to anything.”

“Y/N,” Peter said, exasperated. “This is your boss. The same boss who once sent back your PowerPoint slides because the font gave her a ‘visual migraine.’ The woman who criticized your penmanship on a sticky note.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “I know who she is.”

“She’s cold. Controlling. And terrifying.”

“She’s scared right now,” you mumbled, almost to yourself.

Peter stared.

You didn’t meet his gaze. “She’s losing control of the only thing she’s ever built. The company is everything to her.”

“Still doesn’t make you the solution. There are other ways to fix this. Legal ones. Less insane ones.”

“She trusts me.”

Peter laughed, short and dry. “That’s funny. Because I watched her ignore you for six months straight unless she needed coffee or someone to bleed on.”

You gave him a look.

He softened. “I’m just saying… I get that you feel like you owe something to that building, to your job, to her. But don’t let her guilt you into ruining your life.”

You were quiet for a beat. “It wouldn’t ruin it.”

Peter raised both brows.

“It’d be one year,” you said, barely above a whisper. “A fake year. With money, freedom, clean debt. I’d come out of it better off. That’s not ruining—it’s… survival.”

Peter leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing. “You’re starting to sound like her.”

---

You didn’t go straight to Wanda’s office.

You paced around your desk. Sorted your inbox. Re-read her calendar six times. Practiced saying “no” in five different tones.

And then you did the unthinkable: you walked into her office without knocking.

Wanda looked up from her desk, not angry—just expectant. Like she’d known you’d come.

Her mouth twitched. “That was fast.”

You closed the door behind you. “I didn’t say yes.”

“Yet.”

You rolled your eyes. “Can you not treat this like a hostile takeover?”

She stood, slowly, and walked around her desk. “Then how should I treat it?”

“Like it’s not a game,” you said. “Like it involves me too.”

That stopped her.

Wanda’s arms crossed. “I thought I was giving you something. Freedom. Power. Money. And you’d get out after a year. Safe. Rich. Clean.”

“And what do you get?” you asked.

She hesitated. Just a flicker. But it was enough.

“I get to stay,” she said. “I get to keep what I’ve built. And I get… a little peace.”

The honesty startled you.

You blinked. “So that’s what I am to you? Peace?”

Her eyes met yours. “I don’t have time for someone I have to charm. Someone I need to lie to. You already hate me. You’ll survive this. And I trust you.”

You swallowed hard. “You trust me… more than you like me.”

Something flickered in her face. Something softer.

“I do like you,” she said, quieter now. “More than I should.”

Your breath caught.

But before the silence could stretch too long, she added, like ripping off a bandage: “So? What’s your answer?”

You didn’t say it right away. You walked out again. Sat back at your desk.

But you typed up a contract draft before lunch.

Just to see what it would look like.

You’d never signed anything that made you feel so… out of body.

And you’d signed an NDA that threatened jail time over gossiping about Wanda’s caffeine preferences.

But this?

This was next level.

A marriage contract—fake, yes, but binding. Your name beside hers, your future entangled with hers for the next year. It felt like volunteering to stand next to a tornado and hope it didn’t notice you bleeding.

Wanda hadn’t said anything when she received the contract. Just read it in silence, flipped to the footnotes, and smiled that little smile she wore when you surprised her.

Clause 3.1: Maintain boundaries at work—no "wifely" expectations during business hours.

Clause 3.5: No kissing, touching, or fake honeymoon antics unless publicly required.

Clause 4.2: One year maximum, subject to early exit with written consent.

Clause 5.0: If a dog enters the household, Y/N keeps it.

She hadn’t even blinked at the dog clause. Just said: “Very specific.”

You replied, “I’ve met you. I’m preparing for chaos.”

You tried not to look like you were dying when Peter found out.

But of course, you failed.

“You’re marrying her.” His voice cracked like his brain couldn’t compute it. “You’re marrying her.”

“Technically, fake marrying her,” you corrected, sipping your iced coffee like it would wash the guilt off your tongue.

Peter stared. “This is like watching someone walk into a lion’s mouth because the lion offered to pay their bills.”

“She needs this. I need the money. It’s one year, not forever.”

He leaned in. “You’ve worked under her thumb for two years and barely survived. You think living with her is going to be easier?”

“She’s not the same at home.”

He scoffed. “What, she says thank you now? Hums lullabies in her robe?”

You winced. “She’s not that bad.”

“She made a grown man cry last week because his pen ink was too blue.”

“… Okay. But that was objectively unprofessional ink.”

Peter gave you a long, stunned look. “Oh my God. You’re already falling into it.”

“I am not falling into anything,” you snapped.

Except maybe a quiet sense of curiosity. About the Wanda that existed off-hours. The one who never made eye contact in the elevator, but always remembered if you took your coffee black with two sugars. The one who never praised, but never forgot birthdays.

That Wanda.

The one who let herself say: “I trust you.”

. . .

You didn’t expect the shopping trip.

Or the personal driver.

Or the fact that the boutique staff already knew your name when you arrived.

“She’s paying you to fake love her,” you reminded yourself as you stood half-frozen outside one of Manhattan’s most exclusive storefronts. “This is work. These are just costumes.”

Wanda stepped out of the car next to you, her dark glasses reflecting the late morning sun. “Don’t sulk. You’ll wrinkle.”

“You didn’t warn me we were going full Pretty Woman today.”

She opened the boutique door with a deadpan: “You’re not wearing anything worth warning.”

You gave her a withering look. She smirked.

Inside, the boutique staff descended like well-dressed bees. Champagne offered. Garment racks unveiled. Names whispered and measured in thread count. Wanda moved through it all like she owned oxygen.

You, meanwhile, got dragged into a dressing room with five different “looks” shoved into your arms and strict instructions to “pretend you’re rich.”

The first dress was too tight. The second too floral. The third was so expensive you didn’t want to breathe in it.

The fourth made her pause.

Wanda looked up from her phone when you stepped out.

Black, fitted. Minimalist. Sleeveless. It clung in the right places and flowed in the rest, the neckline sharp but elegant.

You expected another snide remark.

Instead, she just stared.

Then: “That one.”

You blinked. “That’s it? No insult about my posture or poor color choices?”

Her gaze dragged over you again. Slower this time.

“That one,” she said, voice low. “We’ll have it tailored.”

You hesitated. “You okay?”

She blinked—just once—and whatever softness had flickered behind her eyes vanished.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Next fitting.”

But later, when she turned away, you caught her reflection in the mirror.

And she was smiling.

Not smug. Not snarky.

Just… quiet. And maybe a little awed.

The driver took you back to her place after, bags in the trunk, silence stretching between you in the backseat.

You watched her out of the corner of your eye—her arms crossed, legs crossed, sunglasses on even though the tint on the windows made it unnecessary.

“You know,” you said, carefully, “if we’re doing this, we’re gonna have to stop glaring at each other like sworn enemies.”

“I don’t glare at you,” she said.

“You definitely do.”

“I evaluate.”

“Like I’m a coffee brand you hate.”

That got a twitch of a smile.

“I don’t hate you,” she said after a moment.

You glanced over. “Sure. Just mild daily contempt.”

Another pause.

Then: “I don’t hate you,” she said again, quieter this time. “I don’t think I ever did.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

So you didn’t say anything at all.

.     .   .

You'd been warned that the gala would be overwhelming and you assumed that meant “dress to kill” or “don’t trip on marble.”

Not an elite ballroom filled with New York’s richest, at least six photographers outside before you even stepped out of the car and Wanda’s hand—firm, warm, possessive—resting on your lower back the second you stepped into view.

“Stop shaking,” she murmured as flashbulbs popped like fireworks.

“I’m trying not to throw up on your designer heels,” you muttered back.

She leaned in, lips brushing your ear for show. “If you puke, at least do it on Kellman's shoes. He owes me money.”

That startled a laugh out of you, a small, nervous one—and of course, a photographer captured it. You saw the flash, heard the shutter, and saw Wanda smile out of the corner of her mouth like she planned it.

She was playing the game like a master.

And you were just trying not to get eaten alive by it.

Inside the gala, it didn’t get easier.

The ballroom was gold-trimmed and glittering, a warzone of polished shoes, fake laughter, and whispered business deals behind champagne flutes. You barely recognized anyone. Wanda, meanwhile, floated through the crowd like she owned it—which, in some ways, she did.

You stayed close to her side, aware of every camera lens, every gaze. Her hand remained at the small of your back. It didn’t move. Didn’t shift. Just stayed there—anchoring you, like she wasn’t just pretending.

When she introduced you, she used your name. Said it clearly. Said it with something close to pride.

“This is my fiancée,” she told a woman from Forbes. “She keeps me sane.”

You choked slightly on your champagne. Wanda didn’t even blink.

The real trouble started with Daniel Callahan.

You recognized him from finance meetings—a charming nightmare in a tailored suit. He smiled too easily, touched too much, and once called you “sweetheart” in front of the executive board.

And now he was at your elbow, saying, “I didn’t know Maximoff had such good taste outside of stocks.”

You smiled, tight. “She has excellent taste. That’s why I’m still employed.”

He laughed. “Employed and engaged? Impressive.”

His tone was light, but you felt it. The subtle leer. The disbelief that you were the one Wanda had chosen.

Wanda stepped beside you a moment later, gaze cool as frost.

“Daniel,” she said, all saccharine silk, “Still wearing those tragic ties, I see.”

He smirked. “Still stealing the spotlight, Wanda.”

She smiled. Then—casually, but unmistakably—she reached for your hand. Laced her fingers with yours. “Of course I am.”

You went still. His eyes flicked down.

“I was just telling your fiancée how radiant she looks tonight,” he said smoothly.

Wanda’s hand squeezed yours—gently, but with intent.

“She always does,” she said. “But I’d appreciate it if you looked with your eyes, Daniel. Not your ambitions.”

His smile faltered.

You blinked.

He chuckled after a pause and excused himself.

You turned to her slowly. “That was…”

“Too much?” she offered.

You shook your head. “Weirdly flattering.”

Wanda studied you. “You don’t realize how often people look at you.”

You frowned. “People don’t look at me.”

“I do.”

It wasn’t a performance. She wasn’t smiling when she said it. No flashbulbs. No audience.

Just her.

Just you.

And a pause that pulsed like a second heartbeat between you.

Later, as the event wound down, you found yourself leaning against the railing of the second-floor balcony overlooking the dance floor. You needed space. Air. Your skin still hummed where she’d touched you.

You heard her footsteps before she appeared.

“You handled that well,” she said.

“Which part?” you asked, not turning around. “The press, the fake ring, or your little public jealousy stunt?”

There was a pause behind you. Then: “That wasn’t fake.”

You turned.

She was watching you. No mask. No posture. Just Wanda.

Your breath hitched. “We’re supposed to be pretending, Maximoff. Not actually catching feelings.”

She walked closer, heels slow and deliberate. “Who said anything about catching?”

You swallowed hard. “Wanda…”

Her voice softened. “Tell me it didn’t feel real when I touched you.”

You couldn’t.

Because it did. It always did.

Every time she brushed your hand. Every time she leaned in. Every time she looked at you like there was something worth melting in her frozen world.

You exhaled slowly. “We’re in way over our heads.”

Wanda nodded. “We are.”

But she didn’t stop walking, didn’t stop until she was inches from you, neither until her hand found yours again—quiet, steady.

And you let her hold it.

Just for a minute.

Because you wanted to.

. . .

Moving in was surreal.

Wanda had a penthouse overlooking the Upper West Side. Of course she did.

Marble floors, skyline views, furniture that looked untouched. It was the kind of place you saw in magazines—clinical in its perfection. It didn’t feel like someone lived there. It felt like someone performed there.

“This is real wood,” you muttered under your breath the first time your suitcase wheels rolled across the floor.

Wanda looked up from where she was typing on her phone. "What did you expect? Plastic?"

You dropped your bag by the front door. “I expected rich, not hand-carved oak imported from Italy rich.”

She smirked. “I like quality.”

“I like not feeling like I should tip the hallway.”

She chuckled. It was quiet. But it was real.

The first morning was the weirdest.

You woke up in one of the guest rooms—though she insisted it was now your room. There was fresh linen on the bed. A brand new vanity set already laid out. Her housekeeper had stocked the closet with three outfits in your size before you even arrived.

It was thoughtful. Organized. Weirdly… sweet.

But the kitchen was where you really saw her.

She was barefoot, in black silk pajama pants and a plain white tee, hair still damp from the shower. No makeup. Just her, in the soft light of morning.

Wanda Maximoff, pouring oat milk into her coffee like she hadn’t once told you to fix a typo with the fury of a Greek goddess.

You froze at the doorway.

She looked up. “There’s coffee.”

You blinked. “You… made coffee?”

“I do know how to function outside of boardrooms.”

You hesitated. “Do you?”

She smirked. “Stay long enough and you might see.”

You stepped in slowly. “I already feel like I’m on a reality show called ‘Rich People Do Normal Things.’”

“You’re the worst fake wife I’ve ever had.”

“I’m the only fake wife you’ve ever had.”

“Exactly.”

But then she handed you a mug—already fixed the way you liked it—and just like that, your sarcasm softened.

She’d remembered. No cream. Two sugars. Always too hot.

You met her eyes. “Thanks.”

Something flickered there.

She nodded once and took a sip of her own.

You didn’t expect it to be easy.

You didn’t expect it to be… normal.

But the days began to settle into a rhythm. You went to work together. Attended a few small press lunches. She brushed your hair back gently at a networking event when a breeze caught it funny. You let your hand rest on her shoulder just a second too long when someone asked how you met.

At home, you didn’t talk much about the “marriage” part.

But something unspoken lived in the space between your mugs on the kitchen counter.

Like maybe neither of you hated this as much as you pretended to.

Not the metaphorical kind. The real, cold, thunderstorm kind.

You came home soaked after a late grocery run. Wanda hadn’t known you’d gone, and when you walked into the apartment dripping wet, she was pacing by the window.

She stopped when she saw you.

“You’re soaked.”

“Observant,” you coughed, wiping rain off your cheeks. “It’s only a monsoon outside.”

She crossed the space in seconds. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going out?”

“I didn’t think I needed to report to you.”

“You don’t—” Her voice cracked. “You don’t. But I thought something happened.”

You frowned. “Why would you think that?”

“Because,” she snapped, then lowered her voice, “you’re not answering your phone. You left without saying anything. You’re living in my house. And I… I panicked.”

The vulnerability in her tone stunned you.

You stood there, soaked and cold and stunned, watching the most untouchable woman in the city look at you like you mattered.

“I just went for cereal,” you whispered.

She swallowed. “Don’t do that again.”

“Wanda…”

“I know this is fake,” she said, suddenly. “But I can’t—God—I can’t lose things right now. Not when everything else is one misstep away from collapse.”

Your heart cracked a little. “You’re not going to lose me.”

She looked at you—really looked. “Promise?”

You hesitated only a second. Then: “Yeah. I promise.”

She stepped forward. Her hands hovered for a second. Then she reached up, brushing soaked hair from your face. Her fingers were gentle. Warmer than you expected.

. . .

The rain didn’t stop for days.

New York blurred behind glass and gray skies, and inside the penthouse, the world shrank to the soft glow of lamps, the smell of tea, and the quiet comfort of silence not needing to be filled.

You’d never thought this would be the hard part. Not the paperwork. Not the parties. Not even lying to strangers about how you fell in love.

No. The hardest part was the quiet, the nights, the moments when Wanda was close enough to touch, but never did.

Not unless she had to.

Not unless the cameras were on.

But lately… there were no cameras, no one to watch and she was still close.

You found her in the kitchen again, barefoot, robe loose over silk sleepwear, stirring honey into her tea like it was a ritual.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked.

She didn’t jump. Didn’t act surprised to see you, even though it was just past midnight.

She glanced over. “Didn’t feel like dreaming.”

You frowned. “Bad ones?”

Wanda didn’t answer. She just passed you a mug—yours already waiting, already right.

No cream. Two sugars.

Your fingers brushed as you took it.

“I don’t like the sound the rain makes up here,” she said after a long moment. “Too high. It feels detached.”

You looked at her, then the view—sheets of rain washing over floor-to-ceiling glass, city lights blurred beneath it all.

“It’s loud at my old place,” you murmured. “Leaks through the window. But it feels... real.”

Wanda was quiet for a while. Then, barely above a whisper:

“Do you miss it?”

You blinked. “The apartment?”

“The space that was yours.”

The question hit deeper than it should have.

You shrugged. “I miss knowing which drawer held my socks. And that my silence was mine.”

She nodded once. “I miss things too.”

You waited. But she didn’t say what.

The power flickered a few minutes later.

Just long enough to shut off the lights, stall the heater, and kill the wifi.

You sighed. “Well. That’s our cue to pretend it’s the 1800s.”

Wanda rolled her eyes faintly but led the way to the hallway. “I’ll call maintenance.”

The bedroom you used—your room—was freezing. The rain made the windows weep. You wrapped yourself in two blankets and still shivered under them like your body had forgotten warmth.

Ten minutes later, there was a knock.

Wanda stood at the door, robe belted tighter now, a blanket over one arm.

“Heat’s out across the building,” she said. “It’ll take hours. Come to my room. The windows don’t leak there.”

You hesitated.

She added, gently, “You’re freezing.”

You didn’t argue.

Her bed was huge. More cloud than mattress. The kind of thing you had to climb into like a boat. Wanda didn’t say anything when you slipped under the covers, just turned off the lamp and got in beside you—far, far to the left, leaving oceans of space.

You laid there in silence.

Listening to the rain.

Feeling the quiet pulse of her presence, steady and near.

Then—after what could’ve been minutes or hours—she spoke.

“I used to picture this differently.”

You turned your head toward her in the dark. “What?”

“Sharing a bed,” she said softly. “Waking up beside someone. It was supposed to mean something.”

Your voice caught. “Does it?”

Wanda didn’t answer right away.

Then, softly, like a truth she hadn’t let herself say:

“It does now.”

You swallowed, heart suddenly a drum against your ribs.

The air shifted.

She didn’t move. Didn’t reach for you. But she didn’t move away, either.

Your fingers curled on the sheets. You didn’t touch her.

But you wanted to.

God, you wanted to.

You woke up before her. She was still on her side, facing you now, her hair a dark halo on the pillow. The early light barely touched her face. She looked peaceful in a way you’d never seen—like the storm had finally quieted inside her too.

You watched her breathe for a moment too long.

Then you slipped out of bed.

Made coffee.

Waited in the kitchen, hands wrapped around the mug she’d usually hand you.

She found you there twenty minutes later, sleep still in her eyes, robe loose, bare feet quiet on the floor.

“Morning,” she said softly.

“Hey,” you replied.

And then— she walked straight to you, took your coffee from your hands, took a sip and handed it back.

Your heart clenched.

Because it was exactly how you liked it, exactly how she liked it.

And she hadn’t even asked.

. . .

“Dress nice. 10 AM. My driver will take us.”

You stared at the handwriting for a full minute before turning to the small Pomeranian she hadn’t meant to adopt but had anyway, who now followed you around like you were the stable parent.

“Is she kidding?” you asked the dog.

The brownish fur ball barked and walked off.

The brunch was at a discreet little brownstone tucked between galleries in SoHo—charming, sunlit, deceptively casual. The kind of place rich people used to pretend they weren’t rich.

Wanda met you by the car. She wore soft ivory trousers, a long cream coat, and a small gold chain at her throat. She looked casual, effortless.

And, of course, utterly composed.

“You look nervous,” she said, slipping on her sunglasses.

“I didn’t realize brunch was with royalty.”

“It’s just my godmother,” Wanda said lightly. “And her judgmental wife. And a few others who might ask why I never brought anyone around before.”

Your stomach dropped. “Is this… an approval thing?”

Wanda opened the door for you. “It’s a test.”

Your eyes widened, “And you’re telling me now?”

“I didn’t want to make you overthink it.” she replied way too cooly.

You glared. “I hate you.”

She smiled like it was affection. “That’s the spirit.”

It started fine.

A few raised brows. Too many kisses on cheeks. Someone complimented your coat and then looked pointedly at your boots like they were confused how you existed in both at once.

You held Wanda’s hand under the table out of habit now—because it looked right, because it felt expected. Because her thumb sometimes rubbed slow, silent circles into your palm when the small talk got suffocating.

You were halfway through a fruit tart when it happened.

Someone—Wanda’s godmother’s wife, you think—asked how the proposal went.

You froze.

Wanda answered too smoothly, never too quickly.

“She said yes before I finished asking,” she said, hand squeezing yours. “I think she knew I wasn’t bluffing.”

There were chuckles. Some “aww”s.

And then she added, without thinking:

“I think I fell in love with her the moment she argued with me in front of three board members.”

Your heart actually missed a beat at that.

Laughter rippled around the table again. You forced a smile.

But Wanda… Wanda looked at you then. Really looked. And her smile faltered just enough for you to know:

That part hadn’t been part of the performance.

You didn’t speak in the car on the way home.

The silence felt different this time. Not awkward. Not heavy. Just… held.

Like she was waiting to see if you’d bring it up.

And you didn’t. Because you didn’t know if it was safer to ask or pretend you hadn’t heard.

When you got back to the penthouse, you walked straight to the kitchen, poured a glass of water, and leaned on the counter like it could hold up your confusion.

She joined you minutes later.

“You handled that well,” she said.

You gave her a tight smile. “I fake marry like a pro now.”

Wanda watched you. “You’re upset.”

You shook your head. “No, I’m confused.”

She took a step closer. “About what?”

You hesitated. Then: “You said you fell in love with me.”

Her throat bobbed.

“I thought the contract agreed,” you said quietly. “That there wouldn’t be feelings.”

“I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

“But you did.”

“I don’t know what’s real anymore.”

That made you go still.

“I don’t know,” she said again, quieter now, “when it stopped being pretend. If it ever really was.”

You stared at her.

Because you felt it too. The shift. The touch that lingered. The glances that said too much.

But admitting it?

That would break everything wide open.

So instead, you reached for her hand. Threaded your fingers through hers.

And whispered: “Then let’s figure it out.”

Wanda’s eyes lifted to meet yours.

And for once, there was no wall. No act. No mask.

Just her, just you.

And a truth neither of you could keep quiet much longer.

. . .

You didn’t sleep in your room that night.

You didn’t talk about it either.

There was no declaration. No sly smirk. No half-joking excuse about the heat or the window draft.

Just a quiet shift in steps—her slowing down in the hallway, your hand on the door to her room instead of your own, and a breathless moment where neither of you asked why.

You just walked in.

Together.

She lit a single lamp—low, warm, soft.

The city shimmered beyond the window, gold and blurry in the glass. You sat on the edge of the bed, unsure what version of yourself to bring into this room.

Wanda sat beside you, her thigh barely brushing yours. You could feel the heat of her, even without touch.

“You’ve stopped calling it fake,” you said, voice quiet in the hush.

“I know,” she replied.

“Is that intentional?”

“Does it matter?”

You turned your head, met her gaze. “It does if I’m not the only one confused anymore.”

She inhaled like she was steadying herself. Her voice was barely more than a breath when she said:

“You’re the only thing that’s ever confused me in the right way.”

That did it.

Whatever wall you’d built—professionalism, control, fake-wifely detachment—it cracked right down the center.

You didn’t lean in.

She did.

Softly. Slowly.

Like she was asking for permission with every breath.

And when her lips touched yours, they didn’t feel like a contract. Or a line crossed. Or an obligation.

They felt like something that had always been waiting to happen.

The kiss wasn’t urgent. Wasn’t for show. It was warm, unhurried, tender in a way you didn’t think she even knew how to be.

Your hand found her jaw.

Hers curled around your waist.

When she pulled back, your forehead rested against hers.

You didn’t open your eyes.

You whispered, “I don’t know what this is anymore.”

She whispered back, “Maybe it’s something worth figuring out.”

The next morning, Peter was already at your office before you even got there.

Coffee. Concern. A look on his face that made you brace.

“I saw the photos,” he said before you could speak.

You gave him a weary look. “Which ones?”

“The ones where she looks at you like you’re the last person in the world who doesn’t scare her.”

Your mouth opened, then closed. “It’s complicated.”

Peter sat down across from you, voice quieter now. “Is it fake still?”

You looked down.

He exhaled. “Y/N…”

“I didn’t mean for it to change,” you said softly. “But she’s—she’s different when she’s not surrounded by suits and pressure. And I don’t know how to unsee that.”

“Do you trust her?”

You nodded. “More than I should.”

“Do you love her?”

You froze.

Peter didn’t push. Just let the question sit there, heavy and true.

That night, you found Wanda on the balcony.

Blanket around her shoulders. Hair loose. No wine. No screens.

Just her.

Just quiet.

You stepped outside, wordless, and joined her under the blanket.

Her hand had found yours and you let her hold it.

. . .

The kiss didn’t fix everything.

But it opened something.

You both felt it—that strange quiet after something real slips between two people who swore they were just pretending. You didn’t talk about it the next morning. You didn’t have to. The air had changed.

So had the way she looked at you across the table.

Not calculating. Not possessive. Not even curious anymore.

Just soft.

Like you were hers in a way that didn’t need words.

You started cooking more.

It began with late-night pasta, just because she came home looking too tired to pretend she’d eaten. Then it was pancakes on a Sunday, because she’d mentioned—offhand, distracted—that her mother used to make them that way when it rained.

She didn’t say thank you the first time.

She just sat beside you, her fork slow and quiet, and said:

“You remembered.”

Like that was rarer than any gift she’d ever been given.

The first time she touched you without a reason, it was barely anything.

You were washing dishes, elbow-deep in soap, and she walked past—hand brushing across your lower back as she passed.

She didn’t look at you.

But she didn’t need to.

Your heart stuttered anyway.

At night, she started falling asleep before you.

You could tell by the way her breathing slowed, the tiny crease in her brow fading under the weight of whatever peace you’d somehow become for her.

And you—God—you watched her like she was a miracle you hadn’t asked for but were suddenly terrified to lose.

Some nights you stayed awake just to feel the way her hand would reach for yours, even unconscious.

Like some part of her had already stopped pretending.

She didn’t pull away anymore.

Not when your knee brushed hers at dinner.

Not when you leaned against her shoulder during a movie.

Not when you walked into the room after a shower in her shirt, hair still dripping, and she paused like the world went quiet just seeing you.

“Wanda?” you asked.

She blinked. “What?”

“You’re staring.”

She smiled. “I know.”

And then came the night it stopped being something between you.

And became something shared.

You were curled on the couch, her head on your lap, fingers lazily playing with the edge of her sweater. She was half-asleep, wine glass abandoned on the floor, a soft playlist humming in the background.

You thought she was dreaming until she said:

“I want you to stay.”

You looked down. “I live here, remember?”

She shook her head against your thigh, eyes still closed. “Not for the contract. Just… stay. Tonight. Tomorrow. And the days after.”

You brushed a hand through her hair. “Is that a new clause?”

“It’s not fake,” she murmured.

And when she opened her eyes—tired, raw, full of something too fragile to name—you knew:

She meant it.

Every word. Every glance. Every touch.

So you leaned down.

Kissed her like you weren’t afraid anymore.

Like you’d already chosen her in a hundred quiet ways.

And when she pulled you down beside her—blanket tangled, breath shaky, heart finally, finally open— You stayed.

Not as her employee, not as her fake wife but as someone who loved her and wasn’t going anywhere.

[hopelesslygaysstuff]

𝐿𝑒𝑡 𝑀𝑒

pairing: wanda maximoff x fem!reader

summary: You decide to pay for your sugar mommy's meal, and she reminds you of your place.

content warnings: BDSM, impact play, hair pulling, restraints, cunnilingus, fucking machine, buttplug, dumbification, subspace, edging, orgasm denial

word count:  7.4k+

masterlist

“Baby?” Wanda calls, “Are you ready?”

Something falls in the bathroom, Wanda’s eyes flicking over to the door in mild concern. You appear, your cheeks lightly flushed as you hold a towel loosely around your body. Wanda can’t help but trail her eyes down your frame, raising her eyebrow in a silent command. 

You drop the towel, biting your lip as you make your way over to her. “Sorry, I dropped my lotion.”

Green eyes lock on yours, Wanda’s pupils dilating as she takes in your nudity. Your nipples are already hard, your skin soft and smelling faintly of her vanilla-scented body wash. She loved it when you used her products. 

It was one of her rules, actually. You were required to use any product Wanda instructed you to, which consisted mainly of her own -expensive- things. You didn’t mind, you loved being taken care of, in every way. 

Leaning down, you gently kiss her, smiling as her hand makes its way to your waist, her fingers digging in and urging you closer. This is your favorite side of her, the one that craves you. You love her fingers pulling you in, her lips on your skin, her eyes solely on yours. 

“I’ve laid out a dress for you,” she murmurs, her voice husky and low. It sends a pleasant warmth down your spine that pools in your gut. “Go put it on.”

Her tone is firm as she gently pushes you toward the bed. You catch her eyes lingering on your nude form, glancing over you through the mirror as she applies the last bits of her makeup. Grinning to yourself, you decide to put on a show for her, swaying your hips as you saunter over to the bed. 

There it is. The dress she’d picked out for you. It was beautiful, dark red and lacy, a long slit in the side that practically reached your hips. It had a neckline that dipped dangerously low, enough to tease the sight of your chest but not too much to expose you indecently. Just the way Wanda liked it. Lying next to the dress was a pair of black heels, the bottom of them painted bright red, a sight you’d become accustomed to. 

Biting your lip to hide your excitement, you slowly pull the dress over your head, moving your hips slowly to fully pull it over your body. You note the lack of panties or a bra on the bed, your cheeks flushing slightly at the thought of sitting through dinner without any undergarments. Luckily, the dress supported your chest well, your breasts sitting comfortably with the extra padded support. 

“Perfect,” Wanda murmurs, having spun around to watch you. 

Smiling, you bask in her attention as you slowly spin around, adjusting your hair slightly. Your zipper has been caught halfway up your back, the small piece of metal resting just below your shoulder blades. 

Wanda gestures to you, a silent command. 

You obey, snagging the heels from off the bed and padding toward her. You feel giggly, and a bit like you’re playing dress-up, but Wanda looks at you with utter adoration; her normally serious expression is nowhere to be found. Her eyes are wide and unguarded, her hands firm as she beckons you closer, but not stern and unforgiving as they usually are. 

Biting your bottom lip, you decide that you quite like this side of her. It was almost… adorable. 

As if she could read your thoughts, Wanda’s eyes snap up to yours from where they’d been lingering around your neckline. “Sit on my lap, darling.”

Blinking, you clear your throat as a strange shyness creeps over you. 

“Now.” 

Wanda’s tone turns slightly icy, her eyebrows furrowing slightly at your hesitance. She doesn’t like to be disobeyed. 

“Yes, ma’am,” you murmur, noting the way her face smooths at your words. Quickly, you drop onto her lap, sitting sideways since your dress won’t allow you to straddle her as you usually did. The heels slip from your fingers, landing on the carpet with a soft thump as Wanda’s hand snakes around your waist. 

Her green eyes peer into yours, studying your face. You notice the subtle makeup she’s put on, her eyelids darkened seductively with dark gold eyeshadow, her black eyeliner small and precise. Her lips are also dark, a matte red color coating them. You wonder if it would stain your skin, then promptly push that thought to the back of your mind, lest you leak through your expensive dress. 

“I have some jewelry for you,” Wanda murmurs, her other hand coming up to trace the thin gold chain fastened permanently around your neck. She’d gifted it to you last year, her initials subtly engraved into the chain, a private sign of her ownership of you. Wanda wore a similar necklace, your initials also engraved into the silver metal glittering around her neck.

Smiling, you lean in until your lips are mere inches from hers, “I love it when you dress me, Wanda.”

“I know you do,” Wanda smirks, her hand dropping to grip your thigh possessively for a moment, before she reaches for some jewelry she’s laid out on the vanity in front of her. Her fingers send heat down your spine as she grazes them lightly across your skin, clasping a few necklaces around your neck. She adjusts them, laying the metal perfectly on your chest before she taps your hands in a silent command. 

Obediently, you raise your hands, watching her slip various rings on them. Somehow, Wanda always manages to match your jewelry to your outfit perfectly. You’re in awe every time, and you no longer protest when she demands to dress you. 

Green eyes flit over your ears, Wanda nodding slightly in approval as she takes in your various earrings. “Perfect,” she mutters, her hand coming back down to your thigh. 

“Yes, you are.”

“Don’t deflect, darling. What do you say when I compliment you?” Wanda’s tone is light, but her eyes are intense, her fingers squeezing your thigh. 

“Thank you, Wanda.”

Smirking, Wanda releases her hold on your thigh. “Good girl.” She moves to stand, helping you off her lap and adjusting your hair to fall perfectly over your shoulders. “Now put those heels on and meet me by the cars.”

Wanda lightly kisses you, careful not to ruin her lipstick -or yours- before she playfully squeezes your waist and walks out the door. 

The heels slip on quickly, perfectly molded to your feet. You take a moment, looking at yourself in the mirror and willing your blush to go away. You’re unsuccessful. 

Wanda is beautiful. She stands next to the passenger door of her favorite car, opening it and ushering you in. The exterior is gleaming, the dark red gloss standing out. The interior is even nicer, somehow, all black leather with red trim. It smells as fresh as the day she bought it. 

Taking a moment, you admire Wanda’s outfit, her silver jewelry and sharply cut jacket. She’s several inches taller than you, her heels clacking softly on the ground as she shuts the door softly before rounding the car to the driver’s side. 

The drive to the restaurant is relatively short. You steal glances at Wanda the entire time, loving the comforting weight of her hand on your thigh. 

You’ve grown used to being pampered by her. She makes a lot of decisions for the two of you, and you love her control over you. You love providing for her as well, insisting on cooking meals whenever you can. Between your part-time job at a bookstore and your relationship, you were pretty okay with your life. 

Wanda would have preferred you to be home all the time, especially when she often worked from her home office, but you’d insisted on keeping your job. You liked it, there was a bookstore cat named Freckles, and your manager was really nice. Plus, you loved being surrounded by books all day. 

Shifting in your seat slightly, you bite your lip in excitement as you feel your credit card sitting snug between the fabric of your dress and your breasts. You’d been saving up for months, knowing that Wanda had expensive tastes. This restaurant was meant for upper-class patrons, so you’d prepared well in advance. You wanted to surprise her tonight; after all, it wasn’t often you got to return the favor of spoiling Wanda. 

Wanda never lets you pay for anything. You'll be changing that tonight. 

The restaurant is just as you remembered. Low lighting and soft voices that help you relax further into Wanda’s hand on the small of your back. It feels safer this way, more intimate. 

“Right this way, Ma’am,” the waiter says, his voice quiet as he gestures for Wanda to follow. Her hand is splayed on your lower back, the warmth from her fingers propelling you forward as the waiter leads you to a table near the back. 

The chair doesn’t make a sound and Wanda slides it out, gesturing for you to sit. Her hands briefly touch your shoulders before she pushes the chair in firmly, her stride elegant as she walks to the chair across from you. 

“Two glasses of Cabernet Sauvignon, from the Robert Mondavi Winery Reserve,” she murmurs, the waiter nodding dutifully before striding away. 

Those green eyes stare into yours, a soft smile playing on Wanda’s lips. 

“You look beautiful tonight, darling.”

“Thank you, Wanda,” you whisper, blushing at the praise. You briefly touch the necklace resting between your collarbones. “I think you look amazing.”

Wanda smiles warmly at that, her hand sliding across the table to clasp yours. Her fingers are soft as you idly play with her rings. 

The waiter returns, showing the bottle before Wanda nods at him. He pours the wine, standing still as Wanda takes a sip. His eyes are nervous, but Wanda simply nods again before quietly ordering food for the both of you. 

You knew what she was going to order. You’d meticulously saved up in order to cover the bill, plus a generous tip. A flood of relief fills you when she doesn’t stray from her usual order, but you cover it up with a smile. 

“How was work?”

Wanda begins speaking, her thumb running over the back of your hand as she does. You listen diligently, unsure of half the things she’s referring to but enjoying yourself nonetheless. The waiter returns some time later with steaming food, and you and Wanda make idle conversation while you eat. 

It is one of the best meals you could have asked for. Perfectly cooked salmon with a side of quinoa salad and rice. There are complementary breadsticks, and you eagerly take two. The wine pairs nicely with the food, but you’re not a huge nerd about it like Wanda is. She knows all the best combinations. 

Truly, it all tastes the same to you. But, you’d never tell her that.

“I’m going to use the restroom,” you say, wiping your mouth politely. 

Wanda simply nods, sipping her wine. You’re a much faster eater than she is, and this is one of the times you’re grateful for the skill. Squeezing her hand briefly, you stand up and walk toward the restrooms. 

Once you’ve rounded the corner, your heart begins to race. Glancing back, you see Wanda taking a small bite of her salad. 

Perfect.

“Excuse me,” you say quietly, walking up to the waiter standing near the kitchen window. He looks up, surprised. 

“How can I help you, ma’am?” He asks, politely averting his eyes when you dig into your dress for your credit card. 

“I’d like to pay for my wife’s and my meal.”

He nods, gingerly taking your card. You try not to giggle, smoothing your face over when he nods and briskly walks into the backroom. Casually, you fix your hair, careful not to lean against the wall. Wanda had helped you with your posture, and you could still remember her lessons in the back of your mind. 

“All set, ma’am.” The waiter returns, handing you your card back. 

“Oh, thank you,” you murmur, placing it back into your dress and biting your lip to stifle your smile when he looks away again. You pull out two hundred-dollar bills, handing them to him. “Thank you.”

He smiles politely as he accepts the bills, nodding at you.

“I’d prefer you keep this from my wife until the end of the meal,” you say, watching his eyebrows raise slightly. “I’m surprising her.”

“Ah,” he smiles wider this time. “Always happy to be a part of a surprise, ma’am. My lips are sealed.”

With that, you walk back to your seat. You make sure not to walk too quickly, lest Wanda becomes suspicious. She always has a way of figuring out what you’ve been up to.

“There you are, darling,” she smiles at you and stands, pulling your chair out again. “I was beginning to worry.” 

You flush, sitting down again and turning to look up at her. “Just decided to freshen up a bit, I wanted to look my absolute best for you.”

Leaning down, Wanda places a soft kiss against your cheek. “You always look wonderful, sweetheart.”

“Thank you, Wanda.”

Smiling at you, Wanda returns to her seat and grasps the stem of her wine glass. You mirror her action, bringing the glass to your lips and taking a deep sip. You’re going to need some liquid confidence to get through the night once Wanda discovers what you’ve done. 

One thing you’d learned early on in your relationship was that Wanda liked to be the one in charge of things. You didn’t mind, especially in the bedroom, but you’d always felt just a tiny bit disappointed when you wanted to spoil her and she’d refuse. She’d just offer her own card, raising an eyebrow at you and firmly reminding you that she was there to take care of you. 

Sometimes it felt like you weren’t contributing anything of worth to the relationship. 

“Darling?” Wanda’s green eyes are piercing, locked on your face. “Are you alright? You look… morose.”

You shake away your thoughts. You’re sitting here with the beautiful woman that you married, on a nice date that you’ve just paid for. Get a grip.

“Yes,” you say, smiling reassuringly at her. “I just got lost in my thoughts, you know how that happens sometimes.”

Laughing slightly, you watch Wanda’s lips quirk up slightly, but something tells you that she won’t let the subject go that easily. You reach across the table, grabbing her hand and making sure she can see down the front of your dress. 

“Baby, I’m fine. Really.”

Green eyes flit down, before they glance back up at you, her eyebrow raised. “Alright. Just stay present with me, okay?”

You nod eagerly, smiling brightly at her before sitting up again. 

Under the table, you feel the top of Wanda’s heel brush against your leg, advancing slowly as it makes its way above your knees and further up your thigh. “You’ll pay for that stunt,” Wanda murmurs. 

Your heart stops for a moment, your mind flashing back to your credit card, before you realize she’s talking about your adventurous moment when she got a nice full look at your chest.  

“I understand,” you quip, adjusting in your seat to spread your legs further just slightly, watching the way Wanda’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly. That’s right, two could play this game. You smiled victoriously. 

“How do you feel about going to the speakeasy a bit further downtown?” Wanda asks, finishing the rest of her wine. You mirror her actions, feeling the pleasant buzz under your skin. 

You nod, and Wanda smiles at you, grabbing her clutch. 

“I’ll be right back.”

Watching her leave to find the waiter, you wait anxiously. You can just barely see her across the restaurant, her red hair glowing slightly in the warm lighting. She’s exchanging low words with the waiter, before he gestures over towards your table. Two sets of eyes turn towards you, one apologetic and the other unreadable. 

You’re focused on the green pair, barely noticing the cash Wanda hands the waiter as a tip. 

She advances slowly, moving through the restaurant as her gaze never leaves yours. “Darling…” she says when she reaches your seat, her hand on your shoulder. It’s firm, not painful, but her fingers dig in just enough to express how she’s feeling. 

“Surprise,” you say, smiling up at her. You’re proud of yourself; your voice didn’t even waver. Standing, you bite your lip as you gaze at her, assessing her expression. 

She reveals nothing, her hand snaking around your waist and guiding you toward the front door. What would normally be a comforting action sends pleasant shivers down your spine. 

Wanda remains silent all the way to the car, opening the passenger door and ushering you in. Sliding into the driver's seat, she starts the car before letting out a breath. 

“Explain.”

“I wanted to treat you for once,” you say stubbornly. You might as well have crossed your arms and pouted, but you didn’t. 

Looking at you, Wanda sighs. “Darling, why do you always fight me on this topic?”

You don’t answer, looking out of your window as Wanda begins backing up the car, the low hum of the engine comforting. The city flashes before you as she drives, people milling about, and different lights hitting your eyes. 

“Sweetheart,” Wanda says, something in her tone telling you to turn and look at her. “You know that I appreciate it when you want to pay for me, don’t you?” 

You furrow your brow. “I… well, I always thought it just annoyed you.”

“It does annoy me,” Wanda shoots a look at you. “But, that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate what you’re trying to do.”

Then, she sighs. “In this relationship, you do so much for me. One of the only ways I feel that I can take care of you is by paying and making sure you don’t have to worry about anything financially. Do you understand?”

“I- but I don’t do that much for you?” 

Wanda laughs then, the sound surprising you. “Oh, sweetheart. You have no idea, do you?”

Shaking your head, you watch her as you wait for an explanation. 

“Lift up the hem of your dress.”

It’s a command, and you blink at the sudden turn of events. Still, you know better than to disobey Wanda. Slowly, you drag the hem up until the tops of your thighs are revealed. 

“Spread your legs.”

“Wanda…”

She shoots you a look. You spread your legs. 

“Touch yourself.” 

At that, you suck in a breath. Trailing your fingers down, you collect some of your arousal on your fingertips, surprised at how wet you are. Then, you begin circling your clit, nice and slow, just the way Wanda likes it. 

“Good girl. Keep doing that.” 

Wanda smiles, glancing down at your fingers every so often as she makes her way out of the city. You want to ask about the speakeasy, but choose to remain silent. She seems to be proving a point somehow, and you wait for her to explain.

“We’re going home, where I’m going to make us some drinks and you’re going to sit on my lap while we make a new rule. Do you understand?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

Smiling at that, Wanda reaches over, placing a hand on your thigh. It makes your skin buzz hotly, and you resist the urge to circle your clit faster. 

“This is one of many things you do for me, darling. Your submission is everything to me, and you offer it so willingly. I’ve been able to freely express my dominant side with you, and you’ve never judged me for the things I desire in a sexual dynamic. You were made for me.”

You nod, realization creeping into your mind. Wanda isn’t finished. 

“You have your job, which I allowed because I know how happy it makes you, and I want you to have a life outside of me. As much as I would like to keep you for myself, I know how much you adore that bookshop. At home, you cook for me, not because I’ve asked you to, but because you genuinely enjoy cooking. That is something you provide for me.”

Wanda quirks an eyebrow at you. “When I get home, what is the first thing you do?”

Blushing, you respond, your words slightly breathy. “I take your coat and purse, give you a kiss, and walk with you to your home office while you tell me about your day.”

Nodding, Wanda continues. “That is another thing you provide for me, sweetheart.”

She continues to list things, small, mundane things that you hadn’t considered to be a big deal. Evidently, they meant the world to Wanda. The way you helped her with laundry, when you’d rub her shoulders after a long meeting, make her a drink in the evening, and especially when you’d follow her orders.

“Like I said, you were made for me. You do so much for our relationship.”

“So do you,” you protest, stopping yourself from saying more when she shoots a sharp look your way. 

“One of the main ways I feel that I can contribute and take care of you in this relationship is with my income. You know I make a lot, darling, I’ve never hidden that from you. I work long days so that I can come home and make your life comfortable.”

“Oh,” you say, finally understanding. 

“Please, darling. Let me use my money on you. That’s why I work so hard.”

You nod, unable to speak as you realize why Wanda was so insistent on paying for everything. 

“I see you finally understand,” Wanda says, glancing down again. “Go faster.”

Blinking, you circle your clit faster, biting your lip at the pleasure it brings. You take a deep, shuddering breath, sure that you’re leaking through your dress. The air in the car becomes warm, and the next time that Wanda looks at you, her pupils are blown. 

“Keep going,” she murmurs, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. “If you cum before we get home, your punishment will be worse.”

You whine, nodding as you keep your pace. You try desperately to think of anything other than the woman seated beside you, her grip firm on your thigh as you feel your pleasure building. 

The fingers on your thigh grip harshly as you slow your pace slightly, trying to stave off your incoming orgasm. 

“What did I say?” Wanda hisses, her eyes glancing sharply at you. 

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry… what?”

You shudder, feeling little bolts of pleasure crashing through you. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

“Hmm,” Wanda pretends to think, watching as you increase your pace again. “I don’t think that’s a strong enough title, do you?”

“I’m sorry, Mistress.”

Wanda smiles, satisfied. “Good girl. Keep going. Please your Mistress.”

You let out a low moan at her words, feeling your pleasure increase tenfold as she calls herself that title. You try to stop it, your orgasm. But Wanda is talking, telling you that you’re doing so well for her as her fingers slowly inch up your thigh, her vanilla scent engulfing you as your muscles spasm, white-hot pleasure overtaking you. 

You fingers stall, your orgasm coursing through you as your clit pulses. Wanda makes a noise, her fingers grabbing yours and moving them back to your raw clit. “Did I tell you to stop?”

“No, I’m sorry, Mistress.”

Continuing, you let your fingers wring every last drop of pleasure from you, aware of the fact that you’ve just made your punishment worse. You truly couldn’t help it. I mean, it’s not your fault that your wife was insanely hot and her words were able to bring you to orgasm, was it?

You’re working your way up to a second orgasm when Wanda pulls into the driveway of your shared home. As the garage shuts behind you, she turns the engine off, her hand grabbing yours and gently pulling it away from your swollen clit. 

Wrapping her fingers around your wrist, Wanda brings your hand to her lips, maintaining eye contact with you as she sucks the arousal off of your fingers. 

“I can smell your arousal,” she murmurs, releasing your fingers with a soft pop. “I’m going to get changed. By the time I come back, I want you nude and kneeling on the floor in front of the couch, with two drinks in your hands. Do you understand?” 

“Yes, Mistress.” You watch her exit the car and round the side to open your door. 

Wanda disappears into the bedroom, and you quickly make your way to the kitchen, grabbing the ingredients to make Wanda’s favourite cocktail. 

It isn’t long before you’re finished, garnishing each drink with a maraschino cherry. You walk carefully to the living room, setting the drinks on two coasters near the couch. Wanda didn’t like it when you forgot about the coasters. You didn’t blame her, all of the furniture in your home was expensive, much of it was hand-crafted. 

Stripping out of your beautiful dress, you fold it neatly and place it on the chair nearby, your heels sitting next to it. You remove all of your jewelry, except for the permanent gold chain around your neck. 

Grabbing the drinks, you kneel in front of the couch, facing the cushions. It’s a position that Wanda had trained into you, and you’re well aware of the wetness clinging to your center as you wait. 

Footsteps sound out, heels clicking towards you. As much as you want to, you don’t dare turn from your position, knowing that Wanda liked the thrill of suspense. 

“I hope you enjoyed that orgasm in the car,” Wanda says, stepping around you to sit on the couch. Your mouth waters as she comes into view. “It will be your only orgasm tonight.”

Your eyes snap up to hers, but you remain silent, her eyes hard and unforgiving. The lingerie set she’s wearing is gorgeous, all black with a lacy corset. There are accents of dark red throughout the whole piece, and you can feel yourself getting worked up as you take her in. 

Wanda’s hand grabs one of the glasses, sipping from it as she makes a small noise of appreciation. Setting it to the side, she grabs the cherry and pops it in her mouth, before she leans forward to grab your jaw. 

“Open.”

You can smell the cherry and sharp hints of alcohol on her tongue, and you obey. Wanda’s fingers reach into your glass, grabbing the cherry and bringing it to your parted lips. She rubs it over your top lip first, then your bottom lip. You remain still, watching her eyes as she slowly presses the cherry onto your tongue. 

“Chew and swallow, dear.”

You obey, looking into her eyes as you do so. 

Wanda smirks, satisfied with your obedience. She grabs your glass, tapping her knees in a silent command as she brings the glass to your lips. You rest your hands on the tops of your thighs, palms facing up as she tips the glass forward, the sweet drink flowing into your mouth. 

She has you drink until the glass is empty, your stomach warm from the alcohol and lips buzzing from the way she’d wiped them with her fingers once she was done. Wanda sits back, watching your flushed face as she sips on her own drink.

“There is going to be a new rule implemented, darling.” 

You nod, tilting your head slightly. 

“When we are together, I will pay for everything. If you wish to make a purchase, you will talk to me beforehand. You know how I hate it when you disobey or trick me in public.” Wanda’s eyes soften. “Occasionally, you can buy some things when we are together, I won’t deny you that. But, let me take care of you, okay?”

You nod. The decision is easy now that you know the real reason why Wanda was so insistent on paying for everything. Besides, it was nice to be taken care of. 

“Good girl.”

Wanda finishes her drink, setting it next to your glass. “You know that I have to punish you, don’t you?”

“Yes, Mistress.” You hang your head slightly, wondering what type of punishment Wanda has planned. Strong fingers grip your chin, wrenching your head up. 

“You know why, don’t you?”

“Because I went behind your back, Mistress.”

Wanda’s eyes flash, a pleased smile adorning her face. “Exactly, sweetheart. You know that what you did was wrong, and you know how I hate it when you are dishonest with me.”

At that, Wanda stands, still gripping your face as you crane your neck to look up at her. “Who owns you?”

“You do, Mistress.”

Wanda’s fingers tighten on your jaw, forcing your mouth open. She spits, letting her saliva drip into your mouth, and you swallow obediently. 

“Crawl,” she commands, before turning and walking slowly to the bedroom. 

You obey, your eyes glued to the sway of her backside as her footsteps click down the hallway. The hallway is carpeted, something you’re grateful for as you crawl behind Wanda. You can feel your arousal running down your inner thighs as you crawl, and sharp arousal mixed with soft humiliation mixes deep inside you. 

You reflect on your choices as you crawl, satisfaction that Wanda had finally explained why she liked to pay working its way through you, even as regret pools in your stomach. You truly hated going behind Wanda’s back, and although it was meant as a thoughtful surprise, you now understood why it meant so much to Wanda to take care of you financially. 

Wanda stops, wordlessly pointing at the bed. You blink, having not realized that you’d made it to the bedroom already. You follow Wanda’s instructions, crawling onto the bed as she shuts the door behind you, a few warm lamps lighting the room. 

“Sometimes I forget…” Wanda begins, sauntering back over to the bed, a glint in her eye. “I forget that good girls like you need discipline to keep them in line, isn’t that right?”

You nod. 

“Use your words.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

Wanda’s eyes hardened. “Yes, Mistress… what?”

“I-” your eyes dart around the room, unsure of what Wanda wants you to say. The woman reached behind you, grabbing two velcro cuffs and attaching them to your wrists while you fumble for an answer. 

“What do good girls need, sweetheart?” Wanda finally says, testing the cuffs to make sure they’re secure but not too tight. 

“Oh, um. Good girls need their Mistresses to discipline them to remind them of their place.” You turn to look at Wanda, hopeful that you’ve supplied the correct answer. Wanda smiles at you, tracing a finger down your face as she nods. 

“Very good,” she murmurs, grabbing a piece of metal and attaching your wrists together on your lap. You know that you can’t escape, so you don’t even test the strength of the restraints; you just watch Wanda. 

Tapping your lower back, Wanda urges you into position. “On your knees, ass up, darling. I want your arms straight up so your face is on the mattress.”

You obey, stretching your arms out and presenting your backside. Wanda’s hand lands on the back of your head, ensuring that you stay in place, before she strokes your hair and trails her fingers down your spine. Her lips caress your ear, her vanilla scent washing over you as she whispers, “Count for me.”

You barely have time to question it before a resounding crack echoes through the room. You register the pain a second later, a burning sensation multiplying the humiliation and arousal inside you. 

“One, Mistress.”

Wanda is relentless, using her hand first, until you no longer squirm when she spanks you. She lets out a frustrated noise as your voice remains steady, stalking over to the closet and emerging with more toys. 

“I want to see you break,” she hisses, grabbing the roots of your hair and twisting your head until your wide eyes meet hers. She relishes the wide look of anticipation and trepidation on your face, before she roughly shoves your face back into the mattress, one hand steadying your back while the other raises a paddle and brings it down sharply with a twist of her wrist. 

“T- twenty-three, Mistress,” you moan, feeling tears form in your eyes as your head starts to become fuzzy. This was the headspace that you loved the most, and Wanda knew just how to get you there. 

Wanda resumes, switching between the paddle and a soft cane, the low whistle in the air before it strikes you, causing your arousal to spike. 

“God, I love how much of a masochist you are,” Wanda says, her voice slightly raspy. “You’ll take anything I give you, won’t you, darling?”

“Yes, Mistress,” you say, your voice slightly muffled from the way your face is pressed into the mattress. 

Wanda delivers one final blow, the crack jolting your body forward as your fingers grip the comforter tightly, a muffled sob sounding out. Her cool fingers gently trail over your raw, red ass, her voice whispering in your ear, “Color?”

“Yellow, Mistress,” you moan. “I just need a moment.”

“Good girl,” she responds, rubbing your backside for a moment before walking back into the closet to retrieve more toys, letting you catch your breath. 

She remains in the closet for a suspiciously long time, but you don’t dare raise your head. You can hear her rummaging around, her heels making a soft thud on the carpet as she returns, the weight of the bed shifting as she deposits whatever items she collected. 

There are some more noises, near the foot of the bed, and you feel yourself craning to hear what she might be doing. 

“Turn around, darling,” Wanda commands. “On your knees, facing the headboard.”

“Yes, Mistress,” you mumble, quickly following her order. You can feel her attaching cuffs of some sort to your ankles, and you realize that you’ve been restrained with a spreader bar. Flexing your ankles for a moment, you realize that you’re well and truly stuck. It sends a rush of arousal through you.

“You like this, don’t you,” Wanda murmurs, dragging a finger through your dripping slit, an appreciative moan telling you that she licked your juices from her finger. 

You can’t do much but whimper, hearing her chuckle from behind you. 

The feeling of something thick prodding at you makes your heart stutter for a moment, before you feel Wanda’s fingers spreading lube all over what you presume to be a dildo. She makes sure to spread some on you as well, her fingers scissoring inside you as she ensures you’re well lubricated. 

There’s a click, and then you hear the soft hum of machinery. A thick dildo presses against you, and you moan as you feel it start to penetrate you. 

“Hold still,” Wanda commands, and you obey, feeling her adjusting the machine. The dildo presses deep inside you, hitting that spot inside you that causes pleasure to bloom, and you groan into the mattress. 

“Perfect.”

Wanda rounds the bed, the machine slowly thrusting her favorite dildo deep inside you, the sounds of your wet pussy being slowly fucked sending her own arousal soaring. She grips your hair again, pulling your head up to admire the glassy look in your eyes. “Does that feel good, sweetheart?”

“I- mmmph,” you manage, your eyes gazing into hers, not a thought behind them. 

Chuckling, Wanda presses a button on the remote, the dildo moving slightly faster. Your mouth opens, your cheeks coloring further as a deep flush emerges. 

God, it feels amazing. Wanda’s cool hands on your cheeks as your body is set alight with pleasure. She’s moving, pulling off her lingerie as she manoeuvres herself to sit against the headboard. 

You can smell her, so you drop your gaze down to her perfect pussy, licking your lips at the glistening arousal you find there. 

“Go on,” Wanda’s voice cuts through the haze. She clicks the remote again, the dildo fucking you faster and deeper. “Make Mommy feel good.”

At that, you dive in, not needing to be told twice. Eating Wanda out was something you’d never tire of. She smelled divine, and tasted even better. You’d told her once that you thought she compared to the nectar of the Gods, and she’d been so pleased that she allowed you to eat her out during an entire workday from home. It had been one of the best days of your life. 

“Oh, fuck,” Wanda breathes out, feeling your tongue expertly wrap around her clit, stimulating her in that perfect way of yours. Her hand makes its way to your hair, gripping tightly. It would be uncomfortable, but you loved the pain as she pulled on your roots slightly, pushing your face further into her. 

Your hands are still uselessly cuffed together, but your fingers manage to find Wanda’s nipples. You pinch them in that way she likes so much, and you feel her clit pulse beneath your tongue. 

Wanda has never been very vocal during sex, but you’ve learned how to read her all the same. You can feel her breath stutter beneath your fingers, and you continue to stimulate her nipples, rolling and pinching until her muscles twitch. She subconsciously thrusts harder into your mouth, and you eagerly accept. 

When she comes, it’s quietly, with a low moan and her fingers gripping your hair like she never wants to let you go. You moan with her, your pleasure building as the dildo continues to fuck you slowly, sliding in and out of you until your brain can’t focus on anything else.

“Fuck,” Wanda whispers, pulling your head up to gaze at you. “I want to fill you up, darling.”

Your eyes widen, but you nod, the pleasure making your mind fuzzy. Wanda knows this. She knows how easy you are to manipulate and follow her every word when you’re desperate to cum. 

Smirking, Wanda caresses your cheek for a brief moment before she slides out from under you, grabbing another toy from the nightstand. 

It’s a beautiful buttplug, made of pure gold with a dark red gem at the end. It’s one of Wanda’s favorites, and you like it well enough. It’s not too big, just enough to stretch you out and make you feel full, and you love it when Wanda claims every part of you. 

“Relax, baby,” Wanda murmurs, gently squeezing some lube onto your ass. You obey her, the pleasure from the dildo making your muscles weak. Wanda presses on the remote again, the dildo fucking you faster, pleasure erupting inside you. 

Slowly, Wanda inserts the buttplug. You can feel the stretch, the slight burn as the thickest part of the plug makes it past your rim, the sensation of being full making you pant and moan. 

“You like that, don’t you? You like it when I claim every one of your holes, hmm?” Wanda asks, twisting the buttplug so it’s covered in lube as she slowly inserts it. 

“Yes, Mistress,” you moan, bucking your hips into her hand. This causes the dildo to fuck deeper inside you, and you practically melt into the mattress, your muscles going limp from pleasure. 

Wanda chuckles, inserting the buttplug fully and relishing the way you whine at the fullness you feel. She admires you for a moment, the dark red gem glinting back at her as your arousal drips down your thighs while the machine fucks you relentlessly. 

Grabbing a soft towel, Wanda slips it underneath you, grabbing your ass when she’s finishes and kneading your hot flesh. You moan, full twinges of pain only adding to your pleasure. You can feel an orgasm starting to emerge, your heart racing as pleasure builds within you. 

“Do you want to cum?” Wanda asks, her voice sounding out next to your ear. 

You moan in response, too weak to do much else. 

“Aww,” Wanda coos, her voice dripping with faux sympathy. “My pet is too dumb to respond correctly, isn’t she?”

Her words reverberate around your skull, the warm vanilla scent engulfing you as your mind grows hazier. You can’t offer much other than soft whimpers and moans, your head turning to tearfully look at your Mistress. 

“Well,” Wanda begins, her hands caressing your sore backside harshly. “Since you can’t form a correct response, I suppose I’ll have to punish you.”

You would protest, but you can barely think of any words to say. Wanda’s hand comes down, gentler than her strikes before, but the impact on your already red ass makes you yelp, your mind breaking fully. 

Wanda is gentle, but persistent. She spanks you in a rhythm you can’t decipher, unable to anticipate when she’ll strike next. It thrills you, and sends your mind deep into that vanilla headspace you’ve grown to love. Pain mixes with pleasure, the dildo fucking you slowly enough that you feel your orgasm growing, but never quite enough to tip you over the edge.  

“P-please,” you manage, after you feel yourself edge again, Wanda monitoring your body’s reactions and slowing the dildo down whenever you grow too close to an orgasm. 

“Use your words, darling. Full sentences."

“I-,” you moan loudly, the dildo speeding up. 

“Pathetic,” Wanda murmurs, her hand grabbing your hair and yanking your head up. Green eyes meet glazed ones, and she smirks. “You can’t even beg properly anymore, you’re completely mine, aren't you?”

“Yes, Mistress,” you moan, unable to say anything else. 

“Good girl,” Wanda releases your hair, letting your head press into the mattress weakly. She clicks the remote again, the dildo fucking you harder than before, the sound of your arousal making it’s way to your ears as you feel pleasure growing once again.

Your orgasm is close, your knuckles white as you grip the pillow, your muscles tense. You’re so close, and Wanda knows it. 

“Tell me, darling,” Wanda begins, sitting next to you, stroking your back gently as the dildo fucks punishingly into you. “What lesson did you learn today?”

“I- um… to… to let you, mmphh fuck, to let you pay for me…”

Wanda smiles. “Exactly.” Then, she stands, reaching back to slowly grab the buttplug, pressing it even further into you. You moan, a broken, weak sound that makes Wanda pulse with need. 

“You’re going to obey me.” Wanda pulls the buttplug slightly out, before slamming it back into you. “You will never question me or go behind my back again, do you understand?”

“Yes, Mistress,” you yelp, moaning as you feel your orgasm creep closer. 

“Oh, sweetheart, you know I just want to take care of you, right?” Wanda’s voice is sickly sweet. “That’s all I want. And you just need to learn your place.”

You nod frantically, your submissiveness clicking firmer into place, your role reestablished in your mind.

“Yes, Mistress,” you moan. “I know my place, I’ll do whatever you want, I’ll never disobey you again.”

“I doubt that,” Wanda murmurs to herself, before smiling at your wrecked form. “One more edge, baby, then we can be done for the night.”

You nod, moaning as Wanda clicks the remote higher, the dildo fucking you faster and rougher than it had previously. You’re almost overwhelmed with pleasure, Wanda’s hands on your face and ass, her presence everywhere. You love it. 

“I- m gonna…”

Wanda clicks the remote, the dildo stopping immediately. 

You moan in slight frustration, feeling your arousal leaking around the dildo as it drips down your thighs. Everything happens in a haze, Wanda removing the dildo from you and slowly taking your buttpluge out. She unclips your restraints, leaving you boneless on the bed as you embrace the comfortable haze in your mind. 

The shower is nice, warm, and smelling of vanilla as Wanda washes your body and hair, whispering sweet things into your ear while you slump against her. It’s not until you’re wrapped up underneath the covers that you finally begin to emerge from that comfortable headspace, your limbs entangled with your wife’s.  

“I love you, darling. Thank you for your trust in me.”

“You always make good decisions for us,” you say, yawning slightly and burrowing further into her. “I love you, too.”

Wanda smiles, making a contented noise as you hear her breathing start to grow softer. 

“Hey, Wands?”

“Hmm.”

“I’m paying for ice cream tomorrow.”

And with that, you ignore the soft, happy sigh your wife lets out, letting her vanilla scent engulf you completely. 

Your life truly couldn’t be more perfect.

—-

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